.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 46600
   :PG.Title: By the World Forgot
   :PG.Released: 2014-08-16
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Cyrus Townsend Brady
   :MARCREL.ill: Clarence \F. Underwood
   :DC.Title: By the World Forgot
              A Double Romance of the East and West
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1917
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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BY THE WORLD FORGOT
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      :alt: "My God!" cried Beekman, staring into the white mist, appalled by what he saw. Page 271

      "My God!" cried Beekman, staring into the white mist, appalled by what he saw. Page `271`_

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      By The World
      Forgot

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      A Double Romance of the East and West

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      By CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY

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      With Frontispiece
      By CLARENCE \F. UNDERWOOD

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      \A. \L. BURT COMPANY
      Publishers New York

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      Published by arrangement with \A. \C. McCLURG & COMPANY

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      Copyright
      \A. \C. McClurg & Co.
      1917

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      Published September, 1917

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      *Copyrighted in Great Britain*

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      TO
      MY GOOD FRIEND AND KINSMAN

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      JOHN \F. BARRETT

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   CONTENTS

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   BOOK I

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   "*Ship me somewheres east of Suez*"

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   CHAPTER

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I  `A Clash of Wills and Hearts`_
II  `The Stubbornness of Stephanie`_
III  `Bill Woywod to the Rescue`_
IV  `A Bachelor's Dinner and Its Ending`_
V  `The Wedding That Was Not`_
VI  `Stephanie Is Glad After All`_
VII  `Up Against It Hard`_
VIII  `The Anvil Must Take the Pounding`_
IX  `The Game and the End`_
X  `The Mystery of the Last Words`_
XI  `The Triangle Becomes a Quadrilateral`_

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   BOOK II

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   "*An' they talks a lot o' lovin',
   But wot do they understand?*"

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XII  `The Hardest of Confessions`_
XIII  `The Search Determined Upon`_
XIV  `The Boatswain's Story`_


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   BOOK III

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   "*Where there aren't no Ten Commandments*"

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XV  `The Spirit of the Island`_
XVI  `The Speech of His Forefathers`_
XVII  `The House That Was Taboo`_
XVIII  `Moonlight Midnight Madness`_
XIX  `The Kiss That Was Different`_
XX  `The Message of the Past`_
XXI  `The Watcher on the Rocks`_
XXII  `Twice Saved by Truda`_
XXIII  `Truda Comes to His Prison`_
XXIV  `"So Farre, So Fast the Eygre Drave"`_
XXV  `The Indomitable Ego`_


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   BOOK IV

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   "*I've a neater, sweeter maiden,
   In a cleaner, greener land*"

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XXVI  `In Danger All`_
XXVII  `The Speechless Castaways`_
XXVIII  `They Comfort Each Other`_
XXIX  `The Island Haven`_
XXX  `Revelations and Withholdings`_
XXXI  `Vi et Armis`_





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.. _`A CLASH OF WILLS AND HEARTS`:

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   BOOK I

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   "*Ship me somewheres east of Suez*"

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   BY THE WORLD FORGOT

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   CHAPTER I

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   A CLASH OF WILLS AND HEARTS

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"For the last time, will you marry me?"

"No."

"But you don't love him."

"No."

"And you do love me?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe it."

"Would I be here if I did not?"

Now that adverb was rather indefinite.  "Here" might
have meant the private office, which was bad enough, or his
arms, which was worse or better, depending upon the
view-point.  She could think of nothing better to dispel the
reasonable incredulity of the man than to nestle closer to him, if
that were possible, and kiss him.  It was not a perfunctory
kiss, either.  It meant something to the woman, and she made
it mean something to the man.  Indeed, there was fire and
passion enough in it to have quickened a pulse in a stone
image.  It answered its purpose in one way.  There could
be no real doubt in the man's mind as to the genuineness of
that love he had just called in question in his pique at her
refusal.  The kiss thrilled him with its fervor, but it left
him more miserable than ever.  It did not plunge him
immediately into that condition, however, for he drew her closer
to his breast again, and as the struck flint flashes fire he gave
her back all that she had given him, and more.

Ordinarily in moments like that it is the woman who first
breaks away, but the solution of touch was brought about by
the man.  He set the girl down somewhat roughly in the
chair behind the big desk before which they were standing
and turned away.  She suffered him thus to dispose of her
without explanation.  Indeed, she divined the reason which
presently came to his lips as he walked up and down the big
room, hands in pockets, his brows knitted, a dark frown on
his face.

"I can't stand any more of that just now," he said,
referring to her caress; "if ever in my life I wanted to think
clearly it is now and with you in my arms--Say, for the
very last time, will you marry me?"

"I cannot."

"You mean you will not."

"Put it that way if you must.  It amounts to the same
thing."

"Why can't you, or won't you, then?"

"I've told you a thousand times."

"Assume that I don't know and tell me again."

"What's the use?"

"Well, it gives me another chance to show you how foolish
you are, to overrule every absurd argument that you can
put forth--"

"Except two."

"What are they?"

"My father and myself."

"Exactly.  You have inherited a full measure, excuse me,
of his infernal obstinacy."

"Most people call it invincible determination."

"It doesn't make any difference what it's called, it
amounts to the same thing."

"I suppose I have."

"Now look at the thing plainly from a practical point of view."

"Is there anything practical in romance, in love, in
passions like ours?"

"There is something practical in everything I do and
especially in this.  I've gone over the thing a thousand times.
I'll go over it again once more.  You don't love the man you
have promised to marry; you do love me.  Furthermore, he
doesn't love you and I do--Oh, he has a certain affection
for you, I'll admit.  Nobody could help that, and it's
probably growing, too.  I suppose in time he will--"

"Love me as you do?"

"Never; no one could do that, but as much as he could love
any one.  But that isn't the point.  For a quixotic scruple,
a mistaken idea of honor, an utterly unwarranted
conception of a daughter's duty, you are going to marry a man
you don't and can't love and--"

"You are very positive.  How do you know I can't?"

"I know you love me and I know that a girl like you can't
change any more than I can."

"That's the truth," answered the girl with a finality which
bespoke extreme youth, and shut off any further discussion
of that phase.

"Well, then, you'll be unhappy, I'll be unhappy, and he'll
be unhappy."

"I can make him happy."

"No, you can't.  If he learns to love you he will miss what
I would enjoy.  He'll find out the truth and be miserable."

"Your solicitude for his happiness--"

"Nonsense.  I tell you I can't bear to give you up, and
I won't.  I shouldn't be asked to.  You made me love you;
I didn't intend to."

"It wasn't a difficult task," said the girl smiling faintly
for the first time.

"Task?  It was no task at all.  The first time I saw you
I loved you, and now you have lifted me up to heaven only
to dash me down to hell."

"Strong language."

"Not strong enough.  Seriously, I can't, I won't let you
do it."

"You must.  I have to.  You don't understand.  His
father gave my father his first start in life."

"Yes, and your father could buy his father twenty times
over."

"Perhaps he could, but that doesn't count.  Our two
fathers have been friends ever since my father came here,
a boy without money or friends or anything, to make his
fortune, and he made it."

"I wish to God he hadn't and you were as poor as I was
when I landed here six years ago.  If I could just have you
without your millions on any terms I should be happy.  It's
those millions that come between us."

"Yes, that's so," admitted the girl, recognizing that the
man only spoke the truth.  "If I were poor it would be quite
different.  You see father's got pretty much everything out
of life that money could buy.  He has no ancestry to speak
of but he's as proud as a peacock.  The friendship between
the two families has been maintained.  The two old men
determined upon this alliance as soon as I was born.  My
father's heart is set upon it.  He has never crossed me in
anything.  He has been the kindest and most indulgent of
men.  Next to you I worship him.  It would break his heart
if I should back out now.  Indeed, he is so set upon it that
I am sure he would never consent to my marrying you or
anybody else.  He would disinherit me."

"Let him, let him.  I've the best prospects of any broker
in New York, and I've already got enough money for us to
live on comfortably."

"I gave my word openly, freely," answered the girl.  "I
wasn't in love with any one then and I liked him as well as
any man I had ever met.  Now that his father has died, my
father is doubly set upon it.  I simply must go through
with it."

"And as your father sacrificed pretty much everything to
build the family fortune, so you are going to sacrifice
yourself to add position to it."

"Now that is unworthy of you," said the girl earnestly.
"That motive may be my father's but it isn't mine."

"Forgive me," said the man, who knew that the girl spoke
even less than the truth.

"I can understand how you feel because I feel desperate
myself; but honor, devotion, obedience to a living man,
promise to a dead man, his father, who was as fond of me
as if I had already been his daughter, all constrain me."

"They don't constrain me," said the man desperately,
coming to the opposite side of the big desk and smiting it
heavily with his hand.  "All that weighs nothing with me.
I have a mind to pick you up now and carry you away
bodily."

"I wish you could," responded the girl with so much
honest simplicity that his heart leaped at the idea, "but you
could never get further than the elevator, or, if you went
down the stairs, than the street, because my honor would
compel me to struggle and protest."

"You wouldn't do that."

"I would.  I would have to.  For if I didn't there would
be no submitting to *force majeure*.  No, my dear boy, it is
quite hopeless."

"It isn't.  For the last time, will you marry me?"

"As I have answered that appeal a hundred times in the
last six months, I cannot."

"Are there any conditions under which you could?"

"Two."

"What are they?"

"What is the use of talking about them?  They cannot
occur."

"Nevertheless tell me what they are.  I've got everything
I've ever gone after heretofore.  I've got some of your
father's perseverance."

"You called it obstinacy a while ago."

"Well, it's perseverance in me.  What are your conditions?"

"The consent of two people."

"And who are they?"

"My father and my fiancé."

"I have your own, of course."

"Yes, and you have my heartiest prayer that you may
get both.  Oh," she went on, throwing up her hands.  "I
don't think I can stand any more of this.  I know what I
must do and you must not urge me.  These scenes are too
much for me."

"Why did you come here, then?" asked the man.  "You
know I can't be in your presence without appealing to you."

"To show you this," said the girl, drawing a yellow
telegram slip from her bag which she had thrown on the desk.

"Is it from him?  I had one, too," answered the man,
picking it up.

"Of course," said the girl, "since you and he are partners
in business.  I never thought of that.  I should not have
come."

"Heaven bless you for having done so.  Every moment
that I see you makes me more determined.  If I could see
you all the time and--"

"He'll be here in a month," interrupted the girl.  "He
wants the wedding to take place immediately and so do I."

"Why this indecent haste?"

"It has been a year since the first postponement and--Oh,
what must be must be!  I want to get it over and be
done with it.  I can't stand these scenes any more than you
can.  Look at me."

The man did more than look.  The sight of the piteous
appealing figure was more than he could stand.  He took her
in his arms again.

"I wish to God he had drowned in the South Seas," he
said savagely.

"Oh, don't say that.  He's your best friend," interposed
the girl, laying her hand upon his lips.

"But you are the woman I love, and no friendship shall
come between us."

The girl shook her head and drew herself away.

"I must go now.  I really can't endure this any longer."

"Very well," said the man, turning to get his hat.

"No," said the girl, "you mustn't come with me."

"As you will," said the other, "but hear me.  That
wedding is set for thirty days from today?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll not give you up until you are actually married
to him.  I'll find some way to stop it, to gain time, to break
it off.  I swear you shan't marry him if I have to commit
murder."

She thought he spoke with the pardonable exaggeration
of a lover.  She shook her head and bit her lip to keep back
the tears.

"Good-bye," she said.  "It is no use.  We can't help it."

She was gone.  But the man was not jesting.  He was in a
state to conceive anything and to attempt to carry out the
wildest and most extravagant proposition.  He sat down at
his desk to think it over, having told his clerks in the outer
office that he was not to be disturbed by any one for any
cause.





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.. _`THE STUBBORNNESS OF STEPHANIE`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   THE STUBBORNNESS OF STEPHANIE

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At one point of the triangle stands the beautiful
Stephanie Maynard; at another, George Harnash,
able and energetic; at the third, Derrick Beekman, who was a
dilettante in life.  George Harnash is something of a villain,
although he does not end as the wicked usually do.  Derrick
Beekman is the hero, although he does not begin as heroes
are expected to do.  Stephanie Maynard is just a woman,
heroine or not, as shall be determined.  Before long the
triangle will be expanded into a square by the addition of
another woman, also with some decided qualifications for a
heroine; but she comes later, not too late, however, to play
a deciding part in the double love story into which we are
to be plunged.

Of that more anon, as the sixteenth century would put it;
and indeed this story of today reaches back into that bygone
period for one of its origins.  Romance began--where? when?
All romances began in the Garden of Eden, but it
needs not to trace the development of this one through all
the centuries intervening between that period and today.
This story, if not its romance, began with an arrangement.
The arrangement was entered into between Derrick Beekman
senior, since deceased, and John Maynard, still very much
alive.

Maynard was a new man in New York, a new man on the
street.  He was the head of the great Inter-Oceanic Trading
Company.  The Maynard House flag floated over every
sea from the mast heads, or jack staffs, of the Maynard
ships.  Almost as widely known as the house flag was the
Maynard daughter.  The house flag was simple but
beautiful; the daughter was beautiful but by no means simple.
She was a highly specialized product of the nineteenth
century.  Being the only child of much money, she was
everything outwardly and visibly that her father desired
her to be, and to make her that he had planned carefully
and spent lavishly.  With her father's undeniable money
and her own undisputed beauty she was a great figure in
New York society from the beginning.

No one could have so much of both the desirable attributes
mentioned--beauty and money--and go unspoiled in New
York--certainly not until age had tempered youth.  But
Stephanie Maynard was rather an unusual girl.  Many of
her good qualities were latent but they were there.  It was
not so much those hidden good qualities but the dazzling
outward and visible characteristics that had attracted the
attention of old Derrick Beekman.

Beekman had everything that Maynard had not and some
few things that Maynard had--in a small measure, at least.
For instance, he was a rich man, although his riches could
only be spoken of modestly beside Maynard's vast wealth.

But Beekman added to a comfortable fortune an unquestioned
social position; old, established, assured.  Those who
would fain make game of him behind his back--such a
thing was scarcely possible to his face--used to say that
he traced his descent to every Dutchman that ever rallied
around one-legged, obstinate, Peter Stuyvesant and his
predecessors.  The social approval of the Beekmans--originally,
of course, Van Beeckman--was like a *lettre de cachet*.
It immediately imprisoned one in the tightest and most
exclusive circle of New York, the social bastille from which
the fortunate captive is rarely ever big enough to wish to
break out.

Beekman's pride in his ancestry was only matched by
his ambitions for his son, like Stephanie Maynard, an only
child.  If to the position and, as he fancied, the brains of
the Beekmans could be allied the fortune and the business
acumen of the Maynards, the world itself would be at the
feet of the result of such a union.  Now Maynard's money
bought him most things he wanted but it had not bought
and could not buy Beekman and that for which he stood.
Maynard's beautiful daughter had to be thrown into the
scales.

Maynard had no ancestry in particular.  Self-made men
usually laugh at the claims of long descent, but secretly
they feel differently.  Being the Rudolph of Hapsburg of
the family is more of a pose or a boast than not.  I doubt
not that even the great Corsican felt that in his secret heart
which he revealed to no one.  Maynard's patent of nobility
might date from his first battle on the stock exchange, his
financial Montenotte, but in his heart of hearts he would
rather it had its origin in some old and musty parchment
of the past.

Beekman, who was much older than Maynard, had actually
helped that young man when he first started out to
encounter the world and the flesh and the devil in New York
and to beat them down or bring them to heel.  A friendship,
purely business at first, largely patronizing in the beginning
on the one hand, deferentially grateful on the other, had
grown up between the somewhat ill-sorted pair.  And it had
not been broken with passing years.

Maynard, unfortunately for his social aspirations, had
married before he had become great.  Many men achieve
greatness only to find a premature partner an encumbrance
to a career.  However, Maynard's wife, another social
nobody with little but beauty to recommend her, had done
her best for her husband by dying before she was either a
drag or a help to his fortunes.  The two men, each actuated
by different motives, which, however, tended to the same
end, had arranged the match between the last Beekman and
the first Maynard; and that each secretly fancied himself
condescending to the other did not stand in the way.  The
young people had agreeably fallen in with the proposals of
the elders, neither of whom was accustomed to be balked or
questioned--for old Beekman was as much of an autocrat
as Maynard.  Filial obedience was indeed a tradition in
the Beekman family.  There were no traditions at all in
the Maynard family, but the same custom obtained with
regard to Stephanie.

Young Beekman was good looking, athletic, prominent
in society, a graduate of the best university, popular, and
generally considered able, although he had accomplished
little, having no stimulus thereto, by which to justify that
public opinion.  He went everywhere, belonged to the best
clubs, and was a most eligible suitor.  He danced divinely,
conversed amusingly, made love gallantly if somewhat
perfunctorily, having had abundant practice in all pursuits.
For the rest, what little business he transacted was as a
broker and business partner of George Harnash, who, for
their common good, made the most of the connections to
which Beekman could introduce him.

Beekman, who had taken life lightly, indeed, at once
recognized the wisdom of his father's rather forcible
suggestion that it was time for him to settle down.  He saw
how the Maynard millions would enhance his social prestige,
and if he should be moved to undertake business affairs
seriously, as Harnash often urged, would offer a substantial
background for his operations.

Stephanie Maynard was beautiful enough to please any
man.  She was well enough educated and well enough trained
for the most fastidious of the fastidious Beekmans.  In any
real respect she was a fit match for Derrick Beekman, indeed
for anybody.  There was no society into which she would
be introduced that she would not grace.

From a feeling of condescension quite in keeping with
his blood young Beekman was rapidly growing more interested
in and more fond of his promised wife.  Her feelings
probably would have developed along the same lines had
it not been for George Harnash.  He was Beekman's best
friend.  They had been classmates and roommates at college.
Harnash like Beekman was a broker.  Indeed the firm of
Beekman & Harnash was already well spoken of on the
street, especially on account of the ability of the junior
partner, who was everywhere regarded as a young man with
a brilliant future.

Now Harnash hung, as it were, like Mohammed's coffin,
'twixt heaven and earth.  He was not socially assured and
unexceptionable as Beekman, but he was much more so than
the Maynards.  He did not begin with even the modest
wealth of the former, but he was rapidly acquiring a
fortune and, what is better, winning the respect and admiration
of friends and enemies alike by his bold and successful
operations.  It was generally recognized that Harnash was the
more active of the two young partners.  Beekman had put
in most of the capital, having inherited a reasonable sum
from his mother and much more from his father, but
Harnash was the guiding spirit of the firm's transactions.

Harnash, who was the exact opposite of Beekman, as fair
as the other man was dark, fell wildly in love with Stephanie
Maynard.  To do him justice, this plunge occurred before
definite matrimonial arrangements between the houses of
Beekman and Maynard had been entered into.  Harnash
had not contemplated such a possibility.  The two friends
were in exceedingly confidential relationship to each other,
and Beekman had manifested only a most casual interest
in Stephanie Maynard.  Harnash, seeing the present
hopelessness of his passion, had concealed it from Beekman.
Therefore, the announcement casually made by his friend
and confirmed the day after by the society papers
overwhelmed him.

To do him justice further, while it could not be said that
Harnash was oblivious to the fact that the woman he loved
was her father's daughter, he would have loved her if she
had been a nobody.  While he could not be indifferent to
the further fact that whoever won her would ultimately
command the Maynard millions, George Harnash was so
confident of his own ability to succeed that he would have
preferred to make his own way and have his wife dependent
upon him for everything.  However, he was too level headed
a New Yorker not to realize that even if he could achieve
his ambition the Maynard millions would come in handy.

The thing that made it so hard for Harnash to bear the
new situation was the carelessness with which Beekman
entered into it.  He felt that if the marriage could be
prevented it would not materially interfere with the happiness
of his friend.  Harnash had deliberately set himself to the
acquirement of everything he desired.  Honorably,
lawfully, if he could he would get what he wanted, but get it
he would.  He found that he had never wanted anything
so much as he wanted Stephanie Maynard.  Money and
position had been his ambitions, but these gave place to
a woman.  He did not arrive at a determination to take
Stephanie Maynard from Derrick Beekman, if he could,
without great searchings of heart, but the more he thought
about it, the longer he contemplated the possibility of the
marriage of the woman he loved to the man he also loved,
the more impossible grew the situation.

At first he had put all thought of self out of his mind, or
had determined so to do, in order to accept the situation,
but he made the mistake of continuing to see Stephanie
during the process and when he discovered that she was
not indifferent to him he hesitated, wavered, fell.  By fair
means or foul the engagement must be broken.  It could
only be accomplished by getting Derrick Beekman out of
the way.  After that he would wring a consent out of
Maynard.  To that decision the girl had unconsciously
contributed by laying down conditions which, by a
curious mental twist, the man felt in honor bound to
meet.

Both the elder Beekman and John Maynard were men of
firmness and decision.  Wedding preparations had gone on
apace.  The invitations were all but out when Beekman was
gathered to his ancestors--there could be no heaven for
him where they were not--after an apoplectic stroke.  This
postponed the wedding and gave George Harnash more
time.  Now Derrick Beekman had devotedly loved his stern,
proud old father, the only near relative he had in the world.
He decided to spend the time intervening between that
father's sudden and shocking death and his marriage on a
yachting cruise to the South Seas.  It was characteristic
of his feeling for Stephanie Maynard that he had not
hesitated to leave her for that long period.  The field was thus
left entirely to Harnash.

The Maynard-Beekman engagement, of course, had been
made public, and Stephanie's other suitors had accepted
the situation, but not Harnash.  He was a man of great
power and persuasiveness and ability and he made love with
the same desperate, concentrated energy that he played the
business game.  He was quite frank about it.  He told
Stephanie that if she or Beekman or both of them had
shown any passion for the other, such as he felt for her, he
would have considered himself in honor bound to eliminate
himself, but since it would obviously be *un mariage de
convenance*, since both the parties thereto would enter into
it lightly and unadvisedly, he was determined to interpose.
And there was even in the girl's eyes abundant justification
for his action.

No woman wants to be taken as a matter of course.
Stephanie Maynard had been widely wooed, more or less all
over the world.  Although she did not care especially for
Derrick Beekman, she resented his somewhat cavalier
attitude toward her, and his witty, amusing, but by no means
passionately devoted letters, somewhat infrequent, too.
Harnash made great progress, yet he came short of complete
success.

The Maynards were nobodies socially, that is, their
ancestors had been, and they had not yet broken into the most
exclusive set, the famous hundred and fifty of New York's
best, as they styled themselves to the great amusement of
the remaining five million or so, but they came, after all,
of a stock possessed of substantial virtues.  Stephanie's
father was accustomed to boast that his word was his bond,
and, unlike many who say that, it really was.  People got to
know that when old John Maynard said a thing he could be
depended upon.  If he gave a promise he would keep it
even if he ruined himself in the keeping, and his daughter,
in that degree, was not unlike him.

Almost a year after his father's death Derrick Beekman
sent cablegrams from Honolulu saying he was coming back,
and George Harnash and Stephanie awoke from their dream.

"I love you," repeated Stephanie to Harnash in another
of the many, not to say continuous, discussions they held
after that day at the office.  "You can't have any doubt
about that, but my word has been passed.  I don't dislike
Derrick, either.  But I'd give anything on earth if I were
free."

"And when you were free?"

"You know that I'd marry you in a minute."

"Even if your father forbade?"

"I don't believe he would."

"If he did we would win him over."

"You might as well try to win over a granite mountain.
But there's no use talking, I'm not free."

"It's this foolish pride of yours."

"Foolish it may be.  I've heard so much about the Beekman
word of honor and the Beekman faith that I want to
show that the Maynard honor and faith and determination
are no less."

"And you are going to sacrifice yourself and me for that
shibboleth, are you?"

"I see no other way.  Believe me," said the girl, who had
resolved to allow no more demonstrations of affection now
that it was all settled and her prospective husband was on the
way to her, "I seem cold and indifferent to you, but if I let
myself go--"

"Oh, Stephanie, please let yourself go again, even if for
the last time," pleaded George Harnash, and Stephanie did.
When coherent speech was possible he continued: "Well,
if Beekman himself releases you or if he withdrew or
disappeared or--"

"I don't have to tell you what my answer would be."

"And I've got to be best man at the wedding!  I've got to
stand by and--"

"Why didn't you speak before?" asked the girl bitterly.

"I was no match for you then.  I'm not a match for you now."

"You should have let me be the judge of that."

"But your father?"

"I tell you if I hadn't promised, all the fathers on earth
wouldn't make any difference.  Now we have lived in a
fool's paradise for a year.  You're Derrick's friend and
you're mine."

"Only your friend?"

"Do I have to tell you again how much I love you?  But
that must stop now.  It should have stopped long ago.  You
can't come here any more except as Derrick's friend."

"I can't come here at all, then."

"No, I suppose not.  And that will be best.  Let us put
this behind us as a dream of happiness which we will never
forget, but from which we awake to find it only a dream."

"It's no dream to me.  I will never give you up.  I will
never cease to try to make it a reality until you are bound
to the other man."

They were standing close together as it was, but he took
the step that brought him to her side and he swept her to
his heart without resistance on her part.  She would give
her hand to Derrick Beekman, but her heart she could not
give, for that was in George Harnash's possession, and when
he clasped her in his arms and kissed her, she suffered him.
She kissed him back.  Her own arms drew him closer.  It
was a passionate farewell, a burial service for a love that
could not go further.  It was she who pushed him from her.

"I will never give you up, never," he repeated.  "Great
as is my regard for Beekman, sometimes I think that I'll
kill him at the very foot of the altar to have you."

Stephanie's iron control gave way.  She burst into tears,
and George Harnash could say nothing to comfort her, but
only gritted his teeth as he tore himself away, revolving
all sorts of plans to accomplish his own desires.

To him came, with Mephistophelian appositeness, Mr. Bill
Woywod.





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.. _`BILL WOYWOD TO THE RESCUE`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   BILL WOYWOD TO THE RESCUE

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The three weeks that followed were more fraught with
unpleasantness, not to say misery, than any Stephanie
Maynard and George Harnash had ever passed.  Of the
two, Harnash was in the worse case.  Stephanie had two
things to distract her.

The approaching wedding meant the preparation of a
trousseau.  What had been got ready the year before would
by no means serve for the second attempt at matrimony.
Now no matter how deep and passionate a woman's feelings
are she can never be indifferent to the preparation of a
trousseau.  Even death, which looms so horribly before the
feminine mind, would be more tolerable if it were
accompanied by a similar demand upon her activities.  Yet a
woman's grief in bereavement is never so deep as to make
her careless as to the fit or becomingness of her mourning
habiliments.  Much more is this true of wedding garments.

Now if these somewhat cynical and slighting remarks be
reprehended, nevertheless there is occupation even for the
sacrificial victim in the preparation of a trousseau which,
were it not so pleasant a pursuit, might even be called labor.
The fit of Stephanie's dresses on her beautiful figure was
not accomplished without toil, albeit of the submissive sort,
on the part of the young lady.  That was her first diversion.

For the second relief the girl had a great deal more
confidence in her lover's promise than he had himself in his
own prowess.  Try as he might, plan as he could, he found
no way out of the *impasse* so long as the solution of it was
left entirely to him, and the woman was determined to be
but a passive instrument.

The obvious course was to go frankly to his friend and
lay before him the whole state of affairs in the hope that
Beekman himself would cut the Gordian knot by declining
the lady's hand.  Two considerations prevented that.  In
the first place, Beekman had confidingly placed his love
affair, together with his business affairs, in the hands of his
partner.  Harnash had not meant to play the traitor but he
had been unable to resist the temptation that Stephanie
presented, and he simply could not bring himself to make such
a bare-faced admission of a breach of trust.  Besides, he
reasoned shrewdly that even if he did make such a confession
it was by no means certain that Derrick Beekman would
give up the girl.  His letters, since his cable from Hawaii,
had rather indicated a strengthening of his affection, and
Harnash suspected that the realization that his betrothed
was violently desired by someone else would just about
develop that affection into a passion which could hardly be
withstood.

In the second place, even if Beekman's affection for
Harnash would lead him to take the action desired by his
friend, there would still be Mr. Maynard to be won over.
Harnash had not been associated with Maynard as a broker
in various transactions which the older man had engineered,
without having formed a sufficiently correct judgment of
his character to enable him to forecast absolutely what
Maynard's position would be in that emergency.  Maynard
had a considerable liking and a growing respect for young
Harnash.  He had casually remarked to his daughter on
more than one occasion that Harnash was a young man
who would be heard from.  Maynard had observed that
Harnash strove for many things and generally got what
he wanted.

Perhaps that remark, which the poor girl had treasured
in her heart, had something to do with her confidence that
somehow or other Harnash would work out the problem.
But Harnash knew very well how terrible, not to say
vindictive, an antagonist and enemy Maynard could be when
he was crossed.  If Beekman withdrew from the engagement,
broke off the marriage, about which there had been
sufficient notoriety on account of the first postponement after
the older Beekman's death, Maynard's rage would know no
bounds.  He would assuredly wreak his vengeance upon
Beekman, and if Harnash were implicated in any way the
punishment would be extended to him.

Harnash knew that Beekman would not have cared a snap
of his finger for the older Maynard's wrath.  He was not
that kind of a man.  Nor would he himself have been
deterred by the thought of it had he been a little more
sure of his position financially.  Whatever else he lacked,
Harnash had courage to tackle anything or anybody,
if there were the faintest prospect of success.  But to
fight Maynard at that stage in his career was an
impossibility.  These weighty reasons accordingly decided him
that it was useless and indeed impossible to appeal to his
friend.

Again, while Harnash was accustomed to stop at nothing
to procure his ends, and while he had declared that he would
murder Beekman, he knew that although he meant it more
than Stephanie supposed, he did not mean it enough to be
able to do anything like that.  His mind was in a turmoil.
He really was fond of Beekman, and if Stephanie and
Derrick had been wildly in love with each other Harnash
believed that he would have been man enough to have kept
out of the way and have fought down his disappointment as
best he could.  As it was, there was reason and justice in
what he urged.  Since Stephanie loved him and did not
love Beekman, and since Beekman's affection was of a placid
nature, the approaching union was horrible.

The wildest schemes and plans ran through his head or
were suggested to him after intense thought, only to be
rejected.  The problem finally narrowed itself down to a
question of time.  Harnash was a great believer in the
function of time in determining events.  If he could postpone
the marriage again he would have greater opportunity to
work and plan.  He had enough confidence in himself,
backed by Stephanie's undoubted affection, to make him
believe that with time he could bring about anything.
Therefore he must eliminate Derrick Beekman, temporarily, at
least, and he must do it before the wedding.  The longer he
could keep him away from Stephanie, the better would be
his own chance.  If even on the eve of the wedding the
groom could disappear, the fact would tend greatly to his
ultimate advantage, provided Beekman were away long
enough.

He concentrated his mind on this proposition.  How could
he cause Derrick Beekman to disappear the day before his
wedding, and how, having spirited him away, could he keep
him away long enough to make that disappearance worth
while from the Harnash point of view?  That was the final
form of the problem in its last analysis.  How was he to
solve it?

He could have Beekman kidnapped, and hold him for
ransom in some lonely place in the country.  That was a
solution which he dismissed almost as soon as he formulated
it.  The thing was impracticable.  He would have to trust
too many people.  He could never keep him long in
confinement.  He himself would probably become the victim of
continuous blackmail.  In the face of rewards that would be
offered, his employees would eventually betray him.  Sooner
or later, unless something happened to Beekman, he would
get out.  Harnash had plenty of hardihood, but he shivered
at the thought of what he would have to meet when Beekman
came for an accounting, as sooner or later he would.  He
would have to find some other way.  What way?

Now Harnash's misery was further increased by the fact
that Beekman had cabled him to go ahead with the
preparations for the wedding.  The Beekman yacht had broken
down in Honolulu Harbor after that long cruise, and instead
of following his telegram straight home, there had been a
week of delay.  He had explained the situation by cables
to Harnash, Stephanie, and her father.

After the yacht, her engines pretty well strained from
the year's cruise, had been put in fair shape, ten days had
been required for the return passage.  Beekman had some
business matters to attend to in San Francisco and he did
not arrive in New York until a few days before the wedding,
which was to take place at the Cathedral of St. John the
Divine, the Bishop Suffragan and the Dean being the
officiating clergymen designate.

It was fortunate in one sense that Beekman had been so
delayed, for there was so much for him to do, so many
people for him to see, that he had little opportunity for
making love to his promised bride, and he had no chance to
discern her real feelings any more than he had to find
out Harnash's position.  He had, indeed, remarked that
Stephanie looked terribly worn and strained, and that
George Harnash was haggard and spent to an extraordinary
degree; but he attributed the one to the excitement of the
marriage and the other to the fact that Harnash had been
left so long alone to bear the burden of responsibility and
decision in the rapidly increasing brokerage business.

When he had swept his unwilling bride-to-be to his heart
and kissed her boisterously, he had told her that he would
take care of her and see that the roses were brought back
to her cheeks after they were married; and after he had
shaken Harnash's hand vigorously he had slapped him on
the back and declared to him that as soon as the honeymoon
was over he would buckle down to work and give him a long
vacation.  Neither of the recipients of these promises was
especially enthusiastic or delighted, but in his joyous breezy
fashion Beekman neither saw nor thought anything was amiss.

Never a man essayed to tread the devious paths of
matrimony with a more confident assurance or a lighter
heart.  Nothing could surpass his blindness.

"You see," said Stephanie in a last surreptitious
interview with Harnash, "he hasn't the least suspicion.  He
hugged me like a bear and kissed me like a battering ram,"
she explained with a little movement of her shoulders
singularly expressive of resentment, and even more.

"Damn him," muttered Harnash, under his breath.  "He
wrung my hand, too, as if I were his best friend."

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"I was, I am, and I'm going to save him from--"

"From the misfortune of marrying me?"

"I don't see how you can jest under the circumstances."

"George," said the girl, "if I didn't jest I should die.  I
don't see how I can endure it as it is."

"Stephanie," he repeated, lifting his right hand as if
making an oath--as, indeed, he was--"I'm going to take
you from him if it is at the foot of the altar."

These were brave words with back of them, as yet, only
an intensity of purpose and a determination, but no practical
plan.  It was Bill Woywod that gave the practical turn
to that decision on the part of Harnash.

Now George Harnash came originally from a little down-east
town on the Maine coast.  That it was his birthplace
was not its only claim to honor.  It also boasted of the
nativity of Bill Woywod.  The two had been boyhood
friends.  Although their several pursuits had separated
them widely, the queer friendship still obtained in spite of
the wide and ever-widening difference in the characters and
stations of the two men.

Running away from school, Bill Woywod had gone down
to the sea as his ancestors for two hundred years had done
before him.  Left to himself, Harnash had completed his
high school and college course and had gone down to New
York as none of his people had ever done in all the family
history.  Both men had progressed.  Harnash was already
well-to-do and approaching brilliant success.  He had thrust
his feet at least within the portals of society and was holding
open the door which he would force widely when he was a
little stronger.

Woywod had earned a master's certificate and was now the
first mate, technically the mate, of one of the ships of the
Inter-Oceanic Trading fleet, in line for first promotion to
a master.  Woywod was a deep-water sailor.  He cared little
for steam, and although it was an age in which masts and
sails were being withdrawn from the seven seas, he still
affected the fast-disappearing wind-jamming branch of the
ocean-carrying trade.

Indeed, the last full-rigged ship had been paid off and
laid up in ordinary.  Just because it was the last wooden
sailing ship of the fleet, Maynard, whose fortune had been
not a little contributed to by sailing vessels in the preceding
century, had refrained from selling her.  There was a
sentimental streak in the hard old captain of industry, as there
is in most men who achieve, and the *Susquehanna* had not
been broken up or otherwise disposed of.  On the contrary,
every care had been taken of her.

The demands of the great war brought every ocean-carrying
ship into service again.  The *Susquehanna* was
refitted and commissioned.  A retired mariner who had been
more or less a failure under steam but whose seamanship
was unquestioned was appointed to command.  Captain
Peleg Fish was one of those old-time sailors to whom moral
suasion meant little or nothing.  He was Gloucester born,
and had served his apprenticeship in the fishing fleet.
Thereafter he had been mate on the last of the old American
clippers, had commanded a whaler out of New Bedford, and
knew a sailing ship from truck to keelson.

He was a man of a hard heart and a heavy hand.  His
courage was as high as his heart was hard or his hand was
heavy.  He was also a driver.  He drove his ship and he
drove his men.  He had been a success on the *Susquehanna*
in her time, and because of that he had been able to get
crews and keep officers.  Quick passages in a well-found ship,
and good pay, had offset his proverbial fierceness and
brutality.  He was now an old man, but sailing masters were
scarce.  Officers and men were scarce, too, on account of the
war, and although the Inter-Oceanic Trading Company had
dismissed Captain Fish because of the way he had
mishandled the steamer to which they transferred him when
they laid up the *Susquehanna*, yet they were glad to call him
into service when they decided again to make use of that
vessel.

Grim old Captain Fish made but one condition.  He was
glad enough to get back to the sea on which he had passed
his life on any terms, and doubly rejoiced that he could once
more command a wooden sailing ship instead of "an iron
pot with a locomotive in her," as he designated his last
vessel.  That condition was that he should have Bill Woywod
for mate.  The two had sailed together before.  They knew
each other, liked each other, worked together hand and
glove, for Bill Woywod was a man of the same type as the
captain.  The captain was getting old, too.  He wanted a
stouter arm and a quicker eye at his disposal than his own.
Besides, Bill hated steam as much as Fish did.  He was
a natural-born sailor, not a mechanic and engine driver.
Among the bucko mates of the past, Bill Woywod would
not have yielded second place to anybody.  They had to give
Woywod a master's pay to get him to ship, but once having
agreed to do that, he entered upon his new duties with
alacrity.

The *Susquehanna* was a big full-rigged clipper ship of
three thousand tons.  Given a favorable wind, she could
show her heels to many a tramp steamer or lumbering
freighter, and even not a few of the older liners.  She was
carrying arms and munitions for the Russians and ran
between New York and Vladivostok through the Panama
Canal.

If there was one person rough, hard-bitten Bill Woywod
had an abiding affection for, it was George Harnash.
Whenever his ship dropped anchor in New York the first
person--and about the only respectable person--he visited was
his boyhood friend.  To be sure, there was not much
congeniality between them.  The only tie that bound them
was that boyhood friendship, but both of them were men
without kith or kin, and they somehow clung to that
association.  Woywod was proud of his friendship with the
rising young broker, and there was a kind of refreshment
in the person of the breezy sailor which Harnash greatly
enjoyed, especially as the visits of the seaman were not
frequent or long enough to pall upon the New Yorker.

Harnash usually took an afternoon and night off
when Woywod arrived.  They took in the baseball game
at the Polo Grounds, dined thereafter at some table d'hote
resort which Harnash would never have affected under
ordinary circumstances, but which seemed to Woywod the
very height of luxury.  Then they repaired to some theatre,
usually one of the high-kicking variety avowedly designed
for the tired business man, which was extremely congenial
to the care-free sailor; and not to go further into details it
may be alleged that they had a good time together until far
in the night or early in the morning, rather.  Harnash was
usually not a little ashamed next morning; Woywod, never!
With sturdy independence Woywod would alternate being
host on these occasions.  On land and out of his element
he was a fairly agreeable companion in his rough, coarse
way.  It was only on the ship that he became a brute.  In
the nature of things the devotion, if such it could be called,
was all on Woywod's side.  It was an aspiration on his
part and a condescension on the part of Harnash, however
much the latter strove to disguise it.

The *Susquehanna* had been loaded to her capacity and
beyond with war equipment for the Russian Government
and was about to take her departure from New York, when
Woywod, who had been prevented before by the duties
imposed by the necessity of getting the ship ready quickly
for her next long voyage, paid his annual or semi-annual
visit to his friend.  Now these visits had become so
thoroughly a matter of custom that Woywod had established the
right of entrance.  None of the clerks in the outer office
would have thought of stopping him, and although Harnash
was very strict in requiring respect for the sanctity of his
private office Woywod made no hesitation about entering it
unceremoniously.

Like all sailors, he moved with cat-like softness and
quickness.  He opened the door noiselessly and surprised his
friend seated at his desk, his face buried in his hands in an
attitude of the deepest dejection.  Friendship has a
discerning power as well as greater passions.

"Why, George, old boy," began Woywod, laying his
hand on the other's shoulder, and that touch gave Harnash
the first warning that he was not alone, "what's the
matter?"

Harnash looked up quickly, rose to his feet as he recognized
his visitor, and grasped him by the hand with a warmth
he had not shown in years.

"Bill," he explained, "I'm in the deepest trouble that
ever fell on a man, and you come like an angel in time to
help me."

Harnash must have meant a dark angel, but Woywod
knew nothing of that.

"What is it, old man?" he asked.  "If it's money you're
needin' I got a shot or two in the locker an'--"

"No, it's not money.  I'm making more than ever."

"Been buckin' up agin the law an' want a free passage to
safety?  Well, me an' old man Fish is as thick as peas in a
pod, an' the *Susquehanna's* at your service."

"It's not that, either."

"What in blazes is it, then?"

"A woman."

"Look here, George," said Woywod, "I'm about as rough
as they make 'em an' there ain't no man as ever sailed with
me that won't endorse that there statement, but I never done
no harm to no woman an' if you've been--"

"You're on the wrong tack again, Bill," interposed
Harnash, smiling.  "It's a woman I love and who loves me."

"Well, I don't reckon I can help you there unless you
want me to be best man at the weddin'."

That suggestion struck Harnash as intensely comical, as
it well might, but he hastened to add diplomatically:

"I couldn't wish a better man if there were going to be
any wedding, but--"

"Do you love a married woman?" asked Woywod, going
directly to the point.

"Not exactly."

"What d'ye mean?"

"I'll explain if you'll only give me a chance," answered
Harnash, and in as few words as possible he put the sailor
in possession of the facts.

"So you want to get rid of the man, do you?" he asked,
when the story had been told.

"Yes.  I don't want him harmed.  I just want him out of
the way."

"And you think that I--"

"If you can't help me I don't know who can."

"Look here, George," said Woywod, earnestly.  "Is this
square an' above board?  Are you givin' me the truth?"

"I am."

"An' the gal loves you an' you love her an' she don't
love this other chap which she wants to git out of marryin'
him?"

"Right."

"Then it's easy."

"I thought you'd find a way."

"It don't take much schemin' for that.  Just p'int him
out to me an' git him down on the river front some dark
night where I can git a hold of him, with a few drinks in
him, an' that'll be all there is to it.  You won't hear from
him until the *Susquehanna* gits to Vladivostok, an' mebbe
not then."

"I don't want any harm to come to him."

"In course not.  I'll use him jest as gentle as I do any
man on the ship."

"And he must never know that I--"

"He won't know nothin'.  When a man gits drunk enough
he can't tell what happens.  You might tell yer lady friend
that this is a little weddin' present I'm makin' to my oldest
an' best friend, that is, if you git spliced afore I gits back
from Vladivostok."

"I'll surely let her know your part of the transaction.
When does the *Susquehanna* sail?"

"Thursday morning.  Tide turns at two o'clock.  We'll
git out about four."

"You don't touch anywhere?"

"Not a place unless we're druv to it by bad weather or
some accident.  But if we do git hold of a cable I'll see that
he stays safe aboard, in case, which ain't likely, we're
obliged to drop anchor in any civilized port."

"Have you got a wireless aboard?"

"Nary wireless.  When we take our departure from Fire
Island it's up to Cap'n Fish an' me an' the rest of us to
bring her in."

"There's no danger?"

"Well, there's always danger in sailin' the seas, but
nobody never thinks nothin' about it with a good ship, well
officered, well manned an' well found.  It's a damn sight
safer than the streets of New York with all them automobiles
runnin' on the wind an' by the wind an' across the wind an'
every other way at the same time.  It's as much as a man's
life is worth to try to navigate a street.  Never mind the
danger.  We've got to settle a few little details an' then the
thing bein' off your mind we can have a royal good time.
You ain't got anything on tonight?"

"No engagement that I can't break.  If it had been
tomorrow, Wednesday, it would have been different because
that is the night my friend--"

"Oh, he's a friend of yourn.  Why don't you tell--"

"No use, Bill; this is the only way.  But because he is a
friend of mine I tell you I don't want him to come to any
harm or to get any bad treatment."

"If he buckles down to work an' accepts the situation he
won't get no bad treatment from me."

This was perfectly honest, for in the brutal school in
which he had been trained what he meted out to his men
was what he had been taught was right and what he believed
they indeed expected, without which indeed discipline could
not be maintained and the work of the ship properly done.
Harnash had some doubts as to Beekman's ability to buckle
down or willingness, rather, but he had to risk something.
The two friends put their heads together and the minor
details were easily arranged.

"Better tell the gal it's goin' to be all right, hadn't you?"
suggested Woywod.

"No," said Harnash, with a truer appreciation of the
situation.  "I think I'll surprise her."

"It'll be a surprise, all right," laughed the big sailor.
"Well, you do your part an' I'll do mine an' if the man does
his part he'll come back to find you married an' he can make
the best of it.  By the way, what's his name?"

"Is it necessary that I should tell you?"

"No, 'tain't necessary an' perhaps on the whole it wouldn't
be best.  If I don't know his name I can call him a damn
liar whatever he says it is, with a clear conscience," went on
the sailor blithely and guilelessly, as if conscience really
mattered to him.





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.. _`A BACHELOR'S DINNER AND ITS ENDING`:

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   CHAPTER IV


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   A BACHELOR'S DINNER AND ITS ENDING

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Bachelors' dinners, masculine pre-nuptial festivities,
that is, like everything else with which poor humanity
deals, may roughly be divided into two kinds, which fall
under the generic names of good or bad.  Of course, in
practice, as in life, goodness often degenerates into badness and
badness is sometimes lifted into goodness.  Such is the
perversity of human nature even at its best that when the
declaration is made that Beekman's bachelor dinner was a good
one all interest in it is immediately lost!  Bad is so much
more attractive in literature and in life.  Perhaps it may
be said that while the dinner had not descended to the
unbridled license which sometimes characterized such affairs,
and while there were no ladies present in various stages
of--shall it be said dress or undress--nevertheless, the young
fellows who were present had a delightful time which if not as
innocent as the festivities of Stephanie's final entertainment
to her lovely attendants, was nevertheless quite what might
have been expected from clean, healthy, well-bred young
Americans with a reasonable amount of restraint.

The dinner was chosen with fine discrimination and
epicurean taste; it was cooked by the best chef, served at the
most exclusive club and accompanied by wines with which
even the most captious *bon vivant* could not take issue.
Perhaps some of the youngsters drank more than was good
for them--which instantly raises the question, how much, or
how little, if any, is good for a young man?  They broke
up at a decently early hour in the morning in much better
condition than might have been expected.

Beekman was one of the most temperate of men.  He
took pride in his athletic prowess and he still kept himself
in fine physical trim.  A very occasional glass of wine
usually limited his indulgence.  In this instance, however,
under conditions so unusual, he had partaken so much more
freely than was his wont--his course being pardonable
or otherwise in accordance with the viewpoint--that he
was not altogether himself.  This was not much more due
to the plan of Harnash than to the solicitations of the other
friends who found nothing so pleasant on that occasion as
drinking to his health, and generally in bumpers.  Indeed,
not once but many times and oft around the board they
pledged him and were pledged in return.

At the insistence of Harnash, Beekman had arranged to
spend the night at the former's apartment in Washington
Square.  Harnash made the point that he was expected to
look after him and produce him the next morning in the best
trim, therefore he did not wish him to get out of his sight.
Accordingly, Beekman had dismissed his own car and when
the party broke up about two o'clock in the morning he
went away with Harnash in the latter's limousine.

At somebody's suggestion--Beekman could never
remember whose, whether it was his or his friend's--they
stopped at several places on the way down town for further
liquid refreshment of which Beekman partook liberally,
Harnash sparingly or not at all.  It was not difficult for an
adroit man like Harnash, confronted by a rather befuddled
man like Beekman, to introduce the infallible knock-out
drops, with which he had been provided by Woywod, into the
liquor.

As they crossed Twenty-third Street on their way down
town Harnash stopped the car.  His chauffeur lived on East
Twenty-third Street, and Harnash dismissed him, saying he
would drive the car down to his private garage back of his
residence in Washington Mews himself.  There was nothing
unusual in this; the chauffeur subsequently testified
that he had received the same thoughtful consideration from
his employer on many previous occasions.  When the
chauffeur left the car, the drug had not yet got in its deadly
work.  Beekman was still all right apparently and the
chauffeur subsequently testified that when Beekman bade
him good-night he noticed nothing strikingly unusual.
Beekman seemed to be himself, although the chauffeur could
see that he was slightly under the influence of wine.

By the time the car, driven by Harnash with considerable
ostentation and as much notice as possible, for he wanted
to attract attention to his arrival, reached the garage,
Beekman was absolutely unconscious on the floor of the tonneau,
to which he had fallen.  Harnash ran the car into the
garage, closed the doors with a bang, and ran across the
intervening court rapidly and noisily and up to his own
apartments.  He was ordinarily a considerate young man,
and coming in at that hour he would have made as little noise
as possible, but on this occasion his conduct was different.
He stumbled on the stairs, banged the door behind him, fell
over a chair in his room, swore audibly.  People
subsequently testified that they had heard him coming in and
one even saw him, quite alone.

Without pausing an unnecessary moment in the room he
made his exit from his apartment by means of the fire escape,
and this time not a cat could have moved more silently.
Fortunately, the back of the house was in deep shadow and
there were no lights adjacent.  The shadow of the fence
also served him.  He reentered the garage, having taken
precaution the day before secretly to oil the doors.  He
dragged his unfortunate friend and companion from the
limousine, stripped him of his overcoat and automobile cap,
which he put on himself.  The coat he had previously worn
had differed in every particular from that of Beekman.  He
removed Beekman's watch and other jewelry and his money,
of which he carried a considerable sum.  These articles he
stowed away in his private locker to which his chauffeur
did not have a key.  He could remove them to his office safe
at his leisure.  In Beekman's vest pocket he put a large roll
of his own money--he could not steal, though abduction
was his intent--and then he lifted him to the floor of his
runabout which stood in the garage by the side of the
limousine.

He next removed the number plates from the car,
replaced them with false ones, and ran the car out of the
garage by hand.  Every part of it had been oiled so that its
movement was absolutely noiseless.  Then he shoved the
car down the street, which was now deserted, until he got
some distance away from the garage.  The only really risky
part of the enterprise was at that moment.  Fortune favored
him--or not, as the case may be.  At any rate, no one
appeared.  It was after three o'clock in the morning, the
street was deserted, and there was not a policeman in sight.
He climbed into the car, started it, and drove off.

He proceeded cautiously at first, seeking unfrequented
and narrow streets until he got far enough from the garage
to change his going to suit his purpose.  After a time he
sought the broader streets and passed several people, mostly
police officers, but them he now took no care to avoid.  He
drove near them so that they would notice his general build,
which was that of his friend, and the clothes he wore, which
were those of his friend, and indeed they testified afterward
that they had seen a man dressed as and looking like
Beekman, exactly as he had anticipated.  He drove past them
rapidly so as not to give them time for too close a scrutiny.
Also he doubled on his trail often.

When he reached a dark, lonely, and unfrequented block
near South Water Street he drew up before the door of a
dimly lighted, forbidding looking building, the sign on
which indicated that it was a sailors' boarding house.  He
got out of the car, taking precaution to slip on a false
mustache and beard with which he had provided himself,
and tapped on a door in a certain way which had been
indicated to him.  The door was at once opened by a burly,
rough, villainous looking individual, the boarding house
master, obviously a crimp of the worst class.

"What d'ye want?" he growled out, scrutinizing the
newcomer by the aid of a gas jet burning inside the dirty,
reeking hall, whose feeble light he supplemented by a flash
from an electric torch which really revealed little, since
Harnash carefully concealed his already disguised face.

"I have something for Mr. Woywod."

"The mate of the *Susquehanna*?"

"Yes."

"Well, he told me to receive an' deliver what you got."

"That was our agreement," said Harnash, the little
dialogue convincing each man that no doubt was to be
entertained of the other.

"Well, where's the goods?"

"In the car."

"Fetch him in."

"He's rather heavy.  Perhaps you'll give me a hand."

"Oh, all right," answered the man, putting his electric
torch in his pocket.

The two went to the car and the man easily picked up the
unconscious Beekman and unaided carried him within the
door.  Harnash followed.  He observed the man glanced
at the numbers on the car and was glad that he had taken
the precaution to change them.  The crimp now dropped
the unconscious Beekman in the hallway and turned to
Harnash.  He found the latter standing quietly, but with
an automatic pistol in his hand.

"You needn't be afraid of me," said the man.

"I'm not," answered Harnash.  He was ghastly pale and
extremely nervous, but not from fear of the crimp.  "This
is just a matter of precaution."

"Well, what do I git out of this yere job?" asked the man.

"I understand Mr. Woywod will settle with you for that."

"Well, he does, but what I gits from him is the price of
a foremast hand, an' 'tain't enough."

The crimp bent over Beekman, flashed the light on him,
and pulled out the roll of bills, which he quickly counted.

"It's fair, but I'd ought to git more.  This here's a swell
job; look at them clo'es."

"They're yours also, if you wish."

"That's somethin', but--"

"It's all you'll get," said Harnash, laying his hand on
the door.

The man lifted the torch.  Harnash lifted the pistol.

"Just put that torch back in your pocket," he said.

"You're a cool one," laughed the man, but he obeyed
the order.

"If it is learned tomorrow that this man has disappeared
you'll receive through the United States mail in a plain
envelope a hundred dollar bill.  If not, you get nothing."

"Suppose I croak him, how'd you know anything about it?"

"Mr. Woywod has arranged to inform me, and he will
also put your part of the transaction on record, so if you
say a word you'll be laid by the heels and get nothing for
your pains.  There are a number of things against you,
I'm told.  The police would be most happy to get you, I
know.  Just bear that in mind."

The man nodded.  He knew when the cards were stacked
against him.  After all, this did not greatly differ from an
ordinary job and he was getting, for him, very well paid
for his part of it.

"I got relations with Woywod an' lots of other seafarin'
men.  My business would be ruined if I played tricks on 'em.
You can trust me to keep quiet."

"I thought so," answered Harnash.  "Good-night."

He opened the door, stepped outside, closed the door
behind him, and waited a moment, but the crimp made no
effort to follow him.  After all, it was only an every day
matter with him.  Harnash next drove the car down the
street near one of the wharves, where he met Woywod.

"Is it all right, George?" asked the latter.

"All right, Bill.  He's at the place you told me to leave
him.  Can you keep the crimp's mouth shut?"

"Trust me for that," said Woywod confidently.  "He's
mixed up in too many shady transactions to give anybody
any information."

"I'll never forget what you've done for me," said
Harnash.  "Remember, use him well."

"No fear," laughed his friend as the two shook hands
and parted.

Then Harnash drove up the street, waited until he came
to a dark alley, turned into it, unobserved, got out of the
car, put Beekman's coat and hat into it, donned his own
overcoat and cap, which he had brought with him, and still
wearing the false mustache and beard changed the numbers
on the car, started it, and let it wreck itself against the
nearest water hydrant.

It was a long walk up town, even to Washington Square,
and he had to go very circumspectly because he did not now
wish to be seen by anyone.  Again fortune favored him.  He
gained the garage, crossed the court, mounted the fire escape
to his rooms, and sank down, utterly exhausted but
triumphant.

His defense was absolutely impregnable.  No one could
controvert his story.  He rehearsed it.  He had come home
with Beekman after the dinner had terminated.  They had
had one or two drinks on the way.  They had dismissed the
chauffeur at Twenty-third Street.  When they reached the
garage Beekman, moved by some sudden whim, had insisted
upon going back to his own apartment up town in Harnash's
little roadster.  He had been drinking, of course.  He was
not altogether in possession of his normal faculties, but
Harnash was in the same condition and therefore he had
not been too insistent.  Beekman was as capable of driving
the car as Harnash had just showed himself to be.  There
was nothing he could do to prevent Beekman from going
away.  He could not even remember, when he was questioned,
whether he had tried it or not.  At any rate, Beekman had
gone away in the roadster and Harnash had gone to bed.
So dwellers in the building who heard him come in testified.
One who happened to go to the window even had seen him
come in.  No one had seen or heard him go out.  Harnash
swore that he had not left the apartment until the next
morning.

Beekman, or a man dressed as he was known to be dressed,
had been seen by the police officers and others between three
or four in the morning, driving through the lower part of
the city in a small car the number of which no one had seen.
What he was doing in that section of the city no one could
imagine.  During the course of the morning Harnash's car
was found, badly smashed from a collision, lying on its side
in a wretched alley off South Water Street.  Beekman's
overcoat and cap were in the car and that was all there was
to it.

No matter what suspicions the crimp might have entertained,
he kept his mouth shut and received the day after
the one hundred dollar bill in an unmarked envelope which
had been mailed at the general postoffice in the afternoon.
Even if he had spoken, he could not have thrown much light
on the situation.  Not even the reward which was offered
could tempt him.  His business demanded secrecy,
absolutely and inviolable, and too many men knew too much
about him, which rendered it unsafe for him to open his
head.  He would not kill the goose that laid the golden egg
for him by making further business on the same lines
impossible.  He really knew nothing, anyway.

The secret was shared between two men, Woywod on the
sea and out of communication with New York, and Harnash
himself.  So long as they kept quiet no one would ever
know.  Even Beekman himself could not solve the mystery
when he returned to New York.  It was most ingeniously
planned and most brilliantly carried out.  Harnash
congratulated himself.  Stephanie Maynard would certainly
be his long before Beekman could prevent it.  Still, George
Harnash was by no means so happy in the present state of
affairs as he had planned and hoped to be.  And his trials
were not over.  He had to meet Stephanie, the wedding
party, old John Maynard, the public press, and the
public--what would the day bring forth?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WEDDING THAT WAS NOT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WEDDING THAT WAS NOT

.. vspace:: 2

Stephanie Maynard had passed a sleepless night.
Her love for George Harnash grew stronger and her
abhorrence of the marriage increased in the same degree as
the hour drew nearer.  Too late she repented of her
determination.  She wondered why she had not allowed Harnash
to take her away and end it all.  What, after all, were
her father's wishes, or her own promises, or the worldly
advantages they would gain, or anything else, compared
to love?

Harnash had sent word to her the day before that she
was not to give up hope, that something would happen
surely, but now the last minute was at hand and nothing
had happened.  A dozen times she started to call her lover
on the telephone and a dozen times she refrained.  Finally
the hour arrived when the victim must be garlanded for the
sacrifice.  At least, that is the way she regarded it.

She had not heard a word from her husband-to-be during
the morning.  Under other circumstances that would have
alarmed her, but as it was she was only relieved.  The
wedding party was assembled at the brand new Maynard
mansion on upper Fifth Avenue.  Two of the attendants were
school friends from other cities and they were guests at the
house.  The wedding was to be followed by a breakfast and
a great reception which the Maynard money and the
Beekman position was to make the most wonderful affair of the
kind that had ever been given in New York.

With the publicity which modern society courts and
welcomes, while it pretends to deprecate it, the papers had
published reams about the most private details of the
engagement, even to descriptions and pictures of the most intimate
under-linen of the bride.  Presents of fabulous value, which
lost nothing in their description by perfervid pens, were
under constant guard in the mansion.  Details of police kept
back swarms of unaccredited reporters and adventurous
sightseers.  On the morning of the wedding day the street
before the Cathedral was packed with the vulgarly curious
long before eleven o'clock.  The wedding was to be
solemnized at high noon, and was to be the greatest social
event which had excited easily aroused and intensely curious
New York for a year or more.

The newer members of the exclusive social circle frankly
enjoyed it.  And such is the contagion of degeneration that
the older members, while they affected disdain and
annoyance, enjoyed it too.  The newspapers had played it up
tremendously, and the affair had even achieved the signal
triumph of a veiled but well understood cartoon by F. Foster
Lincoln, the scourge and satirist of high society, in a recent
number of *Life*.

Everything was ready.  The most famous caterer in New
York had prepared the most sumptuous wedding breakfast.
The most exclusive florist had decorated the church and
residence.  Society had put on its best clothes, slightly
deploring the fact that as it was to be a noon wedding
its blooming would be somewhat limited thereby.  More
tickets had been issued to the Cathedral than even that
magnificent edifice could hold and it was filled to its capacity so
soon as the doors were opened.  The famous choir was in
attendance to render a musical program of extraordinary
beauty and appropriateness.

As it approached the hour of mid-day the excitement
was intense.  Women in the crowd were crushed, many
fainted.  Riot calls had to be sent out and the already
strong detachment of police supplemented by reserves.  Thus
is the holy state of matrimony entered into among the busy
rich.  With the idle poor it is, fortunately, a simpler affair.

It had been arranged that Derrick Beekman and George
Harnash should present themselves at the Maynard
mansion not later than eleven o'clock.  From there they would
drive to the Cathedral in plenty of time to receive the
wedding party at the chancel steps.  At eleven o'clock a big
motor forced its way through the crowd and drew up before
the door.  From it descended George Harnash alone.

That young man showed the effect of the night he had
passed.  He was excessively nervous and as gray as the
gloves he carried in his hands.  He was admitted at once
and ushered into the drawing room, which was filled with a
dozen young ladies in raiment which even Solomon in all his
glory might have envied, who were to make up the wedding
party.  There also had just arrived the young gentlemen
who were to accompany them, who had all been at the
bachelor dinner.  None of them exhibited any evidence of
unusual dissipation.  They had slept late and were in
excellent condition.

"George, alone!" cried young Van Brunt, who was next
in importance to the best man, as Harnash entered the room.

"Where's Beekman?" asked Harnash apparently in great
surprise, as he glanced at the little group.

"Not here.  You were to bring him.  It's time for us to
get up to the Cathedral anyway.  I'll bet the people are
clamoring at the doors now."

"They weren't to be opened till eleven-fifteen," said
Grant, one of the fittest members of the party.  "It's only
eleven now.  We've plenty of time."

"Well, you better beat it up now, then.  Beekman will
be here in a minute, I'm sure," said Harnash.  "We'll follow
you in half an hour."

As the young men who were to usher left the room the
girls fell upon Harnash.

"Mr. Harnash," said Josephine Treadway, who was the
maid-of-honor, "will you please tell us where Derrick
Beekman is, and why you didn't bring him along?"

"I can't," said Harnash.  "As a matter of fact I--"

"You'll tell me, certainly," interposed the voice that he
loved.

He turned and found that Stephanie, having completed
her toilet, had descended the stair and entered the room.
She was whiter than Harnash himself, but her lack of color
was infinitely becoming to her in her sumptuous bridal
robes, and the adoring young man decided then and there
that whatever happened she was worth it.

"Mr. Beekman," continued the girl, "was to be here at
eleven o'clock with you.  It's after that now and you're
here alone.  Where is he?  Why didn't you bring him?"

"Miss Maynard," said Harnash formally, and in spite of
himself he could not prevent his lip from trembling, "I
don't know where he is."

"What!" exclaimed the girl, really astonished, as the
whole assembly broke into exclamations.  Had Harnash
accomplished the impossible, as he had threatened?

"I can't find him," went on Harnash.  He could scarcely
sustain Stephanie's direct and piercing gaze.  He forced
himself to look at her, however.  "I don't know where he
is," he repeated.

"But have you searched?"

"Everywhere.  I called up his apartment on Park Avenue
at ten o'clock.  They said he wasn't there and hadn't been
there all night.  I started my man out at once in a taxicab,
jumped into my own car, and I've been everywhere--the
office, his clubs--I've even had my secretary and clerks
telephone all the hotels on the long chance that he might be
at one of them."

"And you haven't found a trace of him?  George
Harnash--" began Stephanie, but Harnash was too quick
for her; he did not allow her to finish.

"You will forgive me," he went on; "I did even more
than that in my alarm.  I finally notified the police on the
chance that he might have been er--er--brought in."

He shot a warning look at Stephanie that checked further
inquiries from her.

"Why should he be brought in?" asked Josephine
Treadway, who had no reason for not asking the question.

"Why, you see," went on Harnash, "it's desperately hard
to tell, and I'd rather die than mention it, but under the
circumstances I suppose--"

"Out with it at once," cried Stephanie.

"Well, we had a little dinner last night at--well, never
mind where."

"We had a dinner, too," said Josephine.

"Yes, but I imagine ours was--er--different.  At any
rate, it didn't break up until quite late, or, I should
say, early in the morning, and we were not--quite ourselves."

"But Derrick is the most abstemious of men."

"Exactly; so am I, and when that kind go under it's
worse than--you understand," he added helplessly.

Stephanie nodded.

"When did you see him last?"

"Why--er--I'll make a clean breast of it."

"Do so, I beg you."

"Well, then, we were right enough when the dinner broke
up.  Derrick and I left the others to their own devices.  He
had arranged to spend the night with me.  We stopped at
one or two places down town, but reached my quarters in
Washington Square about two or three o'clock."

Harnash paused and swallowed hard.  It was an
immensely difficult task to which he had compelled himself,
although so far he had told nothing but the truth.

"Go on," said Josephine Treadway impatiently as the
pause lengthened.

"He changed his mind after we put the limousine in the
garage and insisted on going back to his own rooms."

"Did you let him go?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"Well, Miss Treadway, I couldn't help it, and, to be
frank, I didn't try.  You see we were neither of us very
sure of ourselves and--and--"

"I see."

"He took my runabout, drove off and--that's all."

"Have you found the runabout?"

"Yes, the police found it in an alley near South Water
Street, badly smashed.  Beekman's overcoat and cap were
in the car."

"Do you think he has been hurt?" questioned Stephanie,
who had listened breathlessly to the conversation between
her lover and her maid-of-honor.

"I'm sure that he can't have been," returned Harnash
with definiteness which carried conviction to his questioner,
and no one else caught the meaning look he shot at her.

"And that's all?" asked Josephine.

"Absolutely all I can tell you," he replied truthfully,
none noticing the equivoke but Stephanie, who of course
could not call attention to it.

"You poor girl," said Josephine, gathering Stephanie in
her arms.

"It's outrageous.  It's horrible," cried the girl, biting
her lip to keep back her tears.

She really could scarcely tell whether she was glad or
sorry, now that it had come; not that her feelings had
changed, but there was the public scandal, the affront,
the--but she had not time to speculate.

"What is outrageous, what is horrible?" asked John
Maynard, coming into the room and catching her words.
"What can be outrageous or horrible in such a wedding as
we have arranged?  Why, Stephanie, what's the matter?
You're as white as a sheet, and Harnash, are you ill?  You're
a pretty looking spectacle for a best man."

"Father," said his daughter, "they can't find Derrick."

"Can't find him!" exclaimed Maynard.  "Does he have
to be sought for on his wedding day?  If I were going to
marry a stunning girl like you, for all you're as pale as a
ghost, I--"

"There's not going to be any wedding," said Stephanie,
mechanically.

"No wedding!" roared Maynard, surprised intensely.
"What do you mean?  Are you backing out at the last
minute?"

"No, it's not I."

"Look here, will some one explain this mystery to me?"
asked the man, turning to the rather frightened bevy of
girls.  "It's eleven-thirty; we ought to be starting.  What's
the meaning of this infernal foolishness?  You, Harnash,
what are you standing there looking like a ghost for?  One
would think you were going to be married yourself."

"Mr. Maynard," said Josephine, taking upon herself
the task, "Stephanie has told you the truth.  Mr. Harnash
has just come and he doesn't know where Mr. Beekman is."

"Doesn't know where he is?"

"He can't be found, sir," said Harnash.

"Do you mean to tell me that he has run away and left
my girl in the lurch?  By God, he'll--"

"I'm sure it isn't that," said Harnash earnestly, "but the
fact is we had a bachelor dinner last night."

"Of course you did, but what has that to do with it?"

"Everything.  I guess we indulged a little too much."

"Well, bachelors have done that fool thing since time and
the world began."

"Yes, but Beekman hasn't been seen since early this
morning, two or three o'clock."

"Who saw him last?"

"I did," said Harnash, briefly repeating his explanation.

"What did you do?"

"I 'phoned to his house and they said he hadn't been
there all night.  I dressed, sent my man out in a taxi, took
my own car, summoned the office force to my assistance, and
Dougherty's detectives, and I've scoured the city for him."

"The police?"

"I have notified them, of course, as soon as they reported
the finding of my runabout.  They're on the hunt, too.  We
have even called up every hotel in the city.  He's not to
be found."

"It must be foul play," said Maynard, taking Harnash's
account of it at its face value.

"I suppose so," said Harnash, wincing a little, although
he would fain not, and again shooting a quick glance at
Stephanie, and then daringly following it with a quick
gesture of negation to reassure her.

"Where that car was found it wouldn't take much to
interest a thief."

"No.  He had a watch, jewelry, money.  Indeed, I have
a dim remembrance of his flashing a roll in some place or
other."

"That will be it."

"Meanwhile what is to be done, sir?"

"It's a quarter to twelve now," said Josephine Treadway.

"God, how I hate this," said old Maynard.  "Here," he
stepped to the door and called his private secretary, "Bentley,
drive up to the Cathedral like mad, tell the Bishop that
the wedding is called off.  Yes, don't stand there like a
fish; get out."

"But we'll have to give some reason to the people, explain
to the guests in the church," expostulated the secretary.

"Reason be damned," said Maynard, roughly.

"Excuse me," said Harnash, "it would be better for all
concerned, and especially Miss Maynard, if the matter were
explained at once, and fully.  You wouldn't like to have
anyone think for a moment that she had been left in the
lurch."

"Mr. Harnash is right, sir.  It must be explained as well
as it can."

"Very well, Bentley," said his employer.  "Tell the
Bishop that Mr. Beekman has disappeared, that we are of
the opinion that he has met with foul play, that under the
circumstances there is nothing to do but call off the wedding
and have the explanation announced in the Cathedral in any
way he likes, and then get back here as quickly as possible.
Stephanie, I'd rather have lost half my fortune than have
this happen, but keep up your courage.  I feel that nothing
but some dastardly work would have kept Beekman away.
He is the soul of honor and he was passionately devoted to
you.  Don't faint, my dear girl."

"I'm not going to faint," said Stephanie, resolutely.
"Girls, I'm awfully sorry for your disappointment," she
faltered.

"Don't mind us," said Josephine.

"I'm afraid that perhaps you--you--"

"We're going at once," explained one of the bridesmaids,
"if you will have our motors called up."

"Of course," said Maynard.  "Harnash, you attend to
that and then come to me in the library.  William," he
added to the footman who came in obedience to his
summons, "get me the chief of police on the telephone and when
the reporters come, and they will be here just as soon as
the announcement is made at the church, show them into the
library in a body.  I've got to see them and I'll see them
all at once.  Harnash, you come, too.  You can tell the story
better than anyone."





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.. _`STEPHANIE IS GLAD AFTER ALL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   STEPHANIE IS GLAD AFTER ALL

.. vspace:: 2

The sudden disappearance of one of the principals in
the Maynard-Beekman wedding was the sensation of
the hour.  John Maynard was deeply hurt and terribly
concerned because he was very fond of Beekman, and
because in spite of his bold front the young man's failure to
appear had reflected upon his daughter.  The lewd papers
of the baser sort, playing up the bachelor dinner, did not
hesitate to point this out, and insinuations, so thinly
disguised that every one who read understood, appeared daily.
That there was not a word of truth in them was of little
consequence either to the writers who knew they were lying
or to the public, which did not.  The clientele of such papers
was ready to believe anything or everything bad; especially
of the idle rich.

Reportorial and even editorial--which is worse--imagination
was unrestrained.  As the newspapers had devoted
so much space to the preparations, they did not stint themselves
in discussing the aftermath of the affair.  The police
bent every energy to solve the mystery.  Maynard was a
big power in public affairs and they were stimulated by a
reward of one hundred thousand dollars which Maynard
offered for tidings of the missing man, a reward which made
the wiseacres put their tongues in their cheeks as they
read of it.

The gorgeous wedding presents were returned.  The
lovely lingerie of the bride, which had been so talked about,
was laid away and the bride herself was denied to every
caller.  Even George Harnash sought access to her person
in vain.  The scandal, the humiliation, had made her
seriously ill, and by her physician's orders she was allowed to
see no one.

However, the first person she did admit was George Harnash.
Indeed, so soon as she was able to be about she called
him up and demanded his immediate presence.  He had been
waiting for such a summons.  He knew it was unavoidable.
It had to come.  He dropped everything to go to her.  He
was horrified when he saw her.  He had got back some of his
nerve and equipoise to the casual observation, although he
still showed what he had gone through to a close scrutiny.
He had been catechized and cross-questioned, even put
through a mild form of the third degree by the police, but
little to their satisfaction.  He could tell them nothing
definite.  They got no more out of him than he had volunteered
at first.  They were completely and entirely mystified.

Several steamers had sailed for various ports that day
and night, but it was easily established, when they reached
port, that they had not carried the missing man.  They
completely overlooked the *Susquehanna* for reasons which
will appear.  Beekman's disappearance remained one of
those unexplained mysteries for which New York was notorious.
The reward still stood and the authorities were still
very much on the alert, but they were absolutely without
any clue whatsoever.  Derrick Beekman had disappeared
from the face of the earth.  Besides Harnash, there was only
one person in the city who had any definite idea as to the
cause of his departure, and that was Stephanie Maynard.  A
proud, high-spirited girl, she had suffered untold anguish in
the publicity and scandal and innuendo.

"My God, Stephanie!" cried Harnash, as she received him
in a lovely negligée in her boudoir.  "You look like death
itself."

"And I have passed through it," said the girl, "in the
last week.  Now, I want you to tell me where Derrick is."

"Stephanie," answered Harnash, "it would be foolish for
me to pretend that I don't know."

"It certainly would."

"I told you that I meant to have you and that I would
stop the wedding if I had to take you from the altar steps."

"But we didn't get that far."

"It amounts to the same thing.  I--er--took him.  It
was easier."

"Where and how did you take him?"

"Don't ask.  I can't tell."

"And you have covered me with shame inexpressible.
I shall never get over it as long as I live.  How could you
do it?  How could you?"

"Are you reproaching me?"

"Reproaching you!" cried Stephanie.  "Do you think I
could tamely endure this public scandal, this abandonment,
without a word?"

"But I did it for you."

"Yes, I suppose so, but that doesn't make it any less
humiliating."

"Stephanie, tell me, do you love Derrick Beekman?"

"No, I hate him."

"And me?"

"I hate you, too."

"Oh, don't say that."

"I wish I were dead," cried the girl.  "I can never go
out on the street again.  I can never hold up my head
anywhere any more, and it's your fault.  What have you done
with him?"

"Do you want him back?  Do you want to go through
with the marriage?  Look here," said Harnash, "desperate
diseases require desperate remedies.  I'll tell you this, and
that is all I will tell you.  I am sure Derrick is all right.
He will come to no harm."

"Are you holding him a prisoner somewhere?"

"I am not."

"I don't understand."

"It is better not.  It isn't necessary," answered Harnash
stubbornly.

"And you actually made away with him?"

"I got him out of the way, if that's what you mean.
But he's alive, well, and in no danger.  I caused it to be
done--"

"Are you sure of that?"

"Absolutely."

"Don't you know that you've done a criminal act?"

"Of course I know it.  Do you think I'm a fool because
I'm crazy in love with you?"

"And don't you know you will have gained his eternal
enmity and the enmity of my father when they find this out?"

"I don't care about anybody's enmity unless it's yours."

"Well, you've almost gained mine."

"Almost, but not quite.  You feel horribly now.  I
understand.  Do you think it has been joyful to me to have
put my best friend out of the way and to have brought all
this scandal and shame upon you?  But there was no other
way.  You're mine in the sight of God and I'm going to
make you mine in the sight of men."

"But my father will never forgive you when he knows."

"I don't think he will ever find out my part, or Beekman
either."

"Why not?"

"I can't explain, but if your father does find out what
can he do?  In six months I'll be independent of anything
and anybody and when we are married we can laugh at him
and at the rest of the world."

"At Beekman, too?"

"Yes, even at him.  Stephanie, you don't know what it
is to love as I do.  For you I'd stop at nothing short of
murder.  You didn't believe me when I said that, but I
meant it.  I've made myself a criminal, I admit, but for
your sake.  Now am I going to fail of my reward?  Do
you want me to produce Derrick Beekman?  Do you want
him to come back and throw me in jail and marry you?
Well, I didn't expect it; I didn't count upon it--" this
was only a bluff, of course, since by no means could Harnash
have got back Beekman from the *Susquehanna* then--"but
if that is what you really want say the word.  Can
you turn down a love like mine, that will stop at nothing
for your happiness?  I swear to you that I believe it is as
much for your happiness as my own.  I won't say it is all
for you, because I want you, but I am thinking of you all
the time.  I couldn't bear to see you in his arms.  What is
the little bit of scandal?  It will be forgotten.  When you
are my wife I'll take care of you.  If you don't want to live
here we'll live anywhere.  If I pull off two or three big
deals that are in the air I'll be able to do anything.  Oh,
Stephanie, you aren't going back on me now?"

"You know that I couldn't do that," answered the girl,
greatly moved by his passionate pleading.  After all, she
did love this man and not the other.

"You're the kind of woman that a man will do anything
for.  I'm sorry for Beekman, I'm sorry for everything, but
I'm going to have you."  He came close to her as he spoke.
"Do you understand that?" he asked, raising his voice.  "I
did it for you, you, and no man shall balk me of my reward.
If you won't come willingly, you shall come unwillingly."

"Oh," said the girl, "how horribly determined and wicked
you are, and yet--"

As she looked up at him the passion with which he spoke,
rough, brutal as it was, quickened again her heart that she
thought was dead.  For the first time in weeks the color
rushed into her face.

"That's right," said Harnash, watching her narrowly.
"I can still bring the blood to your cheeks."

He bent over her, he dragged her almost rudely from her
seat and crushed her against him.  He kissed her as roughly
as he had spoken.

"This," he said, "pays for everything.  If I'm found
out, if I have to go to jail, I don't care.  I'm glad.  You
love me.  You can't deny it and in your heart of hearts
you're glad and you'll be gladder every hour of your life."

The girl gave up.  After all, what possibility of happiness
did she have except with Harnash?  More and more she
appeared before the world as a thing cast off and scorned.
Harnash's position in society and business was improving
every day, but it was not that which influenced her.  She
really loved him.  She responded to his pleading.  Mistaken
though he was, vicious as had been his design, that effort,
wrong as was his method, showed her how much he loved her.

"You're not going to fail me now, are you?  You need
not answer.  I can feel it in the beat of your heart against
mine."

"No," said the girl.  "I'm yours, I suppose."

"Don't you know?"

"Yes, I know.  No one else would want me, discarded."

"I want you.  I'd want you if the whole world rejected you."

"And you won't tell me where Derrick is?"

"No, it's a heavy secret to carry in one's breast.  I feared
that they would worm it out of me.  You can't know what
I've gone through," he went on.  "I've been suspected and
questioned and cross-questioned, but I never gave it away.
It was you who kept me up.  The thought of you always,
you, you, you!  Meanwhile I'm slaving my life out, almost
wrecking my brain, to carry out these big deals, and when
it is over and I have you they can do their worst.  Your
father, Beekman when he comes back--"

"Oh, then he will come back?"

"Of course he will.  And I'll face them all.  I don't know
whether I have damned myself for you or not, but if I have,
I don't care," he went on recklessly.

"It was my fault, anyway," said the girl.  "I should
have been stronger.  I should not have agreed to such a
marriage, and I should not have kept the agreement when
I loved you."

"You need not say that," said Harnash--there was good
stuff in him---"It is all my own plan and scheme.  You
were bound, and there was only one way to break the bond.
Now I give myself six months.  By that time the talk will
have died out and we will be married."

"I'll marry you," said the girl, "or I'll marry no one
else on earth, but before I marry you you must bring
Derrick Beekman into my presence and he must release me."

"That is a harder thing than what I have done, but I'll do
it.  Provided you will help me."

"I will, but how?"

"When you see him you must tell him that you don't love
him and that you wish to marry me."

"Very well.  I'll do that part."

"And I'll do the other."

"Promise me, on your word of honor."

"Honor!" exclaimed Harnash bitterly.  "Do you think,
after what I have done, that I've got any honor, that you
could trust to?"

"I'll be trusting myself to you," said the girl, "and you
know what that implies."

"Say that you are glad that it has happened as it has,
despite the scandal."

Stephanie looked at him a long time.

"You poor boy," she said, drawing his head down and
kissing his forehead in that motherly way which all women
have toward the men they love until the maternal affection
has a chance to vent itself in the right direction.  "How
you must have suffered for me."

"It was nothing."

"Yes, I am glad," she said at last.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`UP AGAINST IT HARD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   UP AGAINST IT HARD

.. vspace:: 2

When he went to bed, what time it was when he
awakened, or where he was at that moment were facts
about which Derrick Beekman had no ideas whatsoever.  At
first he was conscious of but one thing--that he was; and
that consciousness was painful, not to say harrowing, to the
last degree.  For one thing, he was horribly sick.  The place
where he lay appeared to be as unsteady as his mental
condition was uncertain.  He was heaved up and down, tossed
back and forth, and rolled from side to side in an utterly
inexplicable way to his bewildered mind.  And every mad
motion threw him against some bruised and painful portion
of his anatomy.

As he struggled to open his eyes it seemed to him that he
was lying in pitch darkness.  His ears were assailed by a
concatenation of discordant noises, creaks, groans, thunderous
blows of which he could make nothing.  No one has ever
pictured hell as a place of reeking odors and hideous sounds.
Why that opportunity has been neglected is not known.
Certainly the popular brimstone idea of it is highly suggestive.
At any rate, the bad air and other indescribable odors, to
say nothing of the noises that came to him, added to his
physical perturbation and wretchedness.  Under the
circumstances, the wonder was not so much that he did not
think clearly, but that he could think at all.  It was only
after some moments of sickening return to consciousness
that he became convinced that he was alive and somewhere.

He lay for a little while desperately trying to solve the
problems presented to him by his environment, with but
little immediate success.  Finally, as a help toward
clearing up the mystery, he decided upon exploration.  Though
the undertaking was painful to him, he made an effort to sit
up.  His head came in violent contact with something which
he had not noticed in the obscurity above him and
nearly knocked him senseless again.  After another violent
fit of sickness, he decided upon a more circumspect
investigation.

He felt about with his hands and discovered that he was
in some box-like enclosure one side of which seemed to be
open save for a containing strip against which he had been
violently hurled several times and which had prevented him
from being thrown out.  This enclosure was in violently
agitated motion.  At first, in his confusion, he decided
vaguely upon a railroad train, a sleeping-car berth, but he
realized that not even the roughest freight car would
produce such an effect as that unless the train were running on
the cross ties, in which case its stoppage would be
immediate.  This pitching and tossing kept on.  If he had been
in his clear senses, he would have known in an instant where
he was, but it was only after violent effort at concentration
that his aching head told him that he must be aboard a
ship!

He was familiar with steamers of the more magnificent
class, and with his own yacht, and the pleasure craft of his
friends, and he knew enough from reading to decide that
this was the forecastle of a ship.  He decided that it was a
wooden ship.  The outer planking against which he lay was
of wood.  He listened next for the beat or throb of a screw,
and heard none.  Thinking more and more clearly, it came
to him that it was a sailing ship.  As his eyes became used
to the obscurity, he saw abaft his feet and to his left hand,
for he lay head to the bows, well forward on the port side,
a square of light which betokened an open hatchway.  He
strained his eyes up through the hatchway.  He could make
out nothing.  It was still daylight on deck, and that was
all he could decide.

As he lay staring stupidly, above the roar of the wind,
and the creaking and groaning of the straining ship and the
thunder of great waves against the bow as she plunged into
the head seas, he heard harsh voices.  The tramping of many
feet, hurried, irregular, came to him; then a sudden silence;
a command followed, and again the massed and steady
trampling of the same feet.  A shrill, harsh-creaking sound
followed, as of taut rope straining through the dry sheaves
of a heavy block.  Rude rhythmical sounds, sailors' chanties,
penetrated the wooden cave in one of the recesses of which
he lay.  It was a sailing ship, obviously.  They were
mast-heading yards; apparently setting or taking in sail.

What ship, and how came he aboard?  By this time he
was sufficiently himself to come to a decision.  He would get
out of that berth.  He would mount the ladder, the top of
which he could see dimly nearest the hatch-combing, and
get out on deck.

He thrust one leg over the side of the berth, and as the
dim light fell upon it, he discovered that he was barefoot.
It had not yet occurred to him to examine his clothes.  Being
asleep, he would naturally be wearing the luxurious night
gear he affected.  Not so in this instance.  Where the white
of his leg stopped he discerned a fringe of ragged trousers.
He felt them.  They were tattered and torn, and indescribably
foul and dirty.  Mystery on mystery!  Cautiously,
so as not to hit his head a second time, he sat up and lowered
himself to the deck.  Continuing his inspection, he was
horrified at the shirt which covered the upper half of his
body, and which fully matched the trousers.  Where were
the clothes he had worn the night before?

It came upon him like the proverbial flash of lightning
from a clear sky--that bachelor supper, the gay revelry,
the wine he had drunk, his sallying forth with George
Harnash.  He vaguely remembered their first stop; after
that--nothing.  Where were his watch, his studs, his money?
He looked around carefully, with a faint hope that he might
see them.  A dress suit was, of course, an absurdity at that
hour and in that place, but anything was better than those
filthy rags.  There was nothing to be seen of them, of
course.

The horror and unpleasantness of the place grew upon
him.  Lest he should give way to another tearing fit of
sickness, he must get up on deck.  Clothes would come later,
and explanations.  He staggered aft toward the foot of the
ladder, the violent motion of the ship--and in his place, in
the very eyes of her, the motion was worst--making progress
difficult.  It was not that he lacked sea legs, nor was he
merely seasick.  His unsteadiness and nausea came from
other causes.

As he put his foot on the ladder, like another flash came
the recollection that this was his wedding day.  He was,
indeed, a day out in his reckoning, but that was to develop
later.  He stopped, petrified at the appalling thought.  His
wedding day, and he in this guise on a ship!  He groaned
with horror, clapping his hands to his face, and the next roll
threw him violently against the ladder, opening a cut in his
head so that the blood began to trickle down the side of
his cheek.

This seemed to have a good effect upon him.  The blow,
as it were, dissipated some of his imaginings.  It was an
assault that quickened the working of his mind.  He rose
to the provocative stimulus of it.  He got to his feet,
brushed the blood out of his eyes, mounted the ladder, and
stepped over the hatch-combing.

He found himself on the deck of a large, old-fashioned,
full-rigged sailing ship.  A lookout paced across the deck
from side to side forward.  Way aft he saw a flying bridge
just forward of the mizzenmast, on which two officers stood.
A number of men had tailed on to what he realized were the
foretops'l halliards, upon which they were swaying violently,
constantly urged to greater exertions by a big, rough-looking
man who stood over them.  From time to time they
broke into a rude chant, in order to apply their efforts
unitedly and rhythmically to the task of raising the
foretops'l yard, the sail of which had just been double reefed.
The men who had performed that task were tumbling down
from aloft on the shrouds on either side.  Although he was an
amateur sailor, Beekman was familiar enough with ships to
realize much of what was going on.

It was a raw, rough day.  There was a bite in the wind
which struck cold upon his unaccustomed body through his
rags.  It was already blowing a half gale, with a fine
promise of coming harder, apparently, and they were
reducing the canvas.  As the ship was by the wind, sheets of cold
spray swept across the already wet decks.

While he stared, the men stopped jigging on the
foretops'l halliards.  They were belayed, and at the mate's
command the crew lined up on the main tops'l halliards, ready
to sway away at command, while those topmen, whose
business it was to handle the canvas on the mainmast, sprang
up on the sheer poles and rapidly ascended the ratlines.

In all these movements, which appeared confused, but
which were not, Beekman had stood unnoticed, but he was
not to escape attention much longer.  The man who had
been directing the men on the halliards caught sight of him
as they were belayed.  He turned and walked forward.

"Here, you sojer," he began roughly, "what in hell do
you mean by standin' aroun' here doin' nothin'?"

"Are you talking to me?"

"Who else would I be talkin' to?  D'ye think I'm
addressin' a congregation?"

"I'm not accustomed to this sort of speech, and I'll thank
you to modify it," answered Beekman, outraged by the
other's brutal rudeness, and quite forgetful of his
appearance and condition.

He was a quick-tempered young man, and all his life he
had received deference and respect.  He did not propose to
let anybody talk to him that way.

"Why, you infernal sea lawyer, you back-talkin' slob, you
dirty malingerer, what do you think you are; one of the
officers on this ship; a passenger?"

"Whatever I am, I'm not under your orders."

"You ain't, ain't ye!  I'll learn you what you are.  Git
aft an' tail on to them halliards, an' be quick about it."

"I'll see you damned first."

"What!" roared Bill Woywod.  He balled his enormous
fist and struck viciously at Beekman.  In a rough-and-tumble
fight the latter would have had no chance with the
mate, for what the officer lacked in science he made up in
brute force.  Beekman was in a horrible physical condition
from his excesses and the result of the knockout drops which
had been administered to him, but his spirit was as strong
as ever, and his skill as great.  He parried the blow easily
with his left, and sent a swift right to Woywod's iron jaw.

The main tops'l halliards had not yet been cast off, and
the men surged forward.  Captain Peleg Fish, with an
amazing agility for one of his years, disdaining the
accommodation ladders, leaped over the rail of the bridge, dropped
to the deck, and ran forward, leaving the conning of the
ship to the second mate.

"Rank mutiny, by heck," shouted the captain, drawing a
revolver.  "Stand clear, git back to them halliards, every
mother's son of ye, or I'll let daylight through ye.  What's
the matter here, Mr. Woywod?"

Now, if Beekman had been in good condition, that blow
to the jaw might have put Woywod out for a few moments,
although that is questionable, but as it was, it had merely
staggered him.  It lacked steam.  But it was hard enough
to rouse all the devilry in the mate's heart.

"Do you need any help, sir?" continued Captain Peleg
Fish, handling his pistol.

"None.  Stand back, men," he answered to the captain,
and shouted to the crew in one breath.

Woywod had taken one blow.  He took another, for, as
he leaped at Beekman, who was not so thoroughly angry
that he did not stop to reason, the latter hit him with all his
force.  Woywod partly parried the blow, and the next
moment he had the young man in his arms.  He crushed him
against his breast; he shook him to and fro.  He finally
shifted his hands to the other's throat and choked him until
he was insensible.  Then he threw him in the lee scuppers
and turned aft, the crew falling back before him and
running to the halliards with almost ludicrous haste.

"What was the trouble?" asked Captain Fish.

"The lazy swab refused to obey my orders to tail on the
halliards with the rest of the men, an' then he struck me."

"Rank mutiny," shouted the captain.  "Shall we put him
in irons?"

"No, sir.  We're not any too full handed as it is.  He
evidently doesn't know the law of the sea.  Perhaps he's not
quite himself.  It's the first time he's been on deck since we
took our departure yesterday mornin'.  Leave him to me,
sir; I'll turn him into a good, willin', obedient sailorman
afore I gits through with him."

"Very good.  Bear a hand with the maintops'l," said the
captain, turning and walking aft.  "It blows harder every
minute.  I don't want to rip the sticks off her just yet,
although I can carry on as long as any master that sails the
sea," he added for the benefit of Salver, the second mate.

The sea was rising, and although the *Susquehanna* was a
dry ship, yet the wind had nipped the tops of the waves and
from time to time the spray came aboard.  There was water
in the lee scuppers, and this presently brought back
consciousness to Beekman.  He sat up finally, and, no one paying
him any attention, watched the proceedings until the reefs
had been taken in the tops'ls and the ship prepared for the
growing storm.  He watched them with no degree of interest
but with black rage and murder in his heart.  If he had a
weapon, or the strength, he thought he would have killed
the mate as the latter came toward him.

With a desire, natural under the circumstances, to be in
position for whatever might betide, he rose to his feet and
clung desperately to the pinrail, confronting the mate.  The
men of the crew had scattered to their various stations and
duties.  All hands had been called, but the ship having been
made snug alow and aloft, the watch below had been
dismissed, and some of them were already tripping down the
ladder into the forepeak.  Beekman was left entirely to his
own devices.  No one presumed to interfere between the mate
and this newest member of the ship's people.

"Well, you," began Woywod with an oath.  "Have you
had your lesson?  Do you know who's who aboard this ship?
Are you ready to turn to?"

"I'm ready for nothing," said Beekman hotly, "except to
kill you if I get a chance."

"Look here," said Woywod, "you're evidently a green
hand.  Probably you've never been on a ship afore, an'
you don't know the law of the sea.  'T ain't to be expected
that you would.  We gits many aboard that makes their first
v'yage with us.  But there's one thing you do know, an'
that's that I'm your master."  His great hand shot out and
shook itself beneath Beekman's face.  "An' I'm your master
not only because I'm first officer of this ship, but because I'm
a better man than you are.  I flung you into the lee scuppers
an' I can do it again.  I'm willin' an' wishful to do it, too.
If you gimme any more mutinous back talk; if you refuse to
turn to an' do your duty accordin' to the articles you signed
when you come aboard, you'll git it again.  If you act like
a man instead of a fool, you'll have no more trouble with
me 's long as you obey orders.  D'ye git that?"

"I get it, yes.  It's plain enough, but it makes no
difference to me."

"It don't, don't it?"

"No; and I'm not a member of this crew.  I signed no
articles, and I don't propose to do a thing unless I please.
I want to see the captain."

"You gimme the lie, do you?" said Woywod, approaching nearer.

"Now, look here," said Beekman; "I want you to
understand one thing."

"What's that?"

"I'm not afraid of you.  You can kill me.  You've got
the physical strength to do it, although if I were not so
sick, there might be an argument as to that; so you might
as well quit bullying me.  Oh, yes, I have no doubt but
what you could knock me over again, but I'll die fighting."

His hand clenched a belaying pin.  He drew it out and
lifted it up.

"Mr. Woywod," the captain's voice came from aft, "is
that man givin' you any trouble again?"

"I can deal with him, sir."

"Send him aft to me."

Of course, Woywod could not disobey so direct an order.
He had no relish for it, but there was no help for it.
Beekman himself took action.  He shoved past the mate,
who, under the circumstances, did not dare to hit him, and
made his way staggering along the deck to the bridge,
where the mate followed him.  Two or three of the crew
came aft, but the mate drove them forward with curses
and oaths.

"Young man," said the captain, an old man of short
stature, but immensely broad shouldered and powerful, "do
you know what mutiny is?"

"I certainly do."

"Oh, you've been to sea before, have you?"

"Many times."

"On what ships?"

"Trans-Atlantic liners and my own yacht."

"Your own yacht!"  The captain burst into a roar of laughter.

"That's what I said."

"Do you know I'm the master of this ship?"

"I presume so."

"Well, then, say 'sir' to me, an' be quick about it."

"It is your due," said Beekman; "I should have done it
before.  I beg your pardon, sir."

"That's better.  Now, what's this cock-an'-bull story
you're try in' to tell me?  Look here, Smith--"

"That's not my name, sir."

"Well, that's the name you made your mark to on the
ship's articles when you were brought aboard, the drunkest
sailor I ever seen."

"That's exactly it," said Beekman.  "I'm no sailor, and
my name is not Smith."

"What's your name?"

"Beekman; Derrick Beekman."

"How came you aboard my ship?"

"I suppose I've been shanghaied.  I don't know any more
than you do; perhaps not as much."

"You mean," roared the captain, "that I had any hand
in bringing you here?"

"I don't know anything about that.  I only know that I
was to be married today, Thursday."

"'Tain't Thursday; it's Friday.  You've been in a
drunken stupor since Thursday morning."

"Friday!"

Beekman looked about him with something like despair
in his heart.  There was not even a ship to be seen in the
whole expanse of leaden sea.

"Captain--What's your name, sir?"

"Well, the impudence of that," ejaculated Woywod.

"What difference does it make to you what the cap'n's
name is," sneered Salver.

"It's Peleg Fish, Smith-Beekman, or Beekman-Smith;
Captain Peleg Fish."

"Well, Captain Fish, I'm a member of an old New York
family and--"

"Families don't count for nothin' here," said the captain.
"If that's all you've got to say, I've seen a many of them
last scions brought down to the fok's'l."

"I was engaged to be married to the daughter of John
Maynard.  I presume you've heard of him."

"Do you mean the president of the Inter-Oceanic Trading
Company?"

"I do."

"Well, I've heard of him all right," laughed the captain.
"This is the *Susquehanna*.  She belongs to his company.
We fly his house flag.  Do you mean to tell me that you
claim to have been engaged to his daughter; a drunken
ragamuffin like you, the off-scourin's of Water Street,
which the crimps unload on us poor, helpless, seafarin' men
as able seamen?"

"I was.  I am.  The wedding was set for yesterday.  We
had a bachelor dinner on Wednesday night, and I guess we
all drank too much.  At any rate, I don't know anything
further except that I woke up here."

"It's a likely story."

"That chap's got a rich imagination," sneered the second
mate.

"He'd orter be writin' romances," ejaculated Woywod.

"Enough," said Captain Fish.  "Your story may be
true or it may not.  I don't think it is, but whether it is or
not, it don't matter.  You were brought aboard at two
o'clock Thursday morning.  We tripped and sailed at four.
His name's on the articles, Mr. Woywod?"

"It is; John Smith.  I witnessed his signature.  He
couldn't write at the time, so someone held his hand an' he
made his mark."

"This is an outrage," roared Beekman.  "What became
of my watch and clothes?"

"You had nothin' but what you've got on now when you
came aboard.  Am I right, cap'n?"

"You are, sir."

"So you see there's nothin' for you to do but turn to an'
behave yourself an' obey orders.  When the ship reaches
Vladivostok, an' we pays off, you can take your discharge
an' go where you please."

"I'll give you a thousand dollars to go back to New York
and land me."

The captain grinned.  Taking their cue from him, Mr. Woywod
and Mr. Salver exploded with laughter.

"You might as well make it ten thousand, while you're
about it."

"I will make it ten thousand," said Beekman, desperately.

"Nonsense!"

"Well, then, will you trans-ship me to some vessel bound
for New York?"

"We're short handed, sir," put in Woywod.

"Couldn't think of it," said the captain, who, of course,
disbelieved *in toto* Beekman's highly improbable story.

This was the richest and most extravagant tale he had
ever listened to.  To do him justice, every voyage he had
ever sailed had produced someone who strove to get out of
the ship by urging some wildly improbable excuse for his
being there.

"Well, sir, if you won't do that, I suppose Colon will be
your first port of call, and you are going through the
Panama Canal.  Let me get on the end of the cable there
and I'll get you orders from Mr. Maynard himself."

"I might be inclined to do that," said the captain
facetiously, "but the canal is blocked by another slide in the
Culebra cut, an' we're goin' around the Horn."

"Don't you touch anywhere?"

"Some South Sea island for vegetables an' water, mebbe,
but no place where there's a cable, if I can help it.  When
I takes my departure I don't want nobody interferin' with
me an' sendin' orders after me."

"Is there a wireless on the ship?"

"No.  Now, if you've finished your questionin', perhaps
you'll allow me to say a word or two."

"An' you may be very thankful to the cap'n for his
kind treatment, for I never seed him so agreeable to a man
tryin' to sojer out of work an' shirk his job afore," said
Woywod.

"Jestice, Mr. Woywod, an' fair treatment, even to the
common sailor, is my motto.  As long as they obey orders,
they've got nothin' to fear from me, an' that goes for you,
Smith."

"Beekman," insisted the young man.

"Smith it was, Smith it is, Smith it will be.  That's the
first order.  Now, I'll give you a little advice.  Mr. Woywod
and Mr. Salver is among the gentlest officers I ever sailed
with, so long as they ain't crossed.  You turn to an' do
what you're told or you'll git it constantly; fist, rope's
end, belay'n pin, sea boots, or whatever comes handiest, an'
if you're obstinate enough, an' if it's serious enough, a
charge of mutiny, an' double irons.  Understand?"

Beekman nodded; the captain's meaning was clear.

"Go for'ard, now, an' remember, mutiny means a term
in prison at the end of the voyage, an' mebbe worse.
However you come aboard, you're here, an' bein' here, you got
to obey orders or take the consequences."

"I protest against this outrage.  I'll have the law.  I'll
bring you to justice."

"Belay that," said the captain, more or less indifferently.
"It don't git you nowhere.  If you are well advised, you'll
heed my suggestions, that's all."

Beekman was absolutely helpless.  There was nothing
that he could do.  Although more angry and more resentful
than ever, he fully realized his impotency.  He turned
to go forward.  Bill Woywod stopped him.  The passion
that the mate saw in Beekman's face, as he fairly gritted his
teeth at him, startled him a little.  Most liars and malingerers
did not take it that way.  They accepted the inevitable with
more or less grace.

"You're in my watch," said Woywod.

"More's the pity."

"An' it happens to be the watch below.  One bell has jest
struck; four-thirty.  The watch below takes the deck at four
bells; six o'clock for the second dogwatch.  I'll give you
till then to think about it.  If you don't turn to then with
the rest an' do a man's duty, by God, you'll suffer for it."





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.. _`THE ANVIL MUST TAKE THE POUNDING`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


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   THE ANVIL MUST TAKE THE POUNDING

.. vspace:: 2

Beekman had never thought so hard in his life as he
did in the next hour and a half.  Try as he would, he
could see no way out of the hideous *impasse* into which fate
had thrust him.  He had not the faintest idea that his
situation was caused by the treachery of his friend.  No
suspicion of betrayal entered his mind.  He was certain it was
simply the result of accident, and no one was to blame except
himself.

He had got beastly drunk after that dinner.  He had
driven down town with Harnash.  They had stopped on the
way.  They had finally separated.  He had been assaulted,
robbed, and probably left senseless from drink and the
beating he had received.  He hoped fervently that he had
put up a good fight before being beaten into insensibility.
Some crimp had picked him up, stripped him of his clothes,
put him into these filthy rags, and sent him aboard the ship.
By a legal mockery which would yet suffice, he had signed
the articles.  There was no way he could convince the
captain of the truth of his story.  Unless stress of weather or
accident drove the ship to make port somewhere, he could
communicate with nobody for six months, or until they
dropped anchor at Vladivostok.  He was a prisoner.  Neither
by physical force nor by mental alertness and ability could
he alter that fact or change conditions.

Fantastic schemes came into his mind, of course; among
them the organization of the crew, a mutiny, the seizure of
the ship.  But that would not be possible unless conditions
on the ship became absolutely unbearable; and even if it
were practicable, in all probability he might be leading the
whole body to death and disaster.  Beekman knew
something about the organization and administration of the
Inter-Oceanic Trading Company.  He knew their ships were
always well found and well provisioned.  Given a well-found
ship and plenty of good food to eat, and a sailor will stand
almost anything.

Besides, most of these men knew fully the character of
Captain Fish, Mr. Woywod, and Mr. Salver.  They were as
hard as iron, and as quick as lightning, and as ruthless as
the devil himself, but if the men did what they were told,
and did it quickly, and did it well, they got off with abuse
only, and a comparative freedom from manhandling.

All three officers were fine seamen.  They could handle a
ship in any wind or sea as a skilled chauffeur handles a
well-known car in heavy traffic, and it is a great deal harder to
handle a ship than a car, especially a sailing ship.  Blow
high, blow low, come what would, these men were equal to
any demand, and all that could be got out of timber and
cordage and canvas, to say nothing of steel wire, these
men could get.  Also they were drivers.  They would carry
to'gall'n'ts'l's when other ships dared show no more than a
close-reefed tops'l.  Speed was a prime requisite with the
owners.  The *Susquehanna*, in particular, had to justify her
use, and Captain Fish took a natural and pardonable pride
in striving for the steamer record.  All this pleased the men.
Sailors will put up with much from a skillful, energetic,
alert, daring, and successful officer.  They made quick runs
and drew high pay.  Many of them had been attached to the
*Susquehanna* since she had been commissioned.  They had
learned so to comport themselves as to avoid as much trouble
as possible.

Beekman was in the receipt of not a little rough, but
common-sense, advice from the watch below in the forecastle.
His own better judgment told him that the unpalatable
advice must be followed.  Fish, Woywod, and Salver had it
in their power to harry him to death.  His spirit,
nevertheless, rebelled against any such knuckling down as would be
required.  At three bells in the first dogwatch one of the
ship's boys came to him with a message.

"Are you John Smith?" he said, stopping before him.

Beekman took his first lesson then and there.  His inclination
was, as it had been, to shout his own name to the trucks
whenever he was questioned, but what was the use?  He bit
his lips and nodded.

"That's what they call me."

"Well, Mr. Gersey wants to see you."

"Who is he?"

"He's the ship's Bo's'n."

"Am I at the beck and call of everybody on the ship?"

"Look here, young feller," said an old, down-east sailor
named Templin, who, on account of his age and experience,
had been made the Bo's'n's mate of the port watch.  "You've
had a lot of advice throwed into you, which you may or may
not foller.  This last is worth 'bout as much as all the rest.
The Bo's'n ain't no certificated officer.  He don't live aft.
He's got a position sort o' 'twixt fo'c's'l an' quarter-deck,
but there's no man aboard who can do more for you or agin
you than him.  You seems to be a sort of a friendless damn
fool.  We don't none of us believe your yarn, but we
sympathize with you because we've been in the same sitooation,
all of us.  Jim Gersey is a square man.  You ain't had no
chance to run athwart his hawse, an' like enough he wants
to do you a good turn.  You'd better go, an' go a-runnin'."

"Thank you," answered Beekman, rising and following
the boy to the boatswain's cabin, right abaft the forecastle.

"Look here, Smith--" began that grizzled and veteran
mariner, who had followed the sea all his life, and looked it.

"Smith is not my name."

"In course, it ain't, but it's the name you'll go by on this
ship.  I don't know why it is, but every man I ever seed
articled on a ship without his consent got named Smith or
Jones.  I've knowed some mighty respectable people o' them
names, an' I don't see why they've got to be saddled with all
the offscourin's o' creation, meanin' no offense," said the
rough, but somehow kindly, old man.  "Smith it is, an'--"

"Smith goes," said Beekman briefly.  "What's my first
name, if I may ask?"

"Reads 'John' on the articles."

"John's as good as any."

"Now, you're takin' things in the right spirit.  I heerd
what you said to the officers, an' I seen how you got involved
with Mr. Woywod.  I sized you up good and plenty.
Whether your yarn is true or not, an' I ain't passin' no
judgment on that, it's evident that you ain't used to the sea,
that you ain't used to rough work, I means, an' this yere is
new experience for you.  I'm old enough to be your father,
an' it jest occurred to me that it would be a thing I'd like to
remember when I quits the sea an' settles down on a farm
I got my eyes on, that I took a young feller an' give him a
friendly hand an' a word o' warnin', an' that's why I sent
for you."

"I appreciate it more than I can tell.  As man to man, I
assure you that my story is absolutely true.  If I ever get
out of this alive, I'll remember your conduct."

"'T ain't for that I'm tryin' to steer you a straight
course."

"I believe it."

"You've got to knuckle down, take your medicine, turn
to an' do your dooty like a man.  There ain't three harder
men on the ocean to sail with than the old man an' them two
mates.  I've been on many ships, an' under many officers,
but there couldn't be a worse hell ship than this one'd be if
the men didn't knuckle down.  You can't talk back; you
can't even look sideways.  You got to be on the jump all the
time.  You got to do what you're told, an' you got to do it
right.  Tryin' won't git you nowhere.  It's doin' it.  They're
hell on every natural mistake."

"Why do men submit to it?  How can they get a crew?"
asked Beekman fiercely.  "I would almost rather die than
stand it."

"No, you wouldn't, sonny," said the loquacious old boatswain
quickly.  "If what you say is true, an' I ain't sayin'
it ain't, you've got somethin' to live for, an' even if it ain't
true, you've probably got something to live for ashore.  If
you're a fugitive from jestice, or anything o' that kind,
which we gits 'em of'en, there's plenty of other lands where
a man can disappear an' make a new start.  An' men," he
went on, reverting to the other's question, "are willin' to
ship on the *Susquehanna*, an' do it over an' over agin,
because she's well found, the grub's A-1, she's a lucky ship,
an' makes quick passages.  The pay is high, an' the officers
are prime seamen, every inch o' them.  If you do your dooty,
if you do it right, if you don't make no mistakes, you'll git
plenty o' hard language an' black looks, but that's all.  If
you don't they'll haze you until your spirit's broke, aye,
until your life's gone.  I'll do it myself," he added frankly.
"I ain't talkin' to you now as the Bo's'n of the ship, but jest
as man to man; as an old man advisin' a young one.  If I
find you shirkin', or sojerin', or puttin' on any airs, or
playin' any tricks, I won't be far behind Woywod and
Salver an' the old man.  That's all."

"Mr. Gersey--"

"Cut out 'Mister.'  I ain't no quarter-deck officer."

"Well, then, Bo's'n.  I've thought it over.  I'll accept
your advice."

"It's the only thing you can do."

"That's true, and the only reason I do it.  But, by
heaven, if I ever get ashore, and if I ever get Woywod
ashore, I'll pay him for it."

"There's many would like to help you at that job,"
answered Gersey; "but the trouble is to git him ashore.
After ship's crews is paid off, they generally scatters an'
disappears, an' sailormen's memories is short.  They count
on gittin' it hard from everybody, anyway.  They've been
trained that way from the beginnin'.  They grow so
forgetful that after they get on another ship there's nothin'
too good to say of the last one in comparison.  Do you
know anything about sailorin'?"

"I don't know any knot-and-splice seamanship, if that's
what you mean; but I'm a navigator, and I can sail my
own yacht.  I can do a trick at the wheel.  I've never been
on a full-rigged ship."

"What was your yacht?"

"A steamer, of course."

"Show any canvas?"

"Not to speak of."

"Ever been aloft?"

"No."

"Well, I'll do my best to train you.  You've got an awful
hard course to steer.  You began bad by gittin' the mate
down on you, an' I've no doubt but what he'll be layin' for
you all the time, anyway."

"So long as he keeps his hands off me, I'll give him no
further chance for trouble."

"An' if he don't?" asked the boatswain impressively.

"If he goes to that length--"

"You'll have to stand it jest the same.  Mutiny on the
high seas is the worst crime a sailor can be found guilty of.
Everybody ashore is on the side of the officers--courts, an'
jestices, an' juries."

"I'd like to get that brute in a court," said Beekman
savagely.  "I'd almost be willing to mutiny to do it."

"Take my advice on this p'int, too," said Gersey
earnestly.  "The less a sailor man has to do with law sharks
an' courts ashore, the better off he finds hisself."

Thus it happened that when four bells were struck, and
all the port watch were called, Beekman presented himself
with the rest.

"So you've decided to turn to, have you, you dirty
ragamuffin?" roared Woywod as the watch came tumbling aft.

"I have."

"Say, 'sir,'" cried the mate.

He had a piece of rattan in his hand, and he struck
Beekman a blow on the arm.  The hardest word he ever
ejaculated in his life was that "sir" which he threw out between
his teeth.

"That's well," said Woywod.  "Now, you assaulted me;
you've been technically guilty of mutiny, but I'll forgit
that.  You turn to an' do your work like a man, an' you'll
have nothin' to fear from me, but if I catch you sojerin',
I'll cut your heart out."

Beekman couldn't trust himself to speak.  He stood
rooted to his place on the deck until Woywod turned away.
It was singular how the environment of a ship turned a
fairly decent man ashore into a wolf, a pitiless brute, at sea.
Woywod knew no other way to command men.  The men
with whom he had been thrown knew no other way to be
commanded.  The mate had completely forgotten his friend's
instructions to treat Beekman with unusual consideration.
As a matter of fact, Woywod was harder on Beekman in
his own heart and in his intentions than on any other man
for several reasons.

Beekman had faced him.  He had refused to be cowed.
He was not even cowed now.  Beekman had struck him and
almost knocked him down.  Beekman was a gentleman.  In
every look, in every movement, he showed his superiority
over, and his contempt for, Woywod.  Harnash had arrived
at the same social degree as Beekman, but he was careful,
because of his old affection, to treat Woywod exactly as he
had treated him in days gone by.  Woywod knew--he was
not without shrewdness--that he was not on Harnash's
social level, or even upon an intellectual parity with him, but
Harnash never allowed the slightest suggestion of inequality
to appear in their intercourse, because he really liked the
man.  When a man of inferior temper, quality, and character
is placed in irresponsible charge of a man who surpasses
him in everything, the tendency to tyrannize is almost
irresistible.  In Woywod's mind, he himself was, somehow,
identified with justice and right.  He was engaged in
serving a woman who, to his perverted apprehension, was to be
forced into a marriage with a man she hated, and that man
was before him, in his power.

Woywod was not all bad.  He was the last exponent of a
certain kind of officer; a very bad kind, it must be admitted,
but an efficient kind, as well.  There were certain rudimentary
principles of justice and fair dealing in him, and some
of those whom he abused worst realized that, and stood for
more from him than they would otherwise; but in the case
of Beekman, both justice and fair play were in abeyance for
the reasons mentioned.  Woywod was determined to break
his spirit, and to ride him down, and Beekman sensed that.
It was to be a fight between him and the mate from New
York to Vladivostok, with every advantage on earth on the
side of the mate.

Beekman had as quick a temper as any man living.  He
had never been forced to control it much.  The world had
given free passage everywhere to him, backed as he had been
by those things before which men bow down.  Whether he
could control himself, whether he could submit to the end,
he did not dare to say.  He did not hope that he could, but
at least he would give it a fair trial.  In his secret heart he
prayed that he might control himself, for, if he did not, he
was sure he would kill the mate by fair means or foul.  He
wanted very much to live, if for no other thing than to
justify himself in the eyes of Stephanie Maynard, whose
present opinion of him he could well imagine.

He had not been the most ardent of lovers.  He was not
the most ardent of lovers now.  It was pride rather than
passion that made him crave that opportunity for justifying
himself, although he deluded himself with the idea that
his heart was fairly breaking on account of her.  Indeed,
a simple reflection might have convinced him of the falsity
of that proposition, because the predominant emotions that
mastered him were hatred of Woywod and longing for
revenge.

What would have been those emotions if he had known
that Woywod was but an instrument in the hands of another,
and that other a rival for the affections of his promised
wife, and one who had passed as his best friend?





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.. _`THE GAME AND THE END`:

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   CHAPTER IX


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   THE GAME AND THE END

.. vspace:: 2



Having chosen his line of conduct, Beekman, with a
strength of will and purpose of which no one would
have suspected him, adhered to it rigidly, and the very fact
that he was unable to goad him into revolt inflamed the
passion and developed the animosity and hatred of Woywod.
The mate was perfectly willing and, indeed, anxious to
manhandle Beekman, but that little fundamental streak of
fair play made him keep his hands off when he had no cause.
To be sure, he sought diligently for cause and occasion, and
that he did not find it, angered him the more.

Beekman had never been face to face with a very difficult
situation of any kind.  Life had been too easy for him.
There had been no special demands upon his character by
any very pressing emergency, and perhaps that made him
study the position in which he found himself more carefully.
Among other things, he decided to make himself popular
with the crew, and to do it by gaining their respect.  Unlike
Ancient Pistol, he would be by no means "base, common, and
popular," if popularity was to be procured in that way only.
He had always been acclaimed a leader, in athletics at any
rate, both in the prep school, in the university, and
afterward among his friends and acquaintances.

Without stooping to their level, without truckling to their
prejudices by promises or bribery that is, he achieved that
object.  He was easily the most popular man on the ship.
And it was no small tribute to his adaptability that one of
his quality and station could gain the universal approval
of so many men so radically different.  In little ways that
fact presently became apparent to the quarter deck, and
Woywod resented that especially.  It irked him exceedingly
that a man against whom he imagined he had a just cause
for grievance, and who had, from his point of view, entirely
merited his displeasure, should be upheld and acclaimed by
the rest of the men over whom he ruled with iron severity.
This was an affront to him, and an additional cause for
resentment, not to say hatred.

In all this, Beekman had not changed his opinion of
Woywod in the least degree.  In return, he hated him with
a good, healthy, genuine hatred that grew with every
passing hour.  It became increasingly hard for him to control
himself and to follow out his course in the face of Woywod's
constant endeavors to arouse his temper.  Indeed, quick and
passionate by inheritance, and by lack of restraint since
childhood, Beekman found himself marvelling at his own
self-control.

If it had not been that his course so thoroughly angered
the mate as in a certain sense to enable Beekman to get even
with him, he would have lost that control again and again.
As it was, his soul writhed under the sneers, the insults, the
brutal blackguarding, the foul language of Woywod, to
say nothing of the exactions, the unfair and almost
impossible tasks that were heaped upon him.  And Salver, taking
his cue from his superior, did his little best to make life a
burden to Beekman.  Grim, stern, ruthless Peleg Fish rather
enjoyed it, too.  With natural keenness, the master of the
ship realized that it was a battle and a game between the two
men, and he delighted in it as a sporting proposition.

Perhaps the popularity Beekman had gained among the
crew helped him to bear these things.  A few of them were
quick enough mentally to look beneath the surface.  Jim
Gersey was of that small number.  The young man had
completely gained that old man's confidence.  Beekman had seen
the uselessness of persisting in his story, and he had made no
further references to it among the crew after that first day,
but with Gersey he made an exception.  The old boatswain
was shrewd and worldly wise in a guileless sort of way.  The
two had many long talks together, and the younger had at
last succeeded in convincing the older of the truth of his
tale.  Without seeming to do it, the boatswain helped the
newcomer through many a difficult situation, and by
ostentatiously joining in the bullying he got from the
quarter deck, and by keeping secret his friendship, it was
not suspected aft.

Beekman had no suspicion as to how he got on the ship.
He supposed his presence was due to blind fate.  He knew
that once he could get on the end of a telegraphic cable
he could free himself from his detestable position, but he
shrewdly suspected that if there were any way to prevent
that, Woywod, who acted with the consent and approval of
Fish, could be depended upon to stop it.  Beekman had
talked that matter over with Gersey, and he had given the
boatswain an address and a message which the old man had
laboriously committed to memory.  If Beekman were kept
on the ship, Gersey would send the cable from Vladivostok,
or from whatever civilized port they made.  For the rest,
with a reckless disregard of expenditure, Beekman discarded
his filthy rags, and comfortably outfitted himself from the
ship's well-equipped slop-chest, his extravagant outlay being
deducted from his able seaman's pay, for which, of course,
he cared nothing.

In spite of the fact that she was well found, and the men
were well fed, and the passage was a quick one, and the
ship fairly comfortable, by the time the cruise drew on to
its end, the ship was usually a smouldering hell, and this
voyage was no exception.

The men had been driven hard.  A succession of westerly
gales off Cape Horn had kept them beating about that
dreadful point for nearly two weeks, and even after they
had rounded it, for once the Pacific belied its name.  The
wind shifted after they passed the fiftieth parallel, so they
had to face a long beat up to the line.  Gale succeeded gale.
Such weather was unprecedented.  It had never been heard
of by the oldest and most experienced seamen on board.
The men were worn out; their nerves on ragged edge.  The
severe straining the ship had got had made her take in water,
not seriously, but at a sufficiently rapid rate to require a
good deal of pumping.  The steam pump broke down for a
time and the crew had to man the hand pumps.  Their nerves
were on edge and raw, and the officers ground them down
worse than ever.

If Beekman had not improved in his physical condition,
he could not have stood his share of the work.  He had been
an athlete at college, not heavy enough to buck the center
on a football team, but a marvelously speedy end, and a
champion at the lighter forms of athletics demanding agility,
alertness, and skill.  In his after-college life, athletics
had continued to interest him if desultorily.  He was still an
A-1 tennis player and a dashing horseman, but not much
else.

With the hard work, the coarse but substantial food, and
at first the regular hours, he developed amazingly.  He got
to be as hard as nails.  He had always been a fair boxer.
It was a science about which Woywod knew nothing, and
although the mate was twenty pounds heavier and several
inches taller, to say nothing of broader shouldered, than
Beekman, the latter began to feel that in a twenty-foot ring
with foul fighting barred, he could master the officer.  There
was no possibility of a meeting of that kind, however, so
the two, under the varying positions of an unusually trying
cruise, fought the battle of will and wit down one ocean and
half-way up the other, until the break came, the marvel
being not that it came when it did, but that it had been
postponed so long.

One of the members of the crew was a young Dutchman
named Jacob Wramm.  He was not exactly half-witted.  He
could hardly be called defective, even, but he was a dull,
slow-thinking, very stupid lad who had been shipped by the
crimp as an A.B., but who would never be rated higher than
a landsman.  Beekman, who rapidly learned knot-and-splice
seamanship, and all the ordinary and extraordinary duties
of a sailor; who could get to the main royal yard or the
flying jibboom end as quickly as any man on the ship;
who could pass a weather earring in a howling gale as
securely as the most accomplished seaman; who could do
his trick at the wheel and hold her up to her course against
a bucking, jumping head sea with the best quartermaster
afloat, endeavored to teach and train Wramm in the niceties
of the sailor's art.  He made some progress with him until
Salver caught him instructing the stupid Dutchman, who
was in the second mate's watch.  He mentioned it casually
in the cabin to Woywod, and the latter at once found a
new object upon which to vent his spleen and to provoke
Beekman.

It was fortunate for Wramm that he was in the starboard
watch.  It was only when all hands were called and
Salver went forward, Woywod taking charge amidships,
where Wramm was stationed at the main mast, that he got
a chance at him.  The slightest blunder on the part of the
Dutchman was treated as a crime.  He was rope's ended,
rattaned, kicked, beaten like a dog.  Only a certain slow,
stubborn obstinacy and determination in his disposition
kept the unfortunate man from jumping overboard.
Probably if Beekman had been in the same watch with
Wramm and both had been under Woywod's command,
something would have happened sooner, but except when all
hands were called, Beekman was never near Wramm,
and even then Beekman's station was aloft in taking in
sail.

Wramm was not trusted on the yards.  His duties were
at the fife-rails around the masts where the various ropes
which led from above were belayed.  It was a responsible
position, but Beekman had gone over and over every bit
of every rope belayed to the iron pins in the fife-rails with
him.  When Wramm once got a thing in his head after a
slow process, it was apt to stay there, and the Dutchman
finally became letter perfect.  He could put his hands on
the various sheets, halliards, clewlines, buntlines, and others
unerringly even in the dark.  That is, he could if he were let
alone and not hurried unduly.

One night, the starboard watch being on deck in the
midwatch, at four bells, or two in the morning, the port
watch was called, all hands being necessary for the taking
in of sail.  As usual, Captain Fish, annoyed beyond measure
at his bad luck and the head winds, had been holding on to
take advantage of a favorable slant in a whole-sail breeze,
which was developing into a hard gale.  He had time and
distance to make up and he was going to lose no opportunity
with either.

As the wind was rising, and the sea, too, he had remained
on deck during Salver's watch, and at one o'clock in the
morning the watch had taken in the royals and the flying
jib.  At two o'clock the captain, staring up through the
darkness at the jumping, quivering to'gall'nt masts, decided
that the time had come to furl the light canvas and take a
double reef in the tops'ls, in preparation for the blow
obviously at hand.  He waited so long, however, before
coming to this decision, that he realized that he had
perilously little time left in which to get the canvas off her
without losing a sail or perhaps a spar or two.

Like every man of his temperament, he held on till the
last minute and then summoned the port watch, which came
tumbling up from below at the call of the boatswain's mate,
to find Captain Fish storming on the bridge at their slowness.
Salver went forward to the forecastle to attend to the
foremast.  Mr. Woywod, in the natural bad humor that
comes to any one who is awakened from a sound sleep in
the only four hours of that particular night appointed for
rest, took charge of the main, while the captain himself
looked out for things aft.  The helm was shifted.  The ship
forced up into the wind to spill the canvas.  The braces
were tended.  The sheets were manned.  The order was
given to round in and settle away.

Wramm was the last man to get to his station.  The men
not stationed at some place of observation during the watch
on deck had snugged down in such places as they could
find for sleep until called.  Wramm was a heavy sleeper.
He had not been feeling well and had been awake even
during his watches in the night before.  He slept like a
log.  Woywod saw that he was not at his place at the main
fife-rail.  Just before the order was given for the light yard
and topmen to lay aloft and furl and reef, Woywod, raging
like a lion, discovered Wramm sleeping in the lee scuppers
under the main pin-rail.  He savagely kicked him awake,
dragged him to his feet, got his hand on his throat, shook
him like a rat, and finally flung him, choked and half-dazed,
against the fife-rail, with orders for him to look alive and
stand by or he would get the life beaten out of him.

When the order was given to slack away the main to'gall'nt
halliards, the slow-thinking, confused Dutchman made a
grievous mistake.  He cast off and eased away the main
top'sl halliards, the descent of the yard began just as the
ship fell away a bit under the pressure of a heavy sea.
The main to'gall'nts'l filled again, the men at the lee and
weather braces, supposing everything was right, easing off
and rounding in, respectively, until the yard whirled about,
pointing nearly fore and aft.  The starboard to'gall'nt sheet
gave way first under the drag of the main tops'l yard, but
not before the tremendous pressure of the wind had snapped
the to'gall'nt mast off at the hounds.  There was a crash
above in the darkness.  They caught a glimpse of white
cloud toppling overhead and streaming out in the darkness,
and then the mast came crashing down on the lee side of
the main top and hung there threshing wildly about in the
fierce wind.

When the main topmen were sent aloft to clear away the
wreck, the tops'l halliards were belayed and then led along
the deck and the tops'l hoisted again.  For once on the
cruise Beekman was not at his station, for the mate, instantly
divining what had occurred, as every experienced man on
the ship had done, had leaped to the fife-rail, with a roar
of rage, and had struck the bewildered Dutchman, almost
unaware of what had happened, with a belaying pin, which
he drew from the rail, and had knocked him senseless to the
deck.  Even as Woywod rapidly belayed the tops'l halliards,
which Wramm had been easing off, he took occasion to kick
the prostrate man violently several times, and one of the
kicks struck him on the jaw and broke it.

Beekman, stopping with one foot on the sheer pole of the
weather main shrouds, had seen it all.  The reason why he
had not gone aloft with the rest was because he had instantly
stepped back to the rail, leaped to the deck, and had run
to the prostrate form of poor Wramm, which he had
dragged out of the way of the men, who had seized the
halliards at the mate's call.  As it happened, the angry mate
had struck harder than he had intended.  Wramm's skull
was fractured, his jaw broken, and his body was covered
with bruises from Woywod's brutal assault.

When the wreck was cleared away, the canvas reduced,
the ship made snug, and the watch below dismissed for the
hour of rest that still remained to them, Woywod came
forward.  The watch had taken Wramm into the forecastle
and laid him out on his bunk.

"Where is that"--he qualified Wramm's name with a
string of oaths and expletives, the vileness of which also
characterized him typically--"who caused a perfectly good
mainto'gall'nt mast to carry away?" said Woywod,
stopping halfway down the ladder leading into the forepeak.

There was a low murmur from the watch below, a
murmur which was not articulate, but which nevertheless
expressed hate as well as the growl of a baited animal does.
Woywod was no coward.  He was afraid of nothing on
earth.  Bullies are sometimes that way, in spite of the
proverb.  It was Beekman who spoke.

"He's here, sir," he began, in that smooth, even, cultivated
voice which Woywod hated to hear.  "I think his skull
is fractured.  His jaw is broken."

"An' a good thing, too.  Perhaps the crack in his thick
skull will let some sense in him."

"It will probably let life out--sir," answered Beekman,
with just an appreciable pause before the sir.

"Mutinous, inefficient, stupid hound," said Woywod, but
there was a note of alarm in his voice, which Beekman
detected instantly, and which some of the others suspected.
"Show a light here," he continued, coming down to the
deck and bending over the man.  "One of you wash the
blood off his face," he said, after careful inspection.  "I'll
go aft an' git at the medicine chest.  He's too thick headed
to suffer any serious hurt.  This'll be a lesson to him, an'
to all of you.  I'll be back in a few minutes."

The mate was really alarmed, although he did his best
not to show it.

"Beg your pardon, sir," said Beekman, "but I want to
speak to the captain."

"What you got to say to him?"

"I want to speak to him, sir."

"You can't do it now.  Come to the mast tomorrow."

"I want to speak to him tonight."

"Let him speak to the cap'n," shouted Templin, one of
the most reliable men on the ship.

Instantly, as if given a cue, the whole watch broke into
exclamations.

"We'll all go aft with him to speak to the cap'n."

"That won't be necessary," said Beekman, quietly,
although every nerve was throbbing with indignation and
resentment.  "Mr. Woywod will grant my request.  There's
no need for the rest of you mixing up in this.  Won't you,
Mr. Woywod?"

Now, Beekman was in his rights in appealing to the
captain at any time.  Woywod cast a glance back at the
still, unconscious figure of Wramm and decided that perhaps
it would be best for him to temporize.  He wanted to strike
Beekman down, and if it had not been for Wramm's condition
and the mutinous outbreak of the men, he would have
done so.  He realized instantly what Beekman's popularity
meant.

"If Cap'n Fish ain't turned in," he said, surlily, "and is
willin' to see you, you can speak to him; if not, you'll have
to wait till mornin'."

"I think it's probable that he's still awake, sir," said
Beekman.  "He'll undoubtedly want to know what the
condition of Wramm is."

"I'll tell him."

"No, I'll tell him myself."

"You will," shouted Woywod, raising his fist.

Beekman never moved.  The men came crowding around.

"By sea law," said Templin, "he's got a right to see the
master of the ship, an' we proposes to see that he gits that
right."

"You mutinous dogs," cried Woywod, confronting them.

But they were not overawed, and they did not give back.

"Come along," he said to Beekman, "an' you'll be sorry
you ever done it."

Without looking behind him, he sprang up the ladder
and, followed closely by Beekman, he went aft, descended
the companionway, and found Captain Fish seated at the
cabin table, on which a huge joint of cold meat and bread
were spread out, with some bottles and glasses to bear them
company.  The captain was not alone.  The steward, a
Spanish half-caste, named Manuel, had just brought in a
steaming pot of coffee from the galley.

"Well, Mr. Woywod," began Fish, "what about that
infernal lubber that caused the loss of the mainto'gall'nt
mast?"

"Smith, here, has come aft demandin' to see you an'
p'r'aps he'll tell you.  Will you see him?"

"What is it, Smith?" said the captain, sharply.

"Seaman Wramm," began Beekman, "is probably dying.
I'm not a doctor, but so near as I can make out he has a
fractured skull; his jaw is certainly broken and he is covered
with bruises."

"How came he in that condition?" asked the captain.

"That murdering blackguard yonder struck him over the
head with a belaying pin, kicked him when he was down
and--"

"By God!" cried Woywod, springing forward, "you dare
refer to me in that way?"

"Steady, Mr. Woywod," said Fish, his eyes gleaming.
"I know how to deal with this man.  Are you aware--you
pretend to be a gentleman of education--that your
language is in the highest degree mutinous, that I can have
you put in double irons, and--"

"Am I to stand by and see a poor, helpless, dull-witted
man, who has been hazed to death every day of this cruise
by your blackguardly assessors, beaten to death, killed
without a word?"

"You'd better look out for yourself rather than for him."

"I don't care what becomes of me.  I've had just about
enough of it.  If that man dies, I'm going to bring a charge
of murder against this bullying scoundrel, and if you don't
put him in irons I'll bring it against you, too."

Beekman was beside himself with wrath.  His temper was
gone.  His control had vanished in thin air.  The cumulative
repression of three months had been lost.  He stepped
forward, shaking his fist in the captain's face.

"Manuel," said the captain, "tell Mr. Salver to send a
couple of men down here.  Tell him to have the bo's'n fetch
me some double irons."  Fish was white with wrath.  "Do
you think I'll allow any wharf rat like you to talk like that
to me on my own ship?  I've no doubt but that thick-headed
Dutchman will recover, but whether he does or not I'll deal
with him.  You'll prefer charges against me, will you?  By
God, you can count yourself lucky if you're not swinging at
a yardarm tomorrow.  For two cents I'd run you up now."

"With your permission, cap'n," began Woywod.  "Keep
fast, Manuel, I can handle him alone.  I've been itchin' fer
this chance ever since he came aboard.  Now, Smith," he
laughed, evilly, "I've got you.  I knew you couldn't keep
your temper."

Woywod stepped toward him.  Beekman did not give
back an inch.

"If you lay a hand on me," he shouted, "if I have to die
for it the next minute, I'll--"

But Woywod, who did not give him a chance to finish
the sentence, with fist upraised leaped forward.  Beekman
hit him.  It was a much more powerful blow than the first
he had delivered to the mate on the day that he waked up
and found himself shanghaied.  Three months of hard
work and clean living and plain food had made a different
man of him.  Woywod was lucky.  He partly parried the
blow, but it struck him full on the chest and drove him
smashing back against the bulkhead by the side of Manuel.
The frightened steward hauled him to his feet.

The captain had arisen and was bawling for the officer
of the watch.  He was oblivious to the fact that one of the
men was peering down into the cabin over the combing of
the skylight.  There was a trample of feet on the deck
above.  Salver himself appeared on the companion ladder,
but Woywod had got to his feet.  He was black with rage,
mad with passion.  He reached into the side pocket of his
short peajacket and drew forth a heavy revolver.

"You're witnesses that he struck me," he cried, as he
raised the weapon, but again Beekman was too quick for him.

A big, broad-bladed carving knife was lying by the side
of a piece of salt beef on the table.  Beekman clutched it,
and as Woywod pulled the trigger, he leaped forward and
buried it to the hilt in the mate's breast.





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.. _`THE MYSTERY OF THE LAST WORDS`:

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   CHAPTER X


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   THE MYSTERY OF THE LAST WORDS

.. vspace:: 2

So powerful was the stroke, so deep and inveterate
the hate that nerved the arm, that the sharp knife was
driven clear to the handle into Woywod's breast.  The big
mate threw up his arms.  He staggered back.  The pistol
went off harmlessly and dropped on the table.  Then the
huge hulk of the stricken man collapsed on the deck.  Quick
as a flash Captain Fish leaned over and seized the weapon.

"Make a move an' you're a dead man," he roared,
covering Beekman.  "Mr. Salver, I'll keep Smith covered with
this pistol until you get the double irons on him.  Log a
charge of mutiny an' murder against him.  If he resists,
you can go to any length to subdue him.  I wouldn't like
him killed aboard ship, however.  I'd rather see him hanged
ashore."

Salver grabbed Beekman by the shoulder.

"You, Manuel, go to his assistance," said Fish, still
keeping him covered.  "You infernal coward," he added to the
steward, who was as white as death and trembling like a
weather brace in a heavy wind; "he can't do you no harm.
If he moves I'll put a bullet through him."

But Beekman had no desire to do any one any harm.
The blow that had let life out of Woywod had let the
passion out of Beekman.  He stood staring and bending
over, he caught the man's last broken words.

"Done--for--Tell Harnash--I--" and then silence.

Captain Fish came around the table as soon as Mr. Salver
had got a firm grip on one of Beekman's arms and
the steward had gingerly taken the other.  Shoving the
pistol close into Beekman's ribs, he ordered the three men
on deck.  A passing glance at Woywod told the captain
that his mate was dead.  He could attend to him later.
Beekman must be secured first.

The boatswain had been awakened, and, according to
orders, he now came aft with the irons.  Beekman was
handcuffed and irons were put on his ankles.  He was
searched rapidly.  His sailor's sheath knife was taken from
him and then--

"Where'll we stow him, sir?" asked Mr. Salver.

There was no "brig," as a prison is called on a man-o'-war,
on the *Susquehanna*.  Forward a little room had been
partitioned off on one side of the ship abaft the forecastle
for the boatswain.  On the opposite side there was another
similar cabin occupied by the carpenter and sailmaker.  The
captain thought a moment.

"Mr. Gersey," he said, at last, "you'll come aft to take
the second mate's watch.  Mr. Salver will act as the mate.
Clear your belongings out of your cabin.  We'll stow him
there for the present.  Take a couple of men to help you
shift aft, an' be quick about it.  When he's safely locked
in bring me the key.  There's been mutiny an' murder
aboard my ship," he continued, loudly, for the benefit of
the watch.  "This dog has put a knife in Mr. Woywod's
heart.  Not a thing was bein' done to him.  We were jest
reasonin' with him, treatin' him kind, as we do every man
on this ship.  Manuel, here, can swear to that, can't you?"

"Yes, sir, of course, sir," cringed the steward, who was
completely under the domination of the brutal ship-master.

"I'll prepare a proper statement and enter it in the log,
to be signed by the steward and myself, in case anything
should happen to us," he continued.

"What'll I do with this man, sir, while we're waitin' for
Mr. Gersey to git his cabin cleaned out?" asked Salver.

"Lash him to the bridge yonder.  I'll keep my eyes on
him until you git him safe in the bo's'n's cabin.  See that
the door is locked yourself personally, and bring me the
key.  Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"We don't dare to take no chances with such a desperate
murderer."

"No, sir; of course not."

"Men," shouted the captain, "you heard what's been said?"

"We did, sir; an' we seen it all from the beginnin',"
answered a voice out of the darkness, a voice full of ugly
threat and menace, which the captain did not recognize and
thought best to pass unnoticed.

"Poor Mr. Woywod's been killed, you understand.  Mr. Salver
will take his place as mate of the ship.  Mr. Gersey
will come aft as second mate, to be obeyed and respected
accordin'."

"Damn good riddance," yelled another voice out of the
darkness, carefully disguised.

This was too much.  He could not overlook a remark of
this kind, and yet in the black night there was little he could
do, since the speaker was unrecognizable.

"Who said that?" blustered the captain, handling his
pistol and peering forward.

There was no answer, of course.

"If the man who made that remark dares to repeat it in
daylight, I'll cut his heart out.  An' if I hear any more
such talk, I'll let fly at the bunch of you as it is.  Get
for'ard an' to your stations."

The unknown commentator had obviously expressed the
prevalent opinion aboard the ship on the death of
Mr. Woywod.  There was nothing else to be said or done then.
The captain's orders were carried out as a matter of course.
The excited men dispersed without comment, but with a
feeling that all the honors were with them.  The boatswain
came aft, having stripped his cabin.  The prisoner was
finally locked therein and left to himself.  Bread and water
were handed to him sufficient to keep life in him and not
much else.  The ship was hove to and Woywod was buried
the next morning with due ceremony, the captain himself
reading the service, the whole crew being mustered in due
form, but never a man was shot down into the vasty deep
with less of the spirit of prayer and forgiveness following
him than the mate who had met his just deserts, if the looks
of the crew, to which the captain was perforce oblivious,
gave any indication of their feelings.

Beekman's reflections could easily be imagined.  To his
dying day he would never forget the surprised, puzzled
look on the mate's face, the change of his countenance from
mad passion to astonishment, from that amazement to pain,
to horror, to deadly fear!  He would never forget the
convulsive struggle of the man on the deck at his feet, the
white bone handle of the knife sticking out of his breast
and shining in the light of the big hanging lamp against
his blue shirt.  There was a human life on his hands,
calloused and hardened as they were.  There was blood upon
them.  Had the blood been shed righteously?  Had he been
well advised to give way to his passion?  Had the fact
that he had gone there in behalf of another, a helpless
weakling, dying himself from the ruthless treatment meted
out to him, entitled him to take the mate's life?  Would
the mate have shot him with that pistol?  Was it
self-defense?  Had that only been back of his blow and his
thrust?

Beekman had to admit that he hated the mate; that he had
lusted to kill him.  He realized in the flash of time that
had intervened between the blow and the thrust that he had
been glad of the excuse.  Was he a murderer in the eyes
of the law, in his own consciousness, in his heart?  He had
killed the mate, but the mate had beaten him in the long
struggle between them.  He had sworn that the latter
should not provoke him, but he had done so and now he
was in peril of his life, grave peril.  The presumption of
guilt is always against the sailor in charges of mutiny.  It
would require the strongest evidence to establish his
innocence.  He knew of no witnesses, save the captain and the
steward.  The steward was one man on the ship whom he
had not won.  Indeed, having most of his relations aft and
living there in a bunk off his pantry, the steward was hated
by the men.  He was a tale-bearer and a sneak.  He had
to live aft for his own protection.  He was purely a creature
of the captain's.  He would swear to anything the captain
dictated.  Beekman knew that, of course.

Before he had been bound to the ladder of the bridge
Beekman had heard what the captain had said.  The crew,
of course, could testify as to Woywod's character, but he
knew enough of sailors to realize they would scatter as soon
as they could get away from the ship.  He could scarcely
depend upon them.  There was old Gersey, but what could
he do?  What could he hope from the Russian authorities
at Vladisvostok?  The captain would be hand and glove with
them, naturally.  Things looked black for Beekman.

After a time, reviewing again all the scenes of the
dreadful drama his mind reverted to those final words of
Woywod's.  He remembered them perfectly.  They were etched
upon his brain.

"Done for.  Tell Harnash I--"

He repeated those words.  The first two were clear.  But
the last three--

"Tell Harnash I--"

Tell Harnash what?  Why tell Harnash anything?  What
did he have to do with the present situation?  Harnash was
his friend.  Harnash had arranged his bachelor dinner.
Harnash had jokingly plied him with wine, but so had the
others.  Beekman was an abstemious, temperate chap.  He
drank occasionally, in a moderate way, but never to excess.
It was Harnash who had taken the lead in urging him.  He
had gone out from that dinner in the small hours of the
morning with Harnash, and the last person he remembered
was Harnash.  Could Harnash have--

Good God, no!  It was impossible.  It could not be.
Such treachery, such criminality was unthinkable by a loyal
man like Beekman.  There was no motive for it.  The
business affairs of the firm were prosperous.  At his partner's
insistence an expert had gone over the books on his return
from Hawaii.  There was not a thing wrong.  He would
have trusted Harnash with everything he owned, and with
right.  He could not have wanted to get him out of the
way, unless--

Why had Harnash looked so haggard and miserable?
Why had Stephanie presented the same countenance?
Could those two--  He would not think it.  Yet what could
Woywod have meant?

Suddenly Beekman remembered that he had heard Harnash
had a sailor friend, who at infrequent intervals was
accustomed to visit him.  There had been some reference
to it.  Beekman had never heard the man's name, and he
never chanced to have met him.  Woywod had never referred
to Harnash in Beekman's hearing on that cruise until those
faltered words as he died.  Could it be Woywod?  It must.
Was it merely chance that Beekman had fallen into the
hands of Harnash's friend on the very night before his
wedding, when his last companion had been Harnash himself?
Now, Beekman was an intensely loyal man and he resolutely
put these suspicions out of his mind, but they would
not stay out.  Why should Woywod stare up at him with
fast closing eyes as he spoke?  Did Woywod know who
Beekman was?  Were those muttered words an admission?
By heaven, could it be that Harnash was in love with
Stephanie and she with him?

When Beekman asked himself that question he began
to go over the times in which he had seen the two together.
Little things, unnoticed and unmarked before now, grew
strangely significant.  Beekman loathed himself for
entertaining the suspicions.  It was not possible, yet--  Could
Stephanie herself be a party to it?  That, too, was
unthinkable.  So it was that Harnash--  Yet those words!  Well,
if he could get out of this horrible situation now, so much
worse than it had been, he certainly would tell Harnash and
Harnash should tell him.  Meanwhile, there was added to
his horror and regret the fact that Woywod was dead and
that he had killed him.

A strange and terrible reality, that, to this sometime
dilettante in life.





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.. _`THE TRIANGLE BECOMES A QUADRILATERAL`:

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   CHAPTER XI


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   THE TRIANGLE BECOMES A QUADRILATERAL

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Perhaps no one ever realizes so completely the immensity
of the world and the littleness of man as he who is
alone on the face of the waters.  The deep becomes indeed
vasty when seen from a small boat in the center of an
unbroken horizon.  It is a question whether the loneliness
of the desert is greater than the loneliness of the sea.
Perhaps it depends upon the thinker and his temperament.
There is, of course, life in the sea in that it is usually quick,
in motion, and there is sound that accompanies it.

The desert is still, but in the desert you can get
somewhere.  You know that beyond the horizon is some place.
Not even the flattest land but suggests change as it is
traversed.  Somewhere within reaching distance hills rise,
mountains lift themselves in the air, oases beckon
attractively.  In the sea you may go for days and days and days,
each day like the other, and still find only the waste of
waters and the unbroken horizon.

Beekman had sailed every one of the seven seas, but in
some luxurious yacht or some mighty ocean liner.  This was
the first time in his life he had ever been alone in a small
boat.  Even the *Susquehanna* had long since faded out of
his view.  The lights from her stern windows had been lost
during the night, and when day broke, although he eagerly
searched the northwest, there was no sign of her.  Not even
when he rose high on some uptossed wave could he catch a
glimpse of a to'gall'nts'l or a royal against the blue line of
the horizon.

He was glad and he was sorry to be alone.  The gladness
manifested itself presently, but at first he was overwhelmed
by the sense of loneliness.  The crew of the *Susquehanna*
had not mutinied openly, but they had taken matters in their
own hands and had done the best they could for the man
who had relieved them, whether righteously or unrighteously
they did not stop to speculate, from a tyranny that had
become unsupportable; because, in his animosity to Beekman,
Woywod had been harder than ever before on the rest.

They had deliberately, if surreptitiously, provisioned the
whaleboat which hung from the davits astern.  They had
filled her water breakers, had added a compass, had
overhauled her mast and sail, had thrown in a couple of blankets,
a tarpaulin, an axe and some tools and whatever else they
could come at, including a little bag of silver dollars from
their own scanty store, which might prove valuable in the
end.  They had done this very quietly in the darkness, under
the leadership of Templin on the night following the death
of the mate.

They had chosen Mr. Gersey's watch for their operations
and he had been conveniently blind.  Possessing themselves
of the carpenter's tools, they had bored holes around the
lock of the boatswain's room and had freed Beekman.  With
cold chisels and hammers they had struck the fetters from
his wrists and ankles, grievously cutting him and bruising
him in the process.

"Mr. Gersey told us," said Templin to the astonished
prisoner, "that he heard the old man an' Salver plottin'
the ship's position at noon today.  There are islands with
white people on 'em about a hundred leagues to the west'ard.
The course'll be about sou'west-by-west.  We've pervisioned
the whaleboat.  She's unsinkable, with her airtight tanks
for'ard an' aft an' a good sailer.  I follered you aft,
pertendin' to overhaul the gear on the mizzen mast last night.
Through the skylight I seen the mate threatenin' you with
a pistol in the cabin.  We all believes you done perfectly
right.  Wramm's dead.  Died tonight, without never regainin'
consciousness.  Woywod was a murderer, if ever there was
one, an' he got his jest desarts.  We don't want to mutiny
an' git hung for it.  Some of us has families.  But we
don't mean you to suffer.  The only way to save you is to
git you out of the ship afore we lands at Vladivostok.  It
seemed to us that a good sailor like you could easily make
them islands, an' then you can shift for yourself.  It's a big
world.  They'll never find you again.  Here," he added, "is
a little bag o' dollars."  He passed a bulging little bag into
the hands of the astonished Beekman.  "'Tain't much, but
it's all we got.  I guess that's all."

"But I don't want to leave the ship."

"You'll be hung at the end of the v'yage if you don't,"
said Templin, inexorably.  "Them Russians ain't more'n
half civilized, anyway, an' they'll do pretty much as the
cap'n says.  This is your only chance."

"Does Gersey know?"

"Of course.  He's the one that made the whole plan,
only the officers ain't to know that."

"You don't expect to be able to lower that boat and cast
it adrift without attracting attention, do you?"

"In course not, but it's a dark night an' we're goin' to
git you down an' afloat, whatever happens."

"But the captain will immediately come after me."

"He can't brace the yards hisself an' work the ship alone
with only Salver an' the bo's'n, can he?"

"I see, but I don't want to get you in trouble."

"Every man on the ship 'ceptin' the steward is with you,
an' we're simply not goin' to let him hang you."

"Templin, I want you to remember two names and an address."

"What are they?"

"Harnash and Beekman, 33 Broadway, New York."

"That's easy," said Templin, repeating the words.  "Why?"

"That's my address when I'm home.  If I ever get home
and any of you men want a friend, come there.  I want
you to pass that around among the crew, every one of them.
You fellows didn't believe me, but now that I'm going I
want to tell you for the last time my story is true, and if
you want to be fixed for life, just come and see me there."

"Well, I hopes you gits there, Smith, or--"

"Beekman."

"Beekman, then."

"And I, and I, and I," was heard from the various
members of the watch gathered about and speaking in low
tones.

"Now, come aft," said Templin, "an' tread soft.  There's
no use arousin' the old man if we can help it.  Only needs
four of us to overhaul the gear an' lower away," continued
the ringleader, picking out three associates.  "The rest of
you git down in the shadder of the rail on the lee side of
the waist near the bridge.  Mr. Gersey is keepin' a bright
lookout to windward.  If you hear any noise, come aft on
the run."

Without making a sound, Beekman and his four devoted
friends passed under the bridge, crouching down in the
shadow of the lee rail until they were well aft and sheltered
from observation by the broad canvas of the spanker.
Mr. Gersey was on the other side of the bridge, staring hard
forward and up to windward in the most approved fashion.

"You'll find everything ready for steppin' the mast an'
spreadin' sail," whispered Templin.  "The sea's fairly
smooth, the wind's blowin' from the east'ard.  You'd better
git the canvas on her soon's you can.  You hadn't ought to
be in sight of us at daybreak."

"What time is it now?"

Three bells were struck forward at the moment, a couplet
and then a single bell.

"Three bells, you hears," answered Templin.  "You'll
have three hours, and with you goin' one way an' us another,
we'll be out of sight before daybreak.  Remember, your
course is sou'west-by-west."

"I shan't forget that or anything.  When you have a
chance bid Gersey good-bye for me and tell him not to
forget the cable.  God only knows where I'll turn up or
when I'll get back, but when I do--well, remember what I
said, Harnash and Beekman, 33 Broadway, New York."

He shook Templin's hand and nodded to the other three
and stepped into the boat.

"Lower away," whispered Templin.

Now the night was quiet.  The breeze was not strong.
The creaking of the falls, since the sailors had taken
precaution to grease them, was reduced to a minimum; still,
some sound was made.  Gersey had kept his eyes steadily
forward, although he knew, of course, everything that was
happening.  He glanced around just as the whaleboat
disappeared below the rail.

As luck would have it, Captain Fish, who slept, of course,
in the stern cabin, happened to be wakeful.  With an ear
trained and accustomed to all the ordinary noises of the
ship, anything out of common raised his suspicions.  He
heard the slight creaking.  He sat up in his berth and
listened.  The noise came from aft, overhead.  He ran to
the stern window and peered through the open transom just
at the moment that the keel of the descending whaleboat
came on a level with the window.  Fish slept with a revolver
under his pillow.  He leaped back, grabbed the pistol,
jumped to the transom again to find himself staring into the
face of Beekman.

"Keep fast those falls," he roared, presenting his pistol.

Beekman was standing up in the boat, fending her off from
the stern with a boathook.  Fish had turned on the electric
light--the *Susquehanna* was provided with a dynamo--and
he was clearly visible.  Beekman struck his arm with
the boathook, knocking the pistol into the sea.  The next
instant there was a sudden roar on the deck above from
Gersey, who judged that it was now safe to give the alarm.
This outcry was followed by the trampling of many feet
and a swift rush of the falls through the blocks.  There
was no necessity for concealment now.  Templin and his men
lowered the boat with a run.

Beekman worked smartly.  As soon as the boat was water-borne
he cast off the tackles and began tugging frantically
at the mast.  With seamanlike care, it had been so arranged
that what had been almost an impossible task for one man
in a hurry he could easily accomplish.  The *Susquehanna*
was sailing at a smart rate and she had drawn some distance
ahead before Captain Fish reached the deck.  He was in a
towering rage.

"Mr. Gersey," he roared, "what does this mean, sir?  The
prisoner has escaped, an' in your watch?"

"I know it, sir," answered Gersey.  "The men have got
out of hand, sir."

"They have," exclaimed Fish.  He had mounted half-way
up the accommodation ladder of the bridge.  Although
he was unarmed and clad only in his pajamas, he did not
hesitate on that account.

"I'll see about that," he roared.  "I'll have no mutiny
on my ship."  He ran toward the group seen blackly against
the white rail aft, shouting, "The man that did this will
swing for it."

"Scatter," cried a voice.

The group instantly dissolved in the darkness of the deck.
Fish made a grab at the nearest one, but a man behind him
ran violently into him.  He lost his hold.  In a moment
the quarter deck was deserted.  The *Susquehanna* on her
present course had the wind broad abeam.

"Mr. Gersey," roared the captain, "call all hands and
stand by to wear ship.  We must pick up that boat with
that murdering mutineer aboard."

"Aye, aye, sir.  For'ard there.  Call the other watch."

Now the other watch was awake and waiting.  Some of
them, indeed, had participated in the affair of the night.
Scarcely had the boatswain's mate sounded the call, when
the watch below came tumbling up from the forecastle.
Mr. Salver also joined the group on the bridge, rubbing his eyes
sleepily.  The captain took charge himself.

"Hands to the weather braces," he cried, "ease off the
spanker sheet.  Flatten in the head sails for'ard.  Hard up
with the helm."

Not a man on the deck stirred.  No one ran to the weather
braces.  No one cast off the lee braces.  The helmsman
remained immobile.  The spanker sheet was not eased off.
The sheets of the head sails were not hauled aft.  The
captain stared a moment in astonishment.

"Wear ship," he cried, "don't you hear me?"

"We heerd you," answered a voice out of the darkness,
"but we're not goin' to wear the ship."

"You refuse to obey orders?"

"We'll obey all other orders, same as we have allus done,
but we don't propose to pick up that there whaleboat."

"Who spoke?" roared the captain.

There was a movement in the groups of men in the
darkness.  Templin's voice, well disguised, came first from
one side of the deck to the other, as he moved about while
he spoke.

"You might as well make up your mind to it, Cap'n Fish.
We're determined that no harm is to come to Smith.  He's
gone.  For the rest, we'll work the ship to Vladisvostok,
which we signed on for.  You'll find us obeyin' orders same
as ever in the mornin'."

Captain Fish was black with rage.

"Mr. Gersey," he roared, "do you know anything about this?"

"Not a thing, sir."

"We done it ourselves," came up from the waist.

"Keep fast the braces," said the captain at last; "keep
her on her course."

Inasmuch as she had never been off her course and the
braces had not been touched, the commands were useless.
They were simply given to save the captain's face a little.

"Mr. Salver," he continued, "it's your watch below.  I
want to speak to you in the cabin.  Pipe down the watch
off, Mr. Gersey.  We'll settle this matter in the morning."

But the captain knew and the men knew that the matter
was already settled.  If the men hung together there was
no way by which the captain could discover the ringleader.
And he could not imprison the whole ship's company.  They
had beaten him.  The flight had been carefully planned
and carried out in a bold and seamanlike way.

"You've beat me," said the captain the next morning to
the crew as the watches were changed, "but there's a standin'
offer of five hundred dollars for any one who'll gimme the
details an' the names of the ringleaders.  Meanwhile, if any
one of you gives me the least cause I'll shoot him like a
dog.  Mr. Salver an' Mr. Gersey are both armed like me,"
he tapped the heavy revolver hanging at his waist, "so
look out for yourselves.  I've no doubt some of you'll
squeal.  I'll find out yet.  God help the men that did it when
I do."

The captain's bribe was a large one.  There were men
in the forecastle who would have jumped at it, but a very
clear realization of what would be meted out to them by
their fellows if they turned traitor, kept them quiet.  The
loyal men among the mutineers knew pretty well who were
to be suspected and kept close watch on them.

Beekman knew nothing of all that, of course, the next
morning as he made his meager breakfast.  He did not know
how long it would take him to reach those islands, the very
name of which he was ignorant, and it behooved him to
husband his resources.  After his breakfast he laid his
course by the compass.  The breeze held steady.  All
he had to do was to steer the boat.  At nightfall he
decided to furl sail and drift.  For one thing he needed
the sleep.

The next day, however, the breeze came stronger.  It
gradually shifted from the southeast toward the north.  He
reefed the sail down until it barely showed a scrap of canvas
and drove ahead of it.  There was no sleep for him through
the night.  He did not dare to leave the boat to her own
devices in that wind and sea.  The wind rose with every
hour.  The next morning it was blowing a howling gale
from the northeast.  He could no longer keep sail on the
boat.  He could not row against it.  Fortunately, he had
foreseen the situation.  He unstepped the mast and unshipped
the yard with which he pried up some of the seats and with
these and spare oars he made himself a serviceable sea
anchor, which he attached to the boat's painter forward,
cast overboard, and by this means drifted with the storm
being at the same time wet, cold, lonely, and very miserable.
He knew the boat was a lifeboat; its air tanks would keep
it from sinking, but if it ever fell into the trough of the
sea it would be rolled over and over like a cork.  It would
fill with water and refill in spite of his constant bailing.  He
could only trust to his sea anchor to keep the boat's head
to the huge seas by which it was alternately uplifted and
cast down in vast, prodigious motion.  Had it not been
provided with those air tanks the boat would have been
swamped inevitably.

His provisions got thoroughly wetted.  One of the water
breakers was torn from its lashing and the same wave that
worked that damage dashed it against the other, staving
it in.  His boat compass and tools were swept away.  Only
what was in the lockers forward and aft remained.  The
boat was swept clean.  He had bailed as long as he had
strength, but even the bailing tin finally disappeared.  At
last he sank down exhausted.  The waves beat over him.
The seas rolled him from side to side.  He had strength
enough to lash himself to the aftermost thwart before he fell
into a state of complete collapse.

So he drifted on through the night.  Toward morning
the gale blew itself out.  The next day the sun rose in a
cloudless sky.  The breeze subsided.  The seas still rose
mightily, but he knew that if no more wind came they
would presently subside.  He swallowed some of the sodden,
hard bread in the forward locker for breakfast and then
with the top of an empty biscuit tin from the same place he
made shift to free the boat of water, at least sufficiently
so for her to rise on the waves of the still rough and
tumbling seas.  He was too exhausted to get in his sea anchor.
Indeed, so many things had carried away that he could not
have stepped the mast or spread the sail.  The canvas itself
was gone with his blankets and tarpaulin.  He could not use
the oars.  He could only drift.

How many days he sat in that boat under that burning
sun he could not tell.  Where he drifted as it fell dead calm
he did not know.  If he had been less crazed by the awful
heat of the unshaded sun and the more awful thirst which
made him forget his hunger--he simply could not swallow
the hard, dry bread and the salt meat after a time--he
might have kept a sort of dead reckoning.  He was too weak
even to take bearings by sun or stars.  Not a sail, not the
smoke of a steamer, met his burning stare--his eyes were
hot, blazing in their sockets like the sun overhead, he
fancied--around him as day after day he surveyed that ever
unbroken horizon, himself a dot in the center of a vast
periphery of emptiness.

He lost track of the days, of course.  As he thought of
it afterward it seemed to him that he went mad.  The only
concrete fact that finally came to him was at the darkest
hour of a certain night that closed what he had felt must
be his last day.  He was conscious of a violent shock.  It
seemed to him that the boat had struck something.  There
was a swift motion of rebound, a splashing of water over
him, another heavy forward surge, another shock, a crash
as of splintering timber, and then all the motion ceased.
All around him was a strange roaring.  He was too feeble
to speculate as to what had happened.  He could only wait
for the dawn.

The first gray of morning brought him a faint hope of
life.  The light of day showed him the whaleboat, her
bottom hopelessly shattered, caught firmly on a rocky reef.
Around him, once in a while over him, great waves were
breaking; the whole mighty Pacific sweeping down from
the line falling in crashing assault upon this barrier of
jagged stones.  Back of him was the sea--unbroken to
the horizon--over which he had come.  In front of him
stretched a space of still water.  On the other side of this
lagoon rose huge, precipitous rocks, bare, gaunt,
forbidding.  As he stood up tremblingly and peered beneath his
hand he thought he could detect at the foot of these mighty
cliffs a stretch of golden sand.

Even with the inspiration of land at last and probable
food and drink it was difficult in his lack of strength
to wrench loose a shattered plank.  Still, by desperate effort
he accomplished that at last.  With that to buoy him up he
stumbled across the reef and launched into the smooth
waters of the lagoon.  The swim would have been nothing
under ordinary circumstances, but in his terrible prostration,
even with the aid of the plank, it was a long, difficult
passage.  Half a dozen times he was on the point of throwing
up his hands and going under, but something--love of
life, hope indestructible, eternal, remains of determination,
instinctive unwillingness to acknowledge himself beaten--kept
him up.  He pressed on through the smooth waters of
the lagoon.  Finally his feet touched the strand.  Standing
trembling but triumphant a few moments to recover himself,
he staggered across it.

He discovered as he did so an opening in the rock concealed
previously from him by an overlap of the cliff.  The
rift in the cliff wall was perhaps thirty yards wide.  It
could only be seen from one direction.  The waters of the
lagoon ran inward through it.  The sand narrowed and
stopped at the opening.  From, that beach he could not see
within.  Climbing a little distance up the edge of the cliff
and peering around it, he saw at the end of the inlet a deep
bay, a harbor roughly circular, perhaps half a mile in
diameter.  He surveyed it long and carefully in the half
light which made it impossible to see clearly.

As nearly as he could guess the height of the cliffs ranged
from three hundred to five hundred feet.  In niches and
shelves here and there a few bits of green appeared.  The
tops of the cliffs seemed as bare as the sides.  No way to
surmount them appeared.  Sometimes they ran straight
down into the deep, dark water.  At the base of the walls
here and there were little stretches of sand.  The place was
still dark and gloomy, and somehow terrible.  The sunlight
had not penetrated into it yet; would not, he judged, for
some time, or until the sun got into exactly the right
position to shine through that narrow opening.

An unusual mental alertness had taken the place of his
lethargy.  Hope had made the change.  He must, first of all,
find water, then food, and then he must reach the top of the
cliffs.  On the other side of the shoulder of wall where he
stood ran one of the stretches of sand.  How could he get
around that shoulder and pass through that opening?  He
did not dare to attempt to swim around it yet.  He must
climb over it.  Painfully, with ebbing strength but with
growing hope, he managed at the imminent risk of his life
to climb around the point and finally set foot upon that
narrow strip of sand.  He looked back only to find the
wall behind him rising sheer above his head, just as the walls
opposite had.  It was like being imprisoned in a vast tower,
one side of which had been riven from top to bottom.  And
the dark, forbidding gloom oppressed him still more.  The
morning was still, there was no breeze in that enclosed place,
but he shivered nevertheless and would have given anything
for human companionship.  He even tried to cry aloud to
break the appalling stillness, but no sound came from
cracked lips and parched, constricted throat.  Was he to
fail, having come so far?

In frantic terror he broke into a feeble run aimlessly
forward.  Rounding another jut of the wall, he saw that
which meant life--a slender stream of water falling in long,
broken leaps from the top to the bottom of the wall.  It had
cut a channel through the sand and was lost in the bay.  At
the sight, strange to say, his strength left him.  Fear had
drawn him on and now fear and everything else were forgot.
He fell to his knees, but still had strength and determination
to crawl on.  At last he reached it, fell on his face, and
drank.  It needed all his resolution, all his courage, all his
mental and physical power not to drink and die.  He knew
he must drink sparingly and he did so.

When he had satisfied his thirst by slow degrees, he sat
down on the sand to consider his situation.  The cool, sweet
water put new life into him.  He was suddenly conscious
of a terrible, gripping hunger, but the first and greatest
of his needs had been satisfied.  There must be some way to
the top of those cliffs.  Where there was fresh water there
must be life.  No island in the south seas could be so lonely,
so sequestered, so unvisited as not to have a life and
vegetation of its own.  Wherever there was water and earth,
especially in those latitudes, were to be found the kindly fruits
thereof.

He decided that he would go back to the whaleboat, that
he would get what crumbs that were left of the hard bread
that he had been unable to eat and the remaining scraps
of the salt meat that had choked him.  He could swallow
them now.  Then he would come back and after he had
been strengthened by his meal he would examine every foot
of the cliffs to find a way upward.  Meanwhile, he would
rest a little.  He threw himself down on the sand on his
back and stared upward.  As he did so he noticed the sun
had reached such a position that it shone full through the
entrance, suddenly illuminating the whole gloomy tower with
light and changing the entire aspect of it.

He put his hand behind him to raise himself, intending
to take advantage of the flood of light, which he saw would
be there but for a short time, for a further inspection of the
place.  But his eyes were still cast upward.  In the center
of his vision the top of the cliff cut the brightening sky.
Suddenly, as if formed instantly out of thin air, over the
edge appeared a human figure.  This figure was poised upon
the very highest point of the towerlike wall, and was staring
seaward through the great rift.

In the clear air and the bright sunlight he had not the
slightest difficulty in discerning details.  Perhaps his sight
was sharpened by his anxiety and desire.

The figure was that of a woman and her skin was whiter
than his own!





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.. _`THE HARDEST OF CONFESSIONS`:

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   BOOK II


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   "An' they talks a lot o' lovin',
   But wot do they understand?"

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   CHAPTER XII

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   THE HARDEST OF CONFESSIONS

.. vspace:: 2

Six months after the departure of the *Susquehanna* with
its unwilling member of the crew, Harnash found
himself in a position of advantage far beyond his wildest
dream.  The active search for Beekman had of necessity
been abandoned long since, although the authorities still
kept the matter in view.  No one had yet connected his
disappearance with the *Susquehanna* because her clearance
papers had been taken out the day before, although her
actual sailing had been delayed.  She had slipped away
unmarked in the early dawn, under her own canvas, the wind
being favorable, and as Captain Fish knew the channel well
she had even dispensed with the pilot.

In the search and the negotiations connected with it
George Harnash had been thrown rather intimately and
closely with John Maynard.  There had been no business
associations between them at first, but Maynard's growing
appreciation of the ability of Harnash, which was very
considerable, was heightened by a rather brilliant coup which
the young man pulled off and from which Maynard suffered;
not seriously, of course, from Maynard's point of view,
although the results were of a very considerable financial
gain to Harnash.

Now there was none of the mean spirit of revenge in
Maynard.  It was his policy to convert a brilliant enemy
into a friend, if possible.  Of course, some enemies were too
big for that purpose, and those Maynard fought to a finish.
Harnash was not in that category.  Maynard was getting
along in years.  The excitement of battle had begun
somewhat to pall upon him.  He loved fighting for its own sake,
but he had fought so long and so hard and so successfully
that he was willing to withdraw gradually from the more
active conflict, leaving warfare to youth, to which indeed it
appertains.

Among the young men he gathered around him there was
none who stood quite as high in his good graces as Harnash.
No suspicion of the love affair between Harnash and
Stephanie had arisen in the old man's mind, but he was not
unaware that Stephanie greatly liked the young man.  At
first he had thought that the liking had developed from the
other man's affection for Beekman.

Against that young man his resentment grew hotter and
hotter.  The police scouted the conclusion that Beekman
was dead.  His case, they alleged, was just one of the
many mysterious disappearances from New York, most of
which were eventually explained.  There was not a scrap
of evidence anywhere to account for Beekman's disappearance.
Probably the labels had been torn from his clothing
before it had been disposed of, if it had been sold.  His watch
case might have been melted down for old gold, obviously,
if it had not accompanied him.  At any rate, the works
had not been traced.  And no pawn shop or fence yielded
the slightest clew to any other jewelry.  The great reward
still standing brought no information whatever.

Maynard was finally convinced that Beekman had deliberately
run away from his daughter, and the world also
accepted that solution.  Only Harnash and Stephanie knew
the contrary.  Seeing them so much together, it had often
occurred to Maynard that possibly Harnash might succeed
in consoling his daughter.  It was not on that account,
however, that he took him into business after three months of
association and finally made him his personal representative
and confidential man.

Now Harnash had been unremitting in his attentions to
Stephanie.  She did not hesitate to avow her affection to
him and to continue in that avowal, but she had not receded
an inch from her position that before Harnash could even
speak to her father, and certainly before he could claim
her, Beekman must be found and his consent gained.

Harnash had concealed nothing from the woman he loved
except what he had done with Beekman.  He met her refusal
to marry him with a refusal to reveal that.  In keeping
that secret he was as obstinate in his way as she was in hers.
Of course, Harnash would ultimately be compelled to tell
the whole story, and as the months slipped by and the time
of the arrival of the *Susquehanna* at Vladivostok, where she
would be in cable communication with the rest of the world,
approached he naturally grew more and more apprehensive
and showed it to Stephanie's keen and searching eyes, at
least.

When Maynard trusted a man he trusted him all in all.
It was a part of his policy.  If a man were not worth
trusting he did not want him around and he did not have him
around, as a matter of fact.  Therefore among other duties
devolved upon the new confidential assistant was the opening
of the great financier's mail.  Harnash had never made up
his mind just what he should do when the necessity for
confession and explanation was presented.  He had tried to
plan his course, but so much depended upon circumstances
that he had always put the decision by.  Stephanie loved
him--and it was easy to see that her passion for him was
growing and that it almost matched his own--but she was a
high spirited girl with certain unspoiled notions of right and
wrong, and with a certain amount of her father's unyielding
firmness which made her conduct in the threatening
emergency something of a problem.

The problem changed from the abstract to the concrete
one morning about a half year after that bachelor dinner.
The *Susquehanna* was overdue at Vladivostok.  From the
shipping experts in the Inter-Oceanic Trading Company
Harnash had found that out and it had greatly increased
his anxiety by giving it a new turn--suppose something
had befallen the ship?  Every day of delay added to his
mental distress.  And although the shipping people manifested
no special apprehension--ships were often longer
overdue, especially sailing ships--Harnash grew more and
more uneasy.

One morning while he was going over the mail at the
office prior to Maynard's arrival a messenger boy brought
in a cable from Honolulu.  He signed for it, dismissed the
boy, and without the slightest apprehension tore open the
envelope.  This is the message that stared at him:

.. vspace:: 2

Regret to report *Susquehanna* burned at sea, sunk by
explosion of cargo.  Third officer and six survivors landed here
yesterday in small boat.  Captain refused to abandon ship.
One other boat got away, probably lost.  Cable instructions.

.. vspace:: 2

It was signed by Smithfield, the agent of the Inter-Oceanic
Trading Company in the Hawaiian Islands.  One
glance, one horrified inspection stamped the facts on
Harnash's brain and consciousness.  The *Susquehanna* was lost
with all her people except the third officer and six men;
that meant Woywod too.  Was Beekman among those six,
or had Harnash sent him to his death?  Could he have been
in the other boat?  Was there a chance that it would turn
up?  Somehow Harnash jumped at a conviction, of which he
could not disabuse his mind, that Beekman was among the
missing.  This he had not planned.  That it could happen
he had never dreamed, even remotely.

Now Harnash faced the greatest temptation of his life.
He was quick enough to see that if Woywod and Beekman
had been lost, in all probability the secret would never be
known and all he had to do was to say nothing to be safe.
But Harnash had never liked Beekman so much as at that
very moment.  Forgetful for the time being even of Stephanie,
his mind reverted to their college associations, their
subsequent business career, the unfailing courtesy and
kindness and trust which Beekman, high-placed and rich, had
extended to him, relatively humble and poor, his cordial
cooperation and confidence, his help.  While Harnash was
the business and brains of the firm, he could have
accomplished little without Beekman.

He recalled the genial, pleasant humor of his friend, the
good times they had enjoyed together, and as he did so he
put his head in his hands and groaned aloud.  Harnash felt
like a murderer.  He believed indeed that he was one.  It
was the turning point in his career.  If he spoke he would
brand himself in the eyes of all to whom the story might
become known--John Maynard, of course, and Stephanie,
the woman he loved truly and whole heartedly, even though
his love had made him do an unworthy and ignoble thing.
If he kept silent, with the start he had gained in John
Maynard's graces and with Stephanie's affection, he would
eventually marry her.  If he did not tell her, if he put her
off with some carefully manufactured story, he could
probably persuade her after a time to marry him.  In that event
he saw himself doomed to a long life with the woman he
loved so passionately and whom he would fain trust with
everything, with a hideous secret between them.  To win her
under such conditions was to lose her.  Which was the
better course?

Many a man gives way to an evil impulse under the
strain of a great temptation, but it does not necessarily
follow that he cannot recover from that impulse, that his
moral nature is broken down completely by the one lapse,
even though it be a great one.  As a matter of fact, a
woman like Stephanie Maynard could scarcely have loved
George Harnash as she did if he had not been on the whole
much better than his worst.

Then and there Harnash came to a decision.  Not without
much inward wrestling and many groanings of spirit did
he reach the conclusion that it was better not to try to
cover up what he had done.  To him entered Maynard.  The
cheery good morning of the elder man died on his lips as
he noted the strain and anxiety in his young friend's face.

"What's the matter?" he began abruptly.

"Mr. Maynard," said Harnash, summoning his courage
up to the self-accusing point, "I've something very
important to say."

"What is it?" asked the financier, sitting down at the big
desk, disregarding his mail, and staring at Harnash.

"It begins somewhat far back."

"Get to the point quickly."

"I will.  I love your daughter.  I have loved her ever
since I met her, long before she became engaged to
Beekman."

"Damn him."

"Wait a minute before you condemn him."

"What's he got to do with your trouble?"

"Much."

"I think Stephanie has about forgotten him, and, frankly,
if you want to marry her--well, I had other views for her,
but I don't see why you shouldn't," was the old man's
surprising answer.

"There may be reasons to the contrary of which you know
nothing, Mr. Maynard."

"What are they?  Why all this beating around the bush?"

"You've thought hardly of Beekman because he disappeared
on his wedding day."

"Yes."

"I was the cause of it."

"Good God!  Did you murder him?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Do you know what you're saying?"

"Perfectly."

"You must be crazy."

"I think I am.  This came this morning."

The unhappy Harnash held out the telegram.

"Well," said Maynard, reading it over quickly.  "That's
a bad job, of course, but the *Susquehanna* is fully insured.
It's unfortunate about the men, and the Russians have been
cabling us for that shipment of munitions and war material,
but what's this got to do with Beekman?"

"He was on the burned ship."

"What!"

"Her mate, Woywod, was a boyhood friend of mine.  I
told him I loved your daughter and she loved me--"

"Oh, it's got that far, has it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you had him shanghaied by this Woywod," said
Maynard, frowning, as the whole situation became instantly
clear to him.

"I did."

"Does Stephanie know?"

"Not a thing."

"Was she a party to this transaction?"

"In no way.  I always knew I loved her, but we only
found out she loved me while Beekman was away during
the year after his father's death.  I begged her to confess
the truth, to appeal to you and to Beekman, and to break
the engagement.  She refused to do any of these things.
She said it was the most cherished desire of your heart, that
you and old Beekman, who were bound together by affection
of long standing, had agreed upon it, that she had
given her word with her eyes open."

"And you did this thing with what in view, pray?"

"To delay the marriage in the hope that something might
turn up and I might win her."

"Something has turned up."

"I'm afraid so."

"But isn't it just possible that Beekman may be one of
those six men who survived?"

"We should have heard from him in that event."

"Right, but isn't it just possible that the other boat may
turn up or its men may have landed on some Pacific island?"

"It's possible," said Harnash, "but not likely."

"It's generally the unlikely thing that happens in life,"
said Maynard, coolly, staring hard at the unfortunate young
man to whom confession was obviously difficult.  "For
instance, the most unlikely thing that I could think of is that
I should be sitting here quietly listening to you confess this
treacherous and dastardly crime without being able to determine
whether I shall hand you over to the authorities or give
you my daughter as a wife."

"I don't think the disposition of your daughter's hand
rests with you now."

"Does it rest with you?"

"No.  She has told me that she would never even allow
me to speak to you or consent to marry me until she had
been released by you and Beekman."

Maynard thought deeply.  He was, as he had said, in a
state of indecision most unusual and extraordinary with
him.  To be unable to settle upon his course was most
annoying to him.

"You haven't told her what you did?"

"Not a word."

"You'll have to tell her now," he said at last, thinking
that perhaps she might throw some light on the problem.

"I intend to."

Maynard reached for the telephone.  He called up the
house, got his daughter on the wire, and asked her to take
her car and come to the office immediately.  He brushed
away questions and objections by assuring her that it was a
matter of life and death.  Having thus aroused her
curiosity and greatly alarmed her, he disconnected.

"Now," he said, turning to Harnash, who had waited,
"what have you to suggest?"

"Cable our agent at Honolulu to send the survivors to
San Francisco by the first steamer."

"Good so far."

"I'll go out there in time to meet them and ascertain the
facts.  If Beekman is there I'll tell him the truth and bring
him home, if he doesn't kill me."

"If he is not?"

"I'll turn everything I have into money and on the
chance that he may be somewhere in the South Seas I'll
charter a ship and go and hunt for him."

"I wouldn't like to be in your shoes when you meet him,
if you do."

"I don't much fancy the situation myself," admitted
Harnash, "but that's neither here nor there.  I've got to
do it."

"You must have been desperately in love with Stephanie
to have done this thing."

"I was.  I am.  I don't want to plead anything in
justification," answered the other, "but if Stephanie had loved
Beekman I don't think I should have interfered, although
she probably would have found out that I loved her because
I couldn't help letting her see it.  You have seen it yourself,
haven't you?"

"Now that you say it, I recall things that looked that
way and, yes, I had begun to suspect it."

"But when I found out that she didn't love him and that
she did love me and that she was only going through with
it to please you and the elder Beekman--well, it seemed
horrible.  I swore to her that I would prevent it if I had to
snatch her away from him at the foot of the altar."

"Instead of which you snatched him from her the day
before."

"It was the same day."

"I wonder why none of us ever thought of the *Susquehanna*."

"She is on record as having sailed the evening before.
Her clearance papers were so made out and as she probably
got away without tug or pilot in the early dawn nobody
connected him with her."

"You didn't have this end of the voyage in mind, of
course?"

"As God is my judge I did not," answered Harnash,
earnestly.

"The *Susquehanna* was overdue at Vladivostok by about
three weeks, I believe," continued the old man.  "That's
why you've been so distrait and worried and generally
knocked up during the last month?"

"Yes.  I expected to get word from Beekman."

"How?"

"He would naturally cable me, his business partner."

"Oh, then he doesn't know anything about your part, if
he is alive."

"Certainly not, unless Woywod told him, which would
be most unlikely."

"I see.  Well, go and cable Smithfield and find out when
the next steamer sails for the United States from Hawaii,
and arrange to leave here four days before her scheduled
arrival so you can get this third officer and his men before
they scatter.  You know what sailors are.  By the way, who
is the third officer?"

"I don't know."

"Well, find that out in the shipping department.  And
keep within call.  When Stephanie gets here I shall want
you to tell her," said the old man, still painfully undecided
as to his course.

"Very good, sir," said Harnash, turning away, glad for
the relief of the temporary duties devolved upon him.

By the time he had completed them Stephanie had reached
the office building and had gone to her father's private
room, where Harnash presently followed her.

"I hurried down here, of course," she began, "on receipt
of your surprising message.  What has happened since you
left this morning?  Oh, good morning, Mr. Harnash," she
continued, her face brightening as she held out her hand
to that unhappy man as he entered the office.

"This," said her father in answer to her question,
meanwhile keenly observing the other two.

He handed her the cable.  She read it over and looked
up with a little bewilderment.

"The *Susquehanna*!" she said.  "I remember it was the
last sailing ship.  It's too bad that she is lost, but you were
insured.  Of course, it's terrible about the brave captain
and the poor men."

Old Maynard nodded.  He looked at Harnash.  That
young man's hour had come.

"Beekman was on the *Susquehanna*," he said quietly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SEARCH DETERMINED UPON`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SEARCH DETERMINED UPON

.. vspace:: 2

For a moment Stephanie Maynard did not take in the
tremendous import of the declaration that had just
fallen from her lover's lips.  For one thing, he had spoken
so quietly that she had not at first sensed the meaning.  She
stared from Harnash to her father in no little bewilderment.
Both men watched her keenly; the older curious to know
what she would do and say, the younger as one might wait
the death sentence of a court.

"I don't understand," she faltered at last.  "Did you
say that Derrick Beekman--  It's impossible.  How could
that be?"

"I had him shanghaied by a friend of mine."

"Shanghaied?"

"Yes.  After the dinner broke up we stopped at an
uptown place and"--Harnash hesitated.  It was bad enough
to compass the main fact, but the necessary admission of
the sordid, unlovely details seemed to make his turpitude
much greater.

"Yes, go on.  What then?"

"Yes.  I'm curious to know how you did it, too," put
in Maynard.

"I persuaded him to take a drink.  He was utterly
unsuspicious.  It was easy--"

"Oh, you doctored it," said Maynard.

"Yes--but--  Good God, this is the hardest thing I
ever did," cried poor Harnash, looking at the girl.  "Knock-out
drops, you know, and then he was shanghaied."

"I don't understand," she said again.

"He was delivered to a friend of mine down on Water
Street who was waiting for him with a gang.  I had arranged
it all beforehand and they put him on the ship."

"But his watch, his money, jewelry?"

"I have those," admitted Harnash.  "They're in my safe
deposit box.  I put them there, you understand, for safe
keeping."

"Of course," said Maynard.  "I don't think you're a thief
as well as an abductor."

"Thank you," said Harnash.

"Well, even if he were on that ship," began Stephanie,
at last comprehending, "it doesn't follow that he was lost."

"No.  It doesn't follow.  He may have been one of those
picked up in the third mate's boat."

"By the way, who is the third mate?" interposed Maynard.

"She didn't carry one, sir.  Her officers were Captain
Peleg Fish, Woywod, and Salver.  She had a boatswain,
carpenter, sail-maker, and a crew of forty."

"Strange.  Who could that officer be?  But go on."

"Yes, and the other boat," said Stephanie, looking at
the telegram again.  "She may be found.  He may be in her."

"It is possible," said Harnash hopelessly, "but I am
convinced that he has been lost and I alone am responsible for
his death."

The girl stared at the man, a strange look in her eyes.
Harnash met her gaze bravely, although it took
superhuman courage to do so.  He loved her.  There was no
doubt about that.  He had proved it in his perverted way.
And she had loved him.  There was no doubt of that, or there
had not been.  He even dared to hope that she would still
love him, even in the face of his present confession; but
whether she loved him or not he would rather have faced any
judge on earth than Stephanie Maynard.  The situation
forced him to speak.

"It is no excuse that I did it for you," he began.  "I
said I'd be willing to kill him rather than he should have you;
but while I want you just as much as ever, more, if
possible, that doesn't prevent me from feeling like a murderer
now.  And it is all so useless, too.  Your father never could
give his consent now and you--with this hideous possibility
before us, I've lost you, too."

He turned away.  He could not control himself.  He
clenched his jaws together and walked toward the window,
out of which he looked without seeing anything whatsoever.
For a few moments nobody broke the silence.  Old
Maynard sat down quietly at his desk, leaned his face in his
hands, and scrutinized his daughter.  The air was
surcharged with dramatic possibilities.  He was too keen an
observer not to recognize them.  He had made up his own
mind at last, but he wanted to see what his daughter would
do before he disclosed his wishes or intentions.  It seemed
to Harnash, in whose breast a faint hope was still
struggling as he also waited for the girl's decision, that
Stephanie's silence lasted a long time.  Really it was a very few
moments.  Singularly enough, her first word was not to her
lover.

"Father," she began, facing the old man, "do you think
it is likely that Derrick is lost?"

"Highly probable."

"Why?"

"If he were one of the survivors he would have cabled at
once."

"He might be ill or--"

Maynard shook his head.

"I think we can discount that suggestion."

"Then his only chance would be the other boat?"

"Yes."

"And you think that chance--"

"A faint one.  It was probably the bigger and better boat.
It should have turned up before the other.  It has not."

Every word carried conviction to the girl.  The flicker
of hope in Harnash's heart died away.  It revived again
when Stephanie, after pondering her father's words--and
he allowed her to reflect upon them at her pleasure,
volunteering nothing, suggesting nothing--began with
another question.

"No one knew of Derrick's presence on the ship except
those who were aboard her?"

"Obviously not, since all the detectives in New York,
for the past six months, have been endeavoring to find out
where he went, stimulated by a reward big enough to arouse
them all to the most frantic endeavors."

"But the people on the ship would know?"

"I haven't any doubt that Beekman disclosed his name
to the officers so soon as he came to his senses, but I imagine
it wouldn't make much of an impression upon them.  They
wouldn't believe him.  Sailors are proverbially
happy-go-lucky people.  Our agents at San Francisco will pay off these
survivors, they will scatter, and that will be the end of them."

"And if he is lost the mystery of his disappearance would
never have been solved," whispered the young woman,
"unless Mr. Harnash himself had told."

The old man nodded.  George Harnash, his back turned
to them, listened as if his life hung upon the word.

"But if he had kept the secret," said the girl, illogically
but with obvious meaning, "I could never have forgiven him,
much as I loved him and still do love him.  That doesn't
seem to be news to you, father."

"It isn't.  Go on."

"In that case I never could have married him, even
though he did it for me, but now--"

She walked over toward Harnash and laid her hand on
his shoulder.  No knight ever received an accolade, no
petitioner a benison, no penitent an absolution so precious as
that.  Harnash turned, coincident with the touch,
transfigured.

"Stephanie," he burst out, "you don't mean--"

"A part of the blame is mine," said the girl, facing her
father, her hand still on her lover's shoulder.  "I was weak
where I should have been strong.  It was my duty to break
with Derrick absolutely since I did not, could not, love him;
but because I love you, Father, and because my word had
been given, I proposed to go through with the marriage,
knowing that I loved this man, letting him see that I did,
and allowing myself to hope that he would effect what I
refused to attempt; so that for this awful situation I am in
a large part to blame."

"I cannot let that statement go unchallenged, Mr. Maynard,"
protested Harnash, passionately.  "She is no more
to blame than a baby.  She couldn't help being beautiful.
She couldn't help my loving her.  As God is my judge, she
has never done a thing to encourage me.  She told me all
along that she was going to marry Beekman, that she was
in honor bound to do so, that duty and everything made it
necessary.  It was my own mad passion, for which she is
not to blame, that made me do it.  Not a vestige of reproach
attaches to her.  God knows, I wouldn't have had real harm
come to him for anything on earth.  I never dreamed of this.
I never suspected it.  I never anticipated it.  It's an awful
shock to me, but a man must fight for the woman he loves.
Beekman didn't care.  With him it was a matter of
agreement, convenience, and I--"  He turned and looked at the
girl.  "I think I'd do it again.  I'll be honest.  Now I'd
cheerfully give my own life for Beekman's.  If I am not
to have you life isn't worth very much to me, and I'm
terribly sorry for him; yet when I look at you, Stephanie, and
think that in spite of everything I have lost you--"

"You haven't lost me," said the girl, quietly.

"What!  You mean?"

"Where do I come in?" asked the elder Maynard with a
calmness that matched his daughter's.

"Father," said the girl, "I'm not your daughter for
nothing.  I suppose I couldn't help loving George Harnash.
I have the same fixity of purpose that you have.  I showed
it when I intended to carry out my agreement to marry
Derrick, although it broke my heart.  I know I will go on
loving him to the end, no matter what he did, or what he is,
but I wouldn't have married him if he hadn't of his own
free will spoken out and told what he might as easily have
concealed without anyone ever finding it out, if Derrick is
really dead.  And I feel here, somehow," said the girl, laying
her hand on her heart, "that you hold the same views
exactly."

"His prompt and open acknowledgment, his frank confession,
makes all the difference," admitted Maynard.  "It
does seem to give the affair a different complexion."

"Seem, father?"

"Well, it does, then.  Go on."

"It was horribly wrong of George to do what he did, but
he did it for me.  It was my fault as much as his, and I take
part of the blame."

"I swear I will not allow you."

"Let her finish," interposed Maynard.  "She has more
sense than you have, and I'll be hanged if I don't think she
has more than I have."

Stephanie smiled faintly.

"If Derrick is dead none of us here is ever going to
forget it.  Neither Mr. Harnash, nor I, not even you."

"I fail to see any responsibility attaching to me."

"No, but there will be some."

"Oh, will there?"

"So far as intent goes we can absolve ourselves, but so
far as consequences are concerned we shall have to expiate
our wickedness."

"Oh, Stephanie, for God's sake don't say that of
yourself," Harnash burst forth.

"I must.  And we can expiate it together.  We can help
each other."

"Do you mean that you will actually marry me?"

"Of course," said the girl.  "How could you for a
moment think otherwise?  I mean what I say when I assume
part of the blame."

"And so you have settled it without me, have you?"
asked her father.

"No.  We are going to settle it this way with your
approval and consent."

"And I am to give my daughter to a man who would
administer knock-out drops to a friend and shanghai him
on the eve of his wedding and appropriate that friend's
promised wife?"

"It is just, sir," said Harnash bitterly.  "Think what you
do," he continued, turning to the girl with a gesture of
renunciation.

"No," answered Stephanie to her father.  "You are
giving your daughter to a man who, however he sinned, and
your daughter doesn't presume to pass condemnation upon
him as she might were she not a party to it, has frankly and
openly acknowledged his transgression and expressed
himself willing to take the consequences."

"Humph," said the old man, a flicker of a smile appearing
on his iron face.

"Remember, he might have kept silent."

"Well," said Maynard, "I believe you are right.  There
is good stuff in you, Harnash, and your unforced, voluntary
confession shows it.  I don't think you'll administer
knock-out drops to anybody again, and eventually I suppose you'll
get Stephanie, but there are conditions."

"You couldn't impose any conditions that I would not
gladly meet."

"I was coming to those myself," said the girl.

"Oh, you had thought of this, too, had you?"

"Certainly."

"What are they?"

"First of all there must be no public mention by any of us
of the possible fate of Derrick until we are satisfied that he
is dead."

"Certainly not," said old Maynard.

The assent of Harnash was obviously not necessary to that.

"That's where you come in, father--what is the legal
term?--as an accessory after the fact to what we have
done."

The old man laughed a little.

"Clever, clever," he murmured, "my own daughter."

"The next condition is that we must satisfy ourselves
beyond peradventure that Derrick is dead before any
marriage."

"That is a harder proposition," said the old man.

"Because," went on the girl, "I told George when I
supposed Mr. Beekman was alive and would turn up some
time that I would never marry him until I had got a release
from Derrick's own lips, and as long as there is a chance
that he is alive that condition holds."

"I'm so glad that I can look forward to getting you at
any time under any circumstances," said Harnash
fervently, "that I accede gladly to any conditions that you
may lay down."

"And how will you settle the affair if by any good
fortune we succeed in finding Beekman and he refuses to
consent and wishes to hold you to your terms?" asked Maynard
thoughtfully.  "You don't seem to have counted on that."

Harnash and Stephanie looked at each other with dismay.

"And how if he wants to kill Harnash, as he would have
a perfect right to do, for his part in the--er--deplorable
transaction?" continued the old man relentlessly.

"I'll take whatever he wishes to give me," said Harnash.
"I'll tell him myself, if we are fortunate enough to see
him, and I don't believe when he learns everything that he
will want to claim as his wife a woman who loves some one
else."

"I am sure he will not," said Stephanie.

The girl's father nodded.

"I guess you have it right, but we needn't worry about
that now.  The first thing is to find out whether he is really
dead."

"We must set about that at once," said Stephanie.

"We have already taken steps to that end," said Harnash.
"I have cabled Smithfield to ship the men from Honolulu
to 'Frisco at our expense, and to say to them that I will
meet them on the arrival of the steamer.  I find that a
steamer sails from Honolulu on Thursday of next week.
She is due to arrive on Friday of the week after.  My
personal affairs are in such a state that I can safely leave them.
I have a substantial balance available in the bank.  I am
going to California to interview the men and then I shall
charter a vessel and hunt for the other boat or prosecute
whatever search is necessary."

"That's fine," said Stephanie.  Then she turned to her
father, stretching out her hand.  "Father--"

The old man understood perfectly well what she wanted.

"I can amplify that plan a little," he said.  "I have been
wanting to get away from active business for a long time
and my affairs are fortunately in such a shape that I can
trust them to others.  I should have trusted them to you,
Harnash, if you weren't obliged to go along."

"Do you mean--?" cried the girl.

"Yes, I'll send the *Stephanie* around through the Panama
canal immediately"--the *Stephanie* was a magnificent steam
yacht, the greatest, most splendid, and most seaworthy of
any of the floating palaces of the millionaires of the
seaboard--"and we'll go on that hunt together."

"You mean that I--"

"Of course you can go along.  Who has more interest
in establishing the fact than you?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BOATSWAIN'S STORY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BOATSWAIN'S STORY

.. vspace:: 2

A seafaring man is less at home in a parlor than
anywhere else.  He can sit comfortably on anything
except a chair.  The big boatswain balanced himself
gingerly on the edge of the biggest and strongest chair in the
private parlor of the Maynard apartment in the St. Francis
Hotel in San Francisco.  In his hands, fortunately, for
otherwise he would not have known what to do with them,
he clasped a large package wrapped in oil silk and
carefully tied up.  He looked and felt supremely ill at ease
and miserable.  Back of him, equally uncomfortable, were
the other survivors of the *Susquehanna*.  It was proper for
the boatswain, who acted as third officer, to be seated.  This
much was conceded to his rank, but Templin and the other
five, deaf to all suggestions looking toward their
comfort, remained standing.  They did not even lean against
anything.  They took position in true seamanlike
fashion, arms folded or akimbo, feet wide apart, ready
for any unexpected roll on the part of the St. Francis
Hotel.

George Harnash had met the steamer.  Indeed, he had
boarded her before she tied up at her berth at the docks.
He knew that Beekman would not be with the survivors
because their names had been cabled to New York by
Smithfield in answer to inquiries.  The strangest circumstance
was this.  A list of the other members of the crew taken
from the ship's papers which were in possession of the third
officer, for so the boatswain was designated, had also been
cabled and the name of Beekman did not appear in that
list either.  This puzzled Harnash beyond measure.  He
had delivered Beekman to the crimp and the gang
designated by Woywod, certainly.  Had anything happened?
Were those knock-out drops too strong?  Harnash was a
miserable man, indeed, a prey to all sorts of fears and
anxieties and each worse than the other.

The men, who had landed at Honolulu in a dilapidated
condition, two weeks' cruising in an open boat being not
conducive to the preservation of wearing apparel, had been
thoroughly outfitted by the agent of the Inter-Oceanic
Trading Company, and consequently as Stephanie Maynard
looked upon them she thought them as fine an appearing
body of sailors as she had seen in her various voyagings
upon the seas.  Old John Maynard, keenly appraising them
as they were led in the room, arrived at the same conclusion
by a somewhat different process.

"This is the bo's'n of the *Susquehanna*," began Harnash
after he had mustered and marshaled the uneasy sailors.
"That is, he was originally shipped as bo's'n, but he has
been promoted to third officer.  How or why I do not yet
know.  I thought it best not to question the men until I
had brought them here.  Mr. Gersey--"

"Jim Gersey, at your service, sirs an' ma'am," said the
old seaman, rising and making a sort of sea-scrape with
his feet while he knuckled his brow with his hand in true if
now somewhat obsolete sailor fashion.

"Mr. Gersey," said Harnash, "this is Mr. John Maynard,
president of the company which owned the *Susquehanna*,
and this is his daughter."

"Pleased to meet ye both," said the boatswain.

"In addition to our natural anxiety about the ship and
her people we have reason to be deeply interested in one
member of her crew," continued Harnash, and his personal
suspense was obvious to the dullest person in the room,
much more to the girl who loved him in spite of all.

"I didn't ketch your name, sir," said the boatswain.

"Harnash, George Harnash."

The old man furrowed his brow and thought a moment.

"Of Harnash an' Beekman, 33 Broadway, New York?"

"Yes."

"Well, sir, I got a message for you."

"A message?"

"Aye.  It was give to me by a man that shipped aboard
the *Susquehanna* as John Smith."

"That's why Beekman's name didn't appear among those
sent us," observed Mr. Maynard suddenly.

"I suppose so," answered Harnash, glad to be relieved
of one anxiety.

"Which he said it wan't his name, but I ain't never been
aboard a ship without a John Smith on her," continued the
boatswain, "an' sometimes we gits two or three of 'em.  It's
a kind-a easy name, an' when nobody knows a man we jest
nachurly calls him that.  Now this chap's name was
Beekman.  Leastways, that's what he said it was, an' when we
put him overboard--"

"Put him overboard?" cried Stephanie.

"Yes, ma'am.  In the ship's whaleboat, for his own safety."

"At the time of the fire?" interposed Harnash.

"Now, gents an' lady, if you'll excuse me, I can't quite
steer my course amid so many variable winds, so to speak.
I can't shift my helm quick enough to meet all them changes.
If you'll lemme heave ahead in my own way I'll git the
yarn off'n my chest the quicker an' the plainer."

"Of course," said Maynard; "don't interrupt, young
people, let him tell us in his own way."

"Thankee, sir," said the boatswain.  "You've got a seaman's
instinck an' arter I've told the yarn I'll answer any
question I may be axed, pervided they comes at me one at
a time."

"Heave ahead," said Maynard, adopting nautical
language for the occasion.

"Well, sir, it was this way.  Arter Smith or Beekman
put a knife into the mate--"

This was too much for Harnash.

"What mate?"

The boatswain shot a look at him.

"I was comin' to that," he answered.  "Mr. Woywod,
as you know, he was the mate of the ship.  He was a prime
seaman, an' pleasant enough if you done what you was
told an' done it quick an' kept out of his way, but when he
was roused an' riled--God help us, says I."

"We all says that," put in Templin grimly.

"Well, him an' Smith or Beekman got in an argyment
the second day out when Smith come to in the fo'c's'l an'
didn't know where he was at or why he was at it, an' Smith
knocked the mate down.  The mate seed he was green an'
raw, an' he passed over that, only he told him if he ever
done it agin he'd kill him.  The mate battered him up
considerably at the time.  I sent for him that day an' told him
as an old man that had follered the sea all his life that there
wan't no use of tryin' to fight the mate; that the officers had
everything on their side.  They was like God hisself on the
ship; that he'd git double irons clapped on him for mutiny,
an' mebbe hanged if he didn't knuckle down an' turn to.  He
told me a long story about him bein' shanghaied.  I didn't
believe it at first."

"It was true," said Harnash.  "Absolutely true."

"An' leavin' a girl on his weddin' day."

"I was the girl," said Stephanie.

"Dash me," said the old boatswain, staring at the girl
with quite open admiration, "his was a harder lot than we
fancied.  Well, he concluded to take my advice.  He turned
to an' done his work like a man, an' I never seen a feller
pick up so.  Afore he left us he was as hard as nails, an' by
way of bein' a prime seaman, too.  The mate didn't
manhandle him none, but there was bad blood 'twixt them two
men.  The mate was allus a pickin' on him an' a bullyin' of
him.  It was a kind of battle between 'em.  The mate
anxious to provoke an outbreak on Smith's part, which I
means Beekman, an' Beekman determined not to give the
mate no handle agin him.  We had a hell of a--I beg your
pardon, Miss, but that word jest describes the ship an' the
v'yage.  I never did see such a succession of gales.  We was
weeks gittin' round the Horn, an' there was a dead beat agin
the wind nigh all the way up to the line.  One night, I
disremember the date, but I got it here"--he tapped the
oilskin package to which he clung so tightly--"all hands
was called on suddenly to reef tops'ls.  The old man was for
carryin' on, you know; he'd taken in the r'yals, but the
to'gall'nts'ls was still set, an' the sticks was bendin' like
whips when he decided to git 'em off her.  Now there was a
mast-man, a half-witted Dutchman, aboard named Wramm."

"Jacob Wramm," said Templin.  "God rest his soul."

"He done a lubberly thing.  He cast off the wrong
halliards, an' we lost the main to'gall'nt mast.  It was in the
mid watch, an' Wramm had been takin' a snooze under the
lee rail or he wouldn't have done it.  The mate was very
vi'lent with him.  He had kicked him awake, au' when the
mast carried away he hit him over the head with a belayin'
pin, thinking, doubtless, to let some sense into his thick
skull, but instead he let the life out of him."

"Do you mean that he killed him?" asked Maynard in
amazement, while the others held their breath at this
matter-of-fact description of tyranny and murder.

"Aye, sir, I means jest that.  There's a lot o' things that
goes on aboard your ships, that neither you nor nobody
else in New York knows nothin' about."

"Evidently.  Proceed."

"Wramm died the next day, but meanwhile, arter we'd
cleared away the wreck an' got the ship snug, we took
Wramm, who was still breathin' but unconscious, to his berth
in the fo'c's'l.  Arter we'd examined him, Beekman said he
was goin' aft to see the old man."

"Did Captain Fish permit such brutality?"

"I ain't wishful to say nothin' agin a man that's dead an'
that can't defend hisself, but him an' Salver, which he was
in charge of the other boat, was much the same kind of men
as Woywod, only not quite so vi'lent.  The cap'n was an old
man an' he wan't so free with his fists, but he allus backed
up the mates in whatever they done.  Well, Beekman insisted
on seein' the cap'n, an' arter the mate had inspected Wramm
an' seen he was pretty bad off, he thought best to let him
go aft.  Templin here was busy about the mizzenmast, an'
he can tell what happened, though we've got it all down in
writin'."

"If you please, ma'am an' gents," said old Templin,
stepping forward and taking up the tale, "I heard v'ices raised
high in the cabin, which I could see into it through the
skylight which covers it an' lets in light an', when it's open, air.
You understand?"

Maynard nodded.

"Wot words passed I couldn't make out, but I seen the
mate leap toward Smith, an' Smith hit him.  The mate was
a big man, an' although it must have been a powerful blow,
it didn't phase him; it jest throwed him back agin the cabin
bulkhead.  Then he gathered hisself up, drew a gun, p'inted
it at Smith, an' made for him agin.  The cap'n was havin'
something to eat afore turnin' in, it bein' about four bells in
the mid watch, an' there was a big, sharp carvin' knife layin'
on the table.  The mate was cursin' like mad, an' Smith was
standin' there quiet an' as white as the paint on the cabin
bulkheads.  Jest as the mate pulled the trigger, Smith
grabbed the knife an' buried it to its handle in the mate's
breast, the bullet from the pistol passin' harmless like jest
over Smith's head an' tearin' a big hole in the bulkhead."

"I seen the hole myself later on," said the boatswain as
Templin stopped for breath.

"Mr. Salver, who had the watch," resumed the sailor,
"came into the cabin, an' he grabbed Smith, who was
standin' kind o' dazed like, lookin' at the mate wrigglin'
round the deck; an' Manuel, the steward, did the same.  The
old man got the mate's pistol an' covered Smith, an' they
put him in the bo's'n's cabin an' moved the bo's'n aft to
take the watch, ratin' him as third mate, an' givin'
Mr. Salver, the second mate, Mr. Woywod's watch."

"Good God, how horrible!" said Harnash, shooting a
quick look at Stephanie, who sat staring and as white as
Templin's description indicated Beekman had been, as this
grim, sordid tragedy of the sea was revealed to them in the
picturesque simplicity of this rude sailor's tale.

"What happened then?" asked Maynard.

"Well, sir," answered the boatswain, "Templin can finish
the yarn better nor I can."

"Every man jack on the ship," said Templin, "had a
mighty likin' for Smith.  Ain't that so, mates?"

Deep-toned approvals, with much nodding of heads, came
from the other seamen.

"He was the pleasantest man on the ship," said one.

"Free an' easy, always willin' to help a shipmate," said
another.

"Full of good stories, an' doin' his best to be agreeable,"
added a third.

"An' we wasn't goin' to see him hanged for that, which
it was clearly self-defense, an' a good riddance, anyway,"
continued Templin.  "You see, the mate was hated as much as
Smith was liked.  So we puts our heads together, an' to
make a long story short, we pervisions the whaleboat, which
was hangin' at the after davits.  We struck the irons off of
Smith's wrists an' ankles, put him into the boat, an' lowered
her the night arter."

"I had heerd the old man an' Salver plottin' the ship's
position," said the boatswain.  "They said there was land
about seventy leagues to the sou'west'ard, an we all thought
he could reach it.  It seemed as if the rough weather had
blowed itself out at last in the Pacific.  There was some
white people on them islands.  There'd be some means for
him to git back to the United States, eventually, or wherever
he belonged."

"When did the captain learn of his escape?"

"Right then an' there.  He done his best to prevent it,
but it was dark an' the men refused to handle the braces to
wear the ship, an' that's all there was to it."

"So Beekman wasn't on the ship when she burned," cried
Harnash.

"No."

"Thank God for that," said Stephanie.  "Don't you see,"
she continued as the bewildered seaman stared at her, "if he
had been on the ship, he might have been lost in the other
boat; Mr. Salver's boat, you said."

"Yes, ma'am."

"But, as it is now, there is a chance he may have got to
those islands.  What were they?  Where are they?  We
may find him yet."

"It's possible.  There's always a chance on the sea,"
admitted the boatswain.  "But that ain't all the story."

"No?"

"No, ma'am; the gales hadn't quite blowed theirselves
out yet, an' the next day come the worst of 'em all.  What
become of that boat in that storm, Cod only knows.  We
had to scud afore it under bare poles."

"It might not have blowed so hard where the whaleboat
was," said Templin sagely.

"In course; but no man can know nothin' about that."

"We got a slant of a favorin' wind arter a few days, an'
ran down our northin' at a great rate.  I think it was two
weeks arter we sent the whaleboat away with Beekman in it,
when a fire broke out in the forehold.  I suppose the strainin'
an' pitchin' and buckin' of the ship was the cause of it.  I
don't rightly know jest what we had aboard."

"About three thousand tons of the most inflammable and
explosive stuff on earth," said Mr. Maynard.

"Well, it ketched afire.  We knowed it was some kind of
dangerous stuff without bein' aware of the partik'lers, an'
we tried to git at the fire, but we couldn't.  We knowed the
old ship was doomed just about as soon as something that
would explode got reached by the fire.  There wan't no
panic."

"The officers treated us like dogs, all of us," interposed
Templin; "but they knowed their business, an' so did we."

"Two boats was got over an' pervisioned; a cutter an' a
la'nch that was on chocks amidships.  The cap'n ordered
me with nine of the men to the cutter, an' Mr. Salver with
the rest on 'em to the la'nch.  The sea was calm enough, an'
we had no difficulty in gittin' the boats overboard, although
we had to bear a hand, an' it was well we done so.  Nachurly,
the cap'n was to be the last man to 'bandon the ship, which
he didn't leave at all, as a matter of fact.  He was to go in
my boat, which was one reason why the steward was in her.
Salver's boat shoved off, an' while we lay alongside at the
battens waitin' for him, the old man ordered us to shove off,
too.  'Mr. Gersey,' he sez--me bein' called 'Mister' habitual
after I come aft--'if you git to shore, report me as havin'
stayed with the ship.'  'Cap'n Fish,' sez I, 'savin' your
presence, it's a kind of damn fool thing for you to do, for the
ship's goin' down.'  'I ain't never yet desarted no ship under
my charge,' sez the cap'n, an' when I started to argue, he
told me to go to hell an' git away from there lest the boat
should be lost.  There wan't nothin' else for me to do,
ma'am, but obey orders.  I've been all my life obeyin' orders
at sea, but that was about the hardest one ever put up to
me.  We didn't like the old man much.  As a matter of fact,
we hated him, an' we might have killed him in a fair fight,
if it had been possible, but we didn't none of us want to see
him die that way."

"No, we didn't," said one.

"But there wan't no help for it.  We pulled away from
the blazin' ship till we got within hail of Salver's boat.
When he seed the cap'n wasn't aboard, he was for rowin'
back to the ship to rescue him.  We could see the old man
calmly walkin' up an' down the bridge, for'ard of the
mizzenmast, perfectly plain.  The fire was for'ard, and the ship
was hove to so the smoke druv away to lee'ard.  He never
left that bridge except to go aft to h'ist the American flag
at the gaffend.  Salver would have gone back, anyway, only
the men refused.  We was willin' enough, only we know'd
it wan't no use.  An' the ship was liable to blow up any
minute."

"Well?" said Maynard in the silence that ensued.

"She did blow up, an' the cap'n an' the flag an' the ship
all went down together," said the old boatswain with deep
solemnity.

"He was a hard man," said Templin frowning, "but he
went down with his ship."

That last act covered a multitude of sins in the eyes of
the men.

"There ain't much more to tell," continued the boatswain
after the tribute of respect and admiration had been
conveyed by a solemn little silence which no other cared to
break.  "We had a hard v'yage in that open cutter, which we
separated from the la'nch in the night.  Food an' water
give out by the end of a week, an' afore we reached
Honolulu, or was picked up by a steamer headin' that way a day's
sail from the port, three of the men died.  Among 'em was
Manuel, ship's steward.  As we'd thought the old man was
goin' in my boat, I had the log an' the ship's papers.  We
knowed, because I had seed it, that the cap'n had logged the
yarn of the killing of Woywod, which he had got signed by
Salver an' Manuel, the steward.  Manuel was a witness to
the whole thing, an' Salver to the latter part.  Manuel was
pretty poor stuff; afeerd of his life when Cap'n Fish was
around.  So he signed a lie.  When he knowed he was goin'
to die, he said he wanted to undo what he had done, as far
as he could, so I got out the logbook an' wrote in it what
he said.  He made his mark after it, an' then Templin an'
all the rest that could write signed it as witnesses, an' them
as couldn't, made their marks.  We thought if Beekman
ever did git back home, an' this charge ever come up, which
it wouldn't be likely, since the *Susquehanna* was lost, it
might help him to git people to believe he was innercent."

As the old man spoke he unfolded the oil silk wrapping,
disclosed the logbook, and extended it to his fascinated
audience.  Harnash took it.

"You'll find it there, sir," said the boatswain, opening
the book at a place marked by a slip of paper.

"Read it, George," said Maynard.

"I, Manuel Silva," Harnash read from the water-stained
page, with difficulty deciphering the blurred, soft pencil
writing.

"We didn't have no pen an' ink," interrupted the boatswain
in explanation.

"Being about to die, do hereby declare before God and
Mr. Gersey and the crew of this cutter, that what I signed
in the logbook about the death of the mate is a damn lie,
which I hope God and the Holy Virgin and the Saints will
pardon me.  The mate struck at Smith, although he was
twice warned, and finally drew a pistol.  He would have shot
him if he hadn't been killed.  It was self defense.  In fear
of the captain and my life, I signed that false Happy David.
This is the truth, so help me God."

"There's his mark," said Gersey, getting up and pointing.
"An' this is my signature, an' there's Templin's an'
Dumellow's, and there's Spear's and Lawton's marks, which
they are here to testify.  Also, there's Walling's and Allen's,
which are dead."

"I see," said Harnash, handing the book to Stephanie.

"Mr. Gersey, you have done exceedingly well.  I want to
compliment you and every one of the men," said Maynard.
"You shall not suffer in the loss of the *Susquehanna*.  The
Inter-Oceanic will pension you or give you steady work.
A sum of money will be deposited to your credit, which will
enable you to be independent of the sea, if you choose."

"That's handsome of you, Mr. Maynard," said Templin.
"I don't know how the other men feels, but as for me, I'm
too young to retire.  I'd just blow in the money, wot ever
it is, if it was give to me, an' I'd rather have work."

"That goes for me."

"An' for me," cried one after the other.

"So, if you'll jest keep the money for us, so's when we're
too old to go to sea we'll have somethin' laid up, it'll be all
right."

"Your decision is a wise one," said Maynard.  "As it
happens, I'll be able to offer you work.  These men look
to me to be all right.  Can you vouch for them, Mr. Gersey?"

"They're prime seamen, every one of 'em, an' orderly
an' decent men.  Not but what they sometimes gits laid by
the heels ashore, but afloat there ain't no more properer men
to be found."

"I thought so.  Well, I own a three-thousand-ton steam
yacht, barkentine rigged--the *Stephanie*--named after
my daughter here.  She will be due in San Francisco in two
weeks.  We are contemplating an extended cruise to the
south seas.  Have you ever been in steam, Mr. Gersey?"

"Most of my life, sir."

"There's a berth aboard her as bo's'n, or fourth officer,
for you, and I'll ship every man here at double pay before
the mast.  You can pick one of them for bo's'n's mate.
We've never had a bo's'n on the yacht, but I've no doubt we
can use one handily."

"Are you goin' to hunt for Beekman, sir, I makes bold
to ask," questioned the boatswain, his face shining.

"I'm going to search the seas until I find him, or what
became of him, if possible; and, incidentally, Salver and
the launch."

"We're with you, howsomever long that cruise," said the
boatswain.  "Am I right, mates?"

"Right you are," came in deep-toned approval from the
little group of sailors.





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.. _`THE SPIRIT OF THE ISLAND`:

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   BOOK III

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   "*Where there aren't no Ten Commandments*"

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.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV

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   THE SPIRIT OF THE ISLAND

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Derrick Beekman was astonished beyond measure
at the apparition which flashed in view so suddenly
far above his head and had almost immediately disappeared.
So far as he had been able to view the island, he had not
before discovered the slightest evidence of humanity.  Indeed,
the whole deep cup of the bay was so desolate and
forbidding that it had not prepared him for human beings,
scarcely for life, even.  If he had not yet thought about
it at all, he had, nevertheless, a subconsciousness that this
was probably a bare and arid rock, volcanic in origin, which
the busy little toilers of the sea had surrounded with a
coral reef.

He came to believe afterward that this idea was correct,
and that the deep bay represented one of the craters of the
volcano, one side of which had been riven, by what cause
he could not determine, giving access to the ocean.  In his
terribly weak condition, for when he had slaked his thirst,
he was more acutely conscious of his hunger, not to say his
starvation, than before, he could only reflect vaguely upon
these matters.  But one thing was really impressed upon his
consciousness; namely, that he had seen a human being;
that being was a woman, and that she was white!

He fell back on the sands supine, and lay staring upward.
How long he lay there, he could not tell.  He had been too
amazed even to cry out, if he had possessed the power.  And
before he could decide upon anything, she was gone.  He
hoped, of course, that the woman or some of her
companions, if she had any, would come again; but the dark,
rugged, desolate rock cut the skyline with iron precision,
unbroken by anything that had any suggestion of life, as
before, when he had first looked upon it.  He soon awoke to
the realization that there was nothing to be gained by
waiting.  He must get something to eat to get back some of his
strength before he explored the harbor to find a way to the
top of the encircling cliffs.

He moved back to the spring and, thanking God for its
sweetness, this time drank deeper than before.  He took off
his salt-encrusted clothes, held them under the falling water
until they were clean of the sea marks, and then he plunged
his own body in the waterfall.  As he intended to swim back
to the whaleboat, he laid his clothes out upon some rocks
which faced the rift-like opening and through which the
morning sun streamed with tropic intensity.

As he walked barefoot through the sand along the bank
of the little shallow brook by which the waters that fell from
the crest made their way to the sea, his foot struck
something sharp that pricked him.  He bent over it at once,
instantly curious.  In the situation in which he found
himself, the slightest thing was of moment, or might be.  He
laughed as he recognized it.  He eagerly tore from its bed
in the sand--a pineapple!

Templin had replaced the sheath knife that had been
taken from him by the captain, and it hung in his belt on the
rocks behind him where he had left his clothes.  To get it,
to open it with nervous fingers, to cut into the heart of
the pineapple, to bury his face greedily in the fragrant
deliciousness of it, to eat it with almost animal-like ferocity,
was inevitable in so ravenous a man.  When he had devoured
it to the last edible scrap, he searched the banks of the creek
for other fruit, possible flotsam and jetsam from the
upland; but the search produced nothing that met his fancy,
for what he did find was decayed and useless.

He was abundantly thankful, however, for the pineapple.
Leaving his clothing, except his shoes, which he put on
again to protect his feet from the sharp rock, he climbed
over the broken stone at the base of the rift and found
himself once more on the stretch of sand opposite the wrecked
whaleboat.  The tide was evidently on the ebb, for much that
had been covered before was now exposed.  He gathered
shellfish from the rocks, broke them open, and, restraining
his hunger, which was still ravenous, partook sparingly of
them.

Again making use of his boards, although he felt so
much stronger that he might have dispensed with them, he
swam out to the barrier reef and examined the whaleboat
again.  The lockers forward and aft were practically empty.
He did come upon a few scraps of salt meat, which he had
been unable to eat before in his consuming thirst; not
enough for a meal for an ordinary man, but still very
welcome, and these he devoured.  There was not a crumb of
hard bread left.  That he had managed to eat, in spite of
his thirst.  There was not another thing in the boat except
a boat hook, a stout pole with a brass hook on the end, and
above the hook a sharp pointed spike.  This point had got
wedged in the bulkhead of the forward compartment, and
the pole, lying under the thwarts, it had not been swept out
by the seas which had broken over him.  The boat itself was
a hopeless wreck.  The bottom had been torn out on the reef.
Everything that had been in her was gone.  If he could
break her up, she would make good firewood if he should be
able to compass a fire, and the copper air tanks forward and
aft, which were still intact, might be of some service if he
could ever get them off, which was improbable on account
of the lack of tools.  Nor would the boat hook be of much
use to him.  It would make a dangerous weapon in a
hand-to-hand encounter, if he should be so unfortunate as to
require it, but that was all.

The heat of the sun beating upon him warned him that
he would best get back to the shelter of the cliffs and to his
clothes.  Taking the boat hook, after a last search of the
lockers which revealed nothing, he once more swam the
lagoon, by force of habit taking the planks which had
assisted him before, although now he felt no need of them.

If it had not been for the presence of that woman on the
upland indicating that the island was inhabited, he might
have husbanded the scraps of salt meat which he had
devoured so voraciously, but he reasoned as he ate them that
there must be some way to the top, and that once there he
would find plenty to eat.  That woman could not have
dropped from the clouds to the island.  She or her
forbears must have come up from the sea.  If there were a
way, he would find it.  Retracing his steps, he presently
regained the beach at the foot of the waterfall, and finding
his clothes dry and free from salt, he put them on again
with great comfort and gladness of heart.

Having taken his full meal of fruit, shellfish, and salt
meat on the installment plan, as it were, and having
prudently refrained from drinking his fill, contenting himself
with frequent sips of water, he felt immensely refreshed.
He had moved slowly in his weakness and exhaustion, and
these various undertakings had used up most of the
morning.  He could tell from the sun that it was about noon.
Selecting a spot on the warm, white sand which the sun had
just left, which made a warm and even a luxurious bed for
a man who had lain for how many days he could not tell on
the hard planks and ribs of a boat in the tossing sea, he
threw himself down on his back to rest, intending to begin
his explorations in the afternoon.  He instantly fell fast
asleep.

When he awakened, the sun had set and, looking above
and beyond the rocks that circled above him, he could see
the stars shining in tropic brilliance in the quiet night sky.
He was greatly refreshed by that long, undisturbed sleep
on the warm, yielding sand.  He was also ravenously hungry
again, not famished, but just healthily hungry and thirsty.
It was cool in the great cylinder at the bottom of which he
lay.  He concluded that it would be warmer on the ocean
side where the sun had beaten with full power against the
rock cliffs all day long.  He would pass the night there.
Drinking his fill, and drawing his belt a notch or two tighter,
he found a sheltered spot protected by an overhang of rock
and floored with clean, beautiful sand.  He recalled
whimsically enough Sancho Panza's sage reflection that "he who
sleeps dines."  Promising himself a day of exploration in
the morning, he was soon asleep again.

Before dawn he made his way back to the waterfall.  He
was about to explore the harbor or cup when it occurred to
him to wait until sunrise.  Perhaps she would come
again--that spirit of the island.  With the first break of day as the
splendor of the tropic morning streamed through the rift,
he saw again the same radiant, beautiful, golden figure.
This time he called.  He shouted for help as loudly as he
could, not because he had any idea that his words would be
understood, but he felt that perhaps the appeal in his voice
might be appreciated.  He forgot that in his blue clothes he
was practically invisible to anyone looking down into the
gloom of the deep cup, especially as he stood against the
foot of the darkest wall.  The distance was great, but the
sound of his voice--and it was the first time he had raised
it or even spoken since he had landed--sent wild echoes
flying which were thrown from wall to wall in almost
maniacal ejaculations.  Doubtless, they sounded much louder to
him than to the woman above, but she was conscious of
something unusual, for she started, and as he watched her closely
he saw her peer down into the depths.  Her vision swept the
enclosure, but evidently she had not seen him, and although
he called again and again, he finally desisted as she stopped
her search, perhaps concluding that some wandering seabird
with harsh cry might have sent those echoes flying, for
presently she disappeared as before.

Well, he would solve the mystery of her presence when
he got to the top of the rock, if he ever did.  The first
consideration was breakfast.  The problem remained unsolved.
No kindly brook rolled to his feet another pineapple.  True,
there were the mussels, but of these he ate sparingly.  Then
he took his board and launched out into the waters of the
harbor.  Here and there stretches of beach and piles of rock
had collected at the foot of the cliffs which, for a large part
of their extent, ran sheer down into the water, the blueness
of which showed its depth.  The sea water was warmer than
the air in the hollow, at least until the sun had tempered it,
and the bay was very still.  He swam easily through it,
landing at each stretch of sand or rock, also inspecting,
as he progressed slowly, each fall of cliff that dropped into
the water without breaking.  Here and there practical ways
of ascent seemed to open, but, when surveyed carefully or
tried, they ended at greater or less distance upward.

After a careful survey of the entire enclosure, which
brought him back finally to the beach of the waterfall where
he had started on his little voyage of discovery, he decided
that the only possible way to get to the top was by following
the line of the waterfall.  There was not a great deal
of promise in that; still, as it was the only way, it had to be
tried.  Although he was in much better shape than when he
landed, he was not in good condition for violent efforts or
exercise had it not been for the impelling physical necessities
behind him, to say nothing of the stimulating appeals
to his mind of what must be above him.

The boat hook, which he used as he might have an
alpenstock, proved of the greatest service.  Indeed, he could
scarcely have made the difficult ascent without it.  It was
fortunate for him that he had some experience in mountain
climbing in various parts of the world, and that he rejoiced
in the possession of a cool head, a steady nerve, and a sure
foot.  Part of the time he had to climb right through the
waterfall.  Fortunately, its volume was not great enough
to render that impossible, although in the narrow places
where the water was concentrated, its beat upon him was
tremendous.  Sometimes he would stop on a jutting rock
with the swift waters roaring down on either side of him,
again--in utter despair wondering how it would be humanly
possible to go any further.  Nevertheless, he persevered, his
hope rising higher as he gradually mounted the cliff and
surmounted the difficulties.  Finally, he lost sense of time
and almost everything else.  His whole soul was centered
upon a desperate determination to get upward.

At last he reached the little rift in the rim through which
the water poured.  Wet, bruised, cut, ineffably weary, he fell
rather than lay down upon a smooth rock in the narrow
ravine through which the stream flowed.  He lay there a
long time seeking to recover his breath, his strength, his
nerve.  Finally, he got to his feet again and surveyed the
place.  He was not yet at the top of the cliffs, but he was in
a little ravine which led to the top through which the brook
ran and which presented no difficulties compared to those
he had surmounted.

The ravine twisted and turned as it ran upward, and he
could yet see nothing but rocks ahead of him.  With the
aid of the boat hook, he followed the twisting, turning rift,
or gorge, mounting on easy grades until, at last, he saw
the open entrance before him.  To his great joy and relief,
he discovered that it was framed in the rich and vivid green
of the lush growths of the tropics.  Trees, bushes, blossoms
were there; and, somewhere beyond, a woman!  Light, life,
humanity, Eden!

He was so overcome that he sank down again, but, with
the certain goal before him, he presently rose to his feet and
broke into a staggering run.  He dashed through the
undergrowth, which parted easily before him.  He burst his way
through more tangled vegetation and finally stopped breathless
at the base of a noble palm tree.  Ripe cocoanuts had
fallen.  He had cruised in tropic waters, and the knowledge
he had gained was of service.  He broke one open.  Not
even the pineapple he had found the day before tasted so
delicious.  When he had consumed it, he looked about him.

Yes, this was a paradise.  All about him, the farther side
being several miles straight away, in a rough, circular shape
rose huge walls of stone enclosing the loveliest tropic
landscape his eyes had ever looked upon.  The one rift in these
encircling walls was that through which the brook reached
the sea.  He could mark its line of silver winding about
through the open land before him.  The country was not
level.  It was rolling.  Clumps of tall, graceful palms rose
here and there.

Upon a tree-crowned little hillock, almost in the center of
the vast enclosure, around the foot of which the brook ran,
he saw a little cluster of houses, such buildings as he had
never seen or heard of in the south seas.  Smoke curled out
of a real chimney.  The place had a familiar look to him.
It did not present the appearance of a Polynesian settlement,
yet it was not absolutely unlike such, after all.  Here
and there he marked little stretches of cleared land at the
foot of the hillock that looked strangely like cultivated fields.
Similar gardens bordered the brook.  He rubbed his eyes as
he stared, because he seemed to recognize grain and plants
with which he was familiar.

As his vision, obscured by his emotions for the moment,
cleared, he saw in the distance men and women, brown-skinned
people, but a little lighter than the handsome Polynesians
with which he was familiar.  He heard the bark of a dog.

If this were not the Garden of Eden, it was yet a paradise
to that shipwrecked sailor.  Yes, a paradise, and lo, before
him, even as Eve might have stood before Adam, was the
woman whom he had twice seen bathed in the rays of the
morning, staring seaward from the high cliff where she had
poised herself before his view as a vision--the Spirit of the
Island!





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.. _`THE SPEECH OF HIS FOREFATHERS`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


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   THE SPEECH OF HIS FOREFATHERS

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The woman appeared suddenly before him from behind
a clump of bushes.  She was more surprised than he,
for, having seen her before, he had hoped and expected to
meet her.  Nothing whatever had occurred to suggest to her
his presence on the island.  Besides, he had seen many
women like her, and in the familiar dress of the south seas.
She had never seen a man like him; never a white man; never
a clothed man.  She stopped and stared at him; not in any
alarm, apparently, but in great surprise and astonishment.
She made no movement to approach nearer, and he remained
rooted to his place, as well.  Each one had time to take in
every detail of the other, and this is what he saw:

A young woman obviously just passing out of girlhood.
Her abundant hair was beautifully golden, throwing back in
daring brilliance the bright light of the morning sun.  It
was not dressed after the manner of the savage Polynesian,
but was neatly plaited in thick braids which were twisted
around her head like an aureate crown.  He was near enough
for the details, and he observed that her eyes were as blue as
the tropic sea, and filled with light.  Her slender figure,
practically entirely revealed, for she wore nothing but a
wide spreading petticoat of pandanus leaves which came just
short of her knees, was the very perfection of native grace
and beauty, albeit a trifle immature and, as yet, somewhat
undeveloped.  There flashed into his mind a remembrance
of a day at the museum of the Capitol in Rome, and his
first sight of the marble girl, which has a high place there
and which is supposed to represent the very perfection of
girlhood budding into womanhood.  No marble had the rich
softness of texture underneath firmness and strength that
the skin of this wonderful girl-woman exhibited.  Even the
tropic sun had only slightly mellowed the clear translucence
of her complexion.  A great scarlet flower was placed behind
her ear in her golden hair.  Otherwise, she was absolutely
unadorned.  She was entirely unconscious of her inadequate
attire, and he was unconscious of it, too.  As an ancient
nymph of Greece of old, she fitted into the soft beauty of
the landscape so perfectly that in his eyes, as in her own,
she lacked nothing.  No apparel could have made more
obvious the sweetness, the innocence, the youthful charm
of this graceful, enchanting figure.  That is what he saw on
the heaven-kissing hill on that island.

In her turn, she saw a man who was dark where she was
fair, whose thin and haggard face was covered with a short
growth of new and thick beard and mustache which, nevertheless,
did not hide its fineness; whose sodden, torn, blue
denim clothing could not disguise the strong, vigorous lines
of his well-knit figure; one who was whiter where his
complexion showed, and taller and stronger than any man she
had ever looked upon; whose clothes were as unfamiliar to
her as her lack was unfamiliar to him; who stood erect,
perhaps a head taller than she, and she was counted as a tall
woman on that island, and stared at her with great interest
and delight.  She noticed that he carried a singular looking
staff, the bright brass top of which shone in the light.  He
was like nothing she had ever seen.  He had no advantage
of her in that, except in so far as that charming girl of the
Capitol was concerned.  Obviously she found him distinctly
pleasing.

Controlling his nerves as best he could, he stepped toward
this radiant wood nymph, amicably extending his hands.
Then he brought his palm up to his mouth, intending
thus to convey to her that he was hungry.  In return,
she broke the silence by addressing him.  There was
something extraordinarily familiar in the language she used.  He
had been enough in the South Seas to have picked up a
smattering of dialect, enough to pass; but her speech, while
it was suggestive, was, nevertheless, unlike any native tongue
he had ever heard before.  He could not account for its
familiarity, though he could not understand it.  He only
shook his head, put his hand to his mouth again, and
moved his jaws.  Obviously, she understood this simple
sign language, for she at once nodded to him as she walked
toward him.

She stretched out her hand to him, as she drew near, in a
gesture that was somehow singularly European, and when
his greater palm met her own daintier hand, to his great
astonishment she shook it vigorously in a way totally
different from that of any Polynesian of whom he had ever
heard.  Indeed, although the Polynesians are among the
handsomest and best proportioned people on earth, there was
nothing whatever that suggested a denizen of the South
Sea about the girl, except her costume, or lack of it.

She said something more to him that sounded as familiar
as her first address, but which was as puzzling and
unintelligible as her other speech.  Then she withdrew her hand,
turned, and walked across the grass toward the clump of
trees.  She beckoned him to follow.  Walk, of course, is the
word that must be used to describe her progress; that
monosyllable in this instance covers a multitude of graceful
movements.  To his fancy she seemed to dance across the sward;
to float across it; her small, white feet skimming the grass;
her slender, exquisitely proportioned limbs flashing in the
very poetry of free and unhampered motion.  He found her
back view equally beautiful in its symmetry and slender
grace as the face-to-face impression.

Forgetful of his needs for the moment in his surprise and
pleasure, in the sheer joy of contemplating a thing so
beautiful--a purely esthetic pleasure, without thought of
anything but the sweet innocence and purity of the girl, which
made it impossible to entertain any profaning thoughts,
at least for a clean, decent, young man like Beekman--he
followed her gladly.  Behind the clump of palm trees
ran a path through thick growths of tropic fern and cane
and blooming leafage.  She turned into it, and he had some
difficulty in keeping up with her rapid progress.  She looked
back from time to time to see that he was following, but
otherwise pursued her way without stopping.

After a walk of perhaps a mile, which led through groves
of palm or thickets of undergrowth, or across opens in which
he noticed plants under cultivation that had a singularly
familiar look, although he could not stop to examine them
in that rapid progress, they reached the settlement which
he had observed when he came out of the cleft where the
brook pierced the wall.  Their approach had been marked
for some time, and the whole population apparently had
assembled to welcome them.

There were perhaps forty souls gathered under the palm
trees in front of the curious houses.  As near as he could
estimate, one-third of them were men, mainly old; one-third
of them were women, the most of them past their youth; and
the rest were small, quiet, anæmic looking children.  The
women were clad like his guide.  The men wore breech clouts
or loin cloths.  They ranged in color from a whiteness that
nearly but not quite matched that of the girl to the rich,
golden brown of the Polynesian.  Most of them were
distinctly undersized, not to say stunted.  Old men and women
predominated.  The children were weak looking, decadent.
There was a listlessness about them; a languor greater than
that ordinarily to be found in the tropics.  Even to his first
superficial investigation they presented the appearance of a
degenerate race of people that was dying out.  There was
no look of vigor even about the young, but in nearly every
face a physical and a mental indifference.  Surely here was
an arrival to have raised the wildest excitement in normal
people, but these islanders were almost passive in their
scrutiny, albeit they were deeply interested.

Two figures detached themselves from the group as they
approached, and stood forth prominently.  The first was
a man of great age, venerable, white bearded, white haired,
hoary, wrinkled, bent with many years and the infirmities
consequent thereon.  He walked with difficulty, leaning upon
a staff.  His fellow was the tallest and most vigorous of the
rest of the men.  He appeared to be the most intelligent of
them all.  This is not saying that his intelligence would
have been marked to a European, or that his vigor would
have been noticed elsewhere in the world, but in that
assemblage there was enough difference between him and the rest
to awaken instant attention.  The others were quite hopeless.
The old man would have aroused interest and curiosity
anywhere.  The young man would have passed in a crowd
of Europeans without notice one way or the other.

As they approached, Beekman's glance went from the girl
who led him to the young man.  The two, he observed,
looked at each other with a certain familiarity which bespoke
some sort of relationship.  They exchanged eloquent glances.
He noted that the young man was as much ahead of the rest
of the islanders as he was below the girl.  The old man who
had stepped to the front and stood leaning upon a twisted
sort of staff was the first to speak.

Again Beekman had that strange sense of familiarity with
the words in spite of the fact that he could make nothing of
them.  The girl answered briefly.  The young man joined
in the conversation.  The rest, slowly drawing nearer, spoke
in brief ejaculations from time to time.  Finally, the gentle
tumult subsided, and the old man turned to Beekman and
addressed him directly.  The American shook his head.  The
old man, whose eyes were wonderfully bright and piercing,
stared at him, evidently nonplussed by the situation.
Beekman made the same sign as before, putting his hand to
his mouth and moving his jaws, stretching out his arms,
and then, as an after-thought, he patted his lean and empty
stomach.  It was obvious to the most backward that he was
hungry.  The old man nodded his head vigorously.  He
turned and spoke a few words.  Some of the younger women
walked off in the direction of the huts.  Meanwhile, with a
gesture singularly graceful, the old man beckoned to Beekman
to sit down upon a rude rock bench under a giant palm.

Beekman was a man of great intrepidity, but even if he
had been an arrant coward, there was nothing to cause him
the least alarm.  For one thing, not a single one of the
group had a weapon of any sort, so far as he could see.  He
divined that they had gone to get him something to eat, and
he took his seat readily.  The old man squatted on the grass
at his feet, and the others disposed themselves comfortably
farther away.  Only the young girl and the young man
remained standing near him, and side by side.

Evidently something had seriously displeased the young
man, for he spoke sharply and shortly to the amazed girl,
who waved him away with a look of haughty disdain.  When
the women appeared bearing wooden platters upon which
food was piled, the young woman, who seemed a person in
authority among them, took the first platter and,
approaching Beekman, dropped on one knee with a singularly
graceful movement and extended it to him.  He took it without
hesitation, examined it quickly, discovered it to be some kind
of roast meat, tasted it, striving to remember that he was a
gentleman and must eat as such in the presence of these
people who, whatever their origin, were obviously so gentle
themselves.

The first bite told him what it was.  A piece of roast pig
on an island in the South Seas!  And the next platter was
heaped with such vegetables of Europe as would grow in
tropic lands.  How could these things be there?  The oasis
cup in which he was, like the enclosed bay whence he had
climbed, was more convincingly than ever of volcanic origin.
Shut off for how many years God only knew from all
connection with the rest of the world, peopled by a nondescript
race whose course was almost run--the girl and the young
man evidently throw-backs or freaks of nature which had
reproduced types of the past, much more perfect in the girl
than in the man--what was the explanation of these
mysteries?  Pork--how came it there?  And whence these
vegetables of Europe? those cakes of wheat?  This white girl,
these half- and quarter-breeds--how came they to be?  It
was amazing.  In spite of his hunger, he could hardly eat
at first confronted by such a problem.

A little clicking sound suddenly attracted his attention
from the food as the last bearer presented herself, her hands
full of fruits.  He looked down and discovered that the noise
was made by a pair of wooden shoes which she was wearing,
which had struck against a stone.  A white woman, wooden
shoes, the food of Europe!  He almost stopped eating, and
might have done so had he not been so desperately hungry.
Well, the mystery would add zest to the monotonous life
of the tropics.  He would solve it somehow; the key must be
somewhere on the island; meanwhile there was breakfast.
The food was delicious.  It was somewhat embarrassing to
eat with his fingers; he could cut the meat with his sheath
knife, but he made unpleasant weather of it, as a sailor
would say.

When he had finished, and he played the dual part of Jack
Sprat and his wife, so far as the meat was concerned, for he
cleaned the platter, the old man produced a rudely fashioned
pipe made from some wood unfamiliar to him.  With the
pipe came a wooden box filled with tobacco, and one of the
children, at a word, brought him a stick, the end of which
was a glowing ember, from a fire in some kind of a stone
and clay furnace or oven before the circle of houses.  He
could not believe his eyes at first, and not until he had lighted
the pipe and inhaled the fragrant contents did he know that
it was very good tobacco--the last miracle of that morning,
he thought, but no.  As he leaned back against the palm
tree, smoking in perfect content, the girl herself handed him
a cocoanut shell filled with, very tolerable native wine.  All
he needed for absolute happiness was a book of verses, her
presence, and the withdrawal of the rest of the crowd, he
reflected whimsically, remembering Omar Khayyam.  And
in all this he had not once thought of Stephanie Maynard.

His material wants having been thus attended to, the old
man spoke to the rest, and they slowly withdrew, going
about their several vocations.  It was yet early in the
morning, and he noticed that some of the men and women
proceeded in various directions, carrying what seemed to him
to be rude primitive agricultural implements.  It flashed
upon Beekman that they were going to till the fields, which
were, after all, only garden patches.  No great area under
cultivation was required to support that little handful.  The
dogs, whose bark he had heard, were as friendly as the rest.
Such a thing as passion or anger or hatred seemed out of
place and as foreign to the spot as they might have seemed
in Eden before Eve ate the apple.

The old man, the young girl, and the young man alone
remained with him.  They spoke to one another now and
then, but conversation with him was impossible.  They could
only express their interest by eager and intense staring.  The
old man finally came close to him and examined him.  He felt
of the cloth of his shirt and trousers, looked critically at his
stout leather shoes, expressed great interest in the sheath
knife, broad-bladed and sharp, which he handed to the
young man, who also examined it and who was also much
taken with the bright, brass-headed boat hook.  Beekman
wished that he had some trinket or jewel, something which
he could have given to the girl, but, alas, he had nothing;
not even a finger ring.

While they were examining him, his eyes were roving
about the settlement.  In the first place, he noticed that
instead of being houses of wood, the dwellings were built of
stone, obviously the volcanic rock of the island.  There
were more houses than such a number of people would
require.  He counted a score of huts placed in an irregular
way under the trees.  They were different from any South
Sea island houses he had ever seen or heard of, their only
point of resemblance being the roofs thatched with palm
leaves.  One house in the center of the settlement was much
larger than any of the rest.  Its gable of stone was
surmounted by what appeared to him to be the remains of a
tower.  It was a perfect parallelogram.  He recalled, as he
looked at it lazily, that it was like the Noah's Ark toys of
his childhood.  In the front was a doorway, closed by a
worm-eaten wooden door.  This building, like many of the
others, was overgrown with vines, creepers of which he did
not know the name, some of them brilliant with gorgeous
blossoms.  The doorways of all the other buildings held no
doors.  Woven-grass curtains depended from some of them,
but even they were generally drawn back.  Each house
was provided with a small, roofless, stone porch, a stoop, he
called it, in default of a better name, and there was a
singular European look about them, but a European look
of the past.

Refreshed by his meal and his smoke, and tired of sitting,
he rose to his feet and, followed by the trio, he strolled off
in the direction of the nearest house.  When he would have
entered it, the old man interposed, shook his head gently,
took him by the hand and led him through the village to a
house exactly like the others, but on the outskirts of the
settlement.  He pointed inward, and Beekman divined that
here was the place allotted to him.  He entered.  Plenty of
light came through the windows on either side, although,
they were screened with creepers.  The place was stone
floored, the flooring covered with sand.  It was absolutely
bare of furniture and spotlessly clean.  There was nothing
to be seen, and so he tarried not at all therein.

He turned and, no one opposing, retraced his steps, the
others still following until he reached the little platform in
front of the largest house with the wooden door.  They
were all watching him keenly, and when he stepped up on
the platform and laid his hand on the door, the old man,
with astonishing agility, climbed up beside him, thrust
himself between Beekman and the door, and with rapid speech
and almost fierce gesticulation barred the way.  The young
man joined him also, and, frowning angrily, in spite of a
cry of protest from the girl, who watched them with alarm,
he thrust Beekman back rather violently.  The American
could have handled them both without difficulty; indeed,
given back his strength and vigor, he almost felt he could
handle the whole village, but he had no desire to incur the
animosity of his kindly hosts, and so he stepped back at
once, smiling and bowing as if to apologize for the mistake.

The little outbreak or struggle was over almost as soon
as it had begun.  The only person who seemed very much
annoyed by it was the girl.  Obviously, to the surprise of
the young man, she appeared to be scolding him vehemently,
and in her reprehension the old man was also included.  Of
course, Beekman decided that he would get into that
building as soon as possible.  He was growing more intensely
curious as to the whole situation with every moment, and it
flashed upon him that perhaps the solution of the mystery
was to be found therein.

In the course of the day, during which he was left entirely
to his own devices by the rest of the people, although
vigilantly accompanied everywhere by the three, he tried his
smattering of South Sea *lingua franca*, but without making
himself understood at all.  At noon he was fed again, and in
the afternoon he was glad to go to his own house to take a
siesta, where he now found grass and leaves piled in the
corner with native cloth robes thrown over them.  He slept
until he was awakened by a touch.

The girl bending over him in the faint light of the
evening seemed like an angel or vision.  He rose and
followed her without, discovering that the sun had set and that
the community was about to partake of its evening meal,
which apparently they had in common.  They were standing
around platters of food when he came, and what was his
surprise to see the old man straighten up, stretch out his
hands, and say something which sounded like an appeal to
God, or the gods, while the rest stood with bowed heads.

In the old man's words there was something more familiar
than in any others which had been employed, and as he
stared at the strange scene, the clue to the speech of the
people flashed into his mind.  Among other things in which
old Derrick Beekman had caused his son to be well instructed
had been the language of his forebears.  He had been
thoroughly taught to read and speak Dutch, and, although it
was an accomplishment of which he had made little use, he
had been too well grounded to have lost much of his acquired
facility in the years since he had left college.

The old man was certainly saying some sort of grace-before-meat
in a language which sounded like Dutch, or as
Dutch might have sounded two hundred years ago, and
which bore the same relation to the modern language that
English of that period might have borne to current speech.
No, it bore less relation, because it was debased by an
admixture of some other language which he did not know, but he
was certain that Dutch was at the basis of the speech.  Never
imagining such a thing, he had not made the discovery until
that prayer.  He at once sought to avail himself of his new
discovery.  Carefully choosing his words, he turned to the
girl, who hovered very near him, to the growing disquiet of
the young man, and thus addressed her:

"I know your speech.  It is that my fathers spoke long ago."

He spoke slowly and with the utmost precision.  At the
first word the girl clapped her hands, broke into a smile that
was as beautiful as the features that formed it.  He saw
the flash of her white teeth behind her red lips in the twilight
and her eyes shone brighter than ever.  She clasped his hand
and drew it to her breast in her rapture.

"It is wonderful," she cried.  "You speak as I."

As his hand touched her, as he felt the quickened beat of
her heart, he was thrilled as he had never been thrilled
before.  It needed but the rough gesture of the jealous
young man who tore his hand from hers to complete a
thralldom and an enchantment which had begun, although
he knew it not, when he had seen her poised upon the cliff
above him in the light of the morning.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HOUSE THAT WAS TABOO`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HOUSE THAT WAS TABOO

.. vspace:: 2

Conversation between the islanders and their visitor
was practicable and possible, but at first neither easy
nor fluent.  It would not have been such, even to a Hollander,
but when on the one side there was a certain unfamiliarity
with a language not native to the user, unfamiliarity added
to by the time that had elapsed since he had made use of it,
and on the other side a language which had been largely
forgotten in its nicer usages, and which had been materially
changed by a large admixture of Polynesian, the interchange
of ideas was at first hard.  Still, communication was
possible and not too difficult; indeed, it became increasingly
easy with practice.

The islanders, the monotony of whose sequestered lives
could scarcely be imagined, welcomed the new arrival with
the greatest satisfaction.  However they came there and
whatever the length of their stay, and to neither of these
questions could they give him the slightest answer, Beekman
soon discovered that they had completely forgotten even
such civilization as the world had attained to when they had
left it.  The only traditions they possessed were first of all
a vague and indefinite knowledge of God, whom they
regarded as a species of Great Spirit or Deity, who looked
after them and to whom they must render a certain amount
of respect.  They had no idea of the meaning of the jargon
into which their prayers had degenerated.  Only the idea
of some Spirit as a power to be prayed to and propitiated
remained.  This spirit they called Tangaroa--a purely
Polynesian name.

The only religious observance he noted was that strange
performance before the evening meal.  The sunrise visits
of the girl to the cliff opposite the rift in the harbor whence
she had a view of the sea through the opening for miles, and
in which she never failed, perhaps had some religious
significance, although the girl could not tell him why she did it
or what was meant by it.  Nevertheless, so strangely had
the necessity for the routine been impressed upon the
consciousness of these people that she, being appointed to the
task, followed it without rhyme or reason.  Beekman
suspected that originally it had been a fruitless watch for some
rescuing ship, the meaning of which, like the hope, had
faded out of recollection with the passing years.

The second tradition that remained was that many, many
years ago--how many they could not express---their
forebears had landed on that island.  Where they had come
from, why they had elected that place, why they had never
departed from it, they knew not.

The island and everything on it, with one exception, was
free to Beekman, who wandered whither he would without
let or hindrance.  There was but one spot that was tabooed
to him.  Indeed, they used the Polynesian word "taboo"
when he sought to enter it, and that was the largest building
with the worm-eaten door.

Several times Beekman had left his hut in the night,
intending to gain an entrance to that building surreptitiously,
in the hope of solving the mystery, but at first, to
his great surprise, he had found that his own hut was under
observation of one of the older men or women, who, indeed,
could not have prevented him from doing what he pleased,
but who served as a bar to action, nevertheless, because
Beekman did not want to involve himself in difficulties or to
wound the sensibilities of those who had received him so
hospitably and entreated him so kindly.  Thereupon after
the exchange of a few words, he had invariably returned to
his house, deferring the attempt to some more convenient
season.

The mystery of the dwelling houses was, of course,
explained just as soon as he got the clue to the language
of the people.  They were Dutch houses.  He could reconstruct
some of the story with reasonable certainty.  A party
of Hollanders, accompanied by the natives, had landed on
that island in some long distant period.  The time of their
landing had to be removed far back to account for the
present degeneration through continuous intermarriage.

So far as he could tell, there was no evidence of Polynesian
blood in two of the inhabitants of the island; old Kobo, the
patriarch, and Truda, the young girl.  These were the names
they bore, and Beekman made no difficulty about identifying
them with Jacobus and Gertrude.  As far as he could tell,
they were pure-blooded Dutch.  Kobo, the chief, was the
grandfather of Truda.  There was less Polynesian blood
in Hano, the young man who was destined to be the husband
of Truda, than in any of the rest, but that there was some
was obvious.

There was character, personality, individuality about
these three in varying degrees.  The rest of the islanders
simply filled in and made, as it were, a fading human
background.  They counted for little or nothing.  They were
industrious people in the fashion of the tropics.  They had
evidently brought with them the products of Holland, even
including tulips; and such of them as would grow in the
tropics they had cultivated and continued to cultivate.  They
had not failed to perpetuate all that had ministered to their
human daily needs, even as they had not altogether forgotten
God and things spiritual and mental.

They would not allow Beekman to do any work.  He more
than paid for his board by the wonderful stories he told
them, gathered after the evening meal, when men and women
alike smoked their curious pipes.  There were no books on
the island.  They had completely forgotten how to read.
They had lost all memory of the outside world.  They were
circumscribed, shut in, by the towering walls of the crater,
and their lives had grown correspondingly narrow and
monotonous.  Beekman had to adapt his remarks as if he
were talking to children, and backward children, at that; yet
two at least of his auditors manifested a quick comprehension
and one far surpassed the rest.  The old man and the
young man easily understood, the girl even anticipated.

Kobo was too old to move about much.  Hano had his
work to do with the rest, but by a sort of universal consent
Truda was a free agent.  She and Derrick, at the latter's
suggestion, thoroughly explored the island.  It was due to
him that certain things were rediscovered that had been
forgotten, or, if remembered, considered of no moment.

With the girl as his guide and attendant he made a careful
survey of the vast cup in which they lived.  He was not
much of a geologist, but it was easy to decide that here was
the crest of a volcano, with a double cone, one being the
great cylinder that formed the harbor; this, the smaller, the
narrower, possibly the deeper entrance to the subterranean
fires of long ago, had been filled with water from the sea
through the rift.  Into the other, the greater and shallower
orifice, the earth had come, birds had dropped seeds,
vegetation had sprung up and the oasis resulted.

There was but one source of fresh water on the island, the
great spring that bubbled from a low cone in front of the
palm-covered hillock where the houses were placed.  The
water was fresh, slightly mineral, slightly effervescent at
its exit.  It ran through tortuous channels until it pierced
the encircling wall of rock through a rift, finally falling
over the high cliff to the gulf beneath.  So near as he could
determine, that spring had never failed them.

The surrounding rock walls of the oasis were unsurmountable,
both outside and in, in most places, like the walls of
the harbor.  There were two or three exceptions, however.
There was an easy and practicable path to the place where
he had first seen the girl performing that strange and
mysterious ceremony of greeting, as it were, to the rising sun.
There had been some objection to his going there.  It seemed
to be the custom that she and she alone should make that
trip, but he had insisted and had soon acquired the habit
of going with her every morning.

Through the rift a vast expanse of sea could be seen to
the south and eastward.  They could peer down into the
gulf and mark the white water breaking on the barriers and
the stretch of tossing sea beyond.

"Have you ever seen anything there?" he asked Truda.

"A few times, yes."

"What was it?"

"Smoke as from afar."

"And did you never think what it might mean?"

"How should I?"

"Have you never wanted to get away from this island?"

"What is there beyond?"

"The world."

"What is the world?"

"Love and hate, victory and defeat, failure and
success--life is there!"

"I know not what you mean."

"Yet you are going to marry Hano?"

The girl looked at him curiously.

"When I am ready I must go to his house.  Grandfather
will join our hands.  I shall be his woman."

"Do you like the idea?"

"He was the best before you came.  What else was there
for me?"

"But now that I have come?"

"It is different here," said the girl, laying her hand upon
her heart.

"That is love," said the man.

"And do you feel it?"

This was a question indeed, which, had she been a modern
woman, he might have answered lightly.  There was something
different about this girl.  He hesitated.  He was not
quite sure.  They had retraced their steps and were returning
to the settlement.  In the path suddenly appeared Hano,
his face was black with jealous rage.  He did not lack
courage, for he stopped the two and faced the man.

"I will not have you go with her," he cried.

"I am not yours yet," said the girl, pushing forward and
waving him aside.  "You shall not speak so to my friend."

Beekman had said and done nothing.  With a low,
passionate cry Hano turned and fled.  His time was not yet.

"That is hate," said the man; "jealousy."

"I understand.  He likes you not because I like you and
you like me."

"Yes."

The maiden walked along silent and thoughtful.

"It is a pity that you came," she said at last.

"Why?"

"I was content before."

"And now!"

"It is trouble here," she answered, laying her hand on
her heart again.

"That is life," said the man, but this time she could not
quite comprehend.

She appealed to him as a wild bird might have appealed
to its destined mate in the forest glade ere the nest was
builded.  Indeed, she appealed to him as no woman on earth
ever had appealed to him.  Stephanie Maynard was not a
girl to be disdained by any one, but there, in that idyllic
oasis of the sea, his remembrance of her was as of an
artificial creature, subject to conventions, hampered with clothes,
fettered by circumstances.  And her dark beauty faded into
insignificance compared to the radiant gold of this child of
nature, of innocence, of freedom.

Beekman had no idea where that island lay.  That it had
been unvisited, indeed avoided, by ships was obvious, and
the reason was easy to discover.  From the decks of a ship,
if one by chance passed near it, nothing but arid rock,
surrounded by dangerous reefs, could be seen.  He had climbed,
attended by the faithful Truda, the few other points whereby
one could reach the top of the wall.  There was no gulf or
harbor on any other side.  The walls ran down sharply to
the sea, sloping here and there, but never practicable, and
about all was flung the great encircling barrier reef upon
which assaulting waves ever surrounded the desolate looking
peak of rock with a ring of white foam and spray, as marked
and as beautiful in the cobalt sea as it was dangerous to a
ship.  He doubted if even a great beacon fire upon the wall
would attract a ship.  If it were seen it might be deemed
only a recrudescence of volcanic fires.  It seemed to him
that he might perhaps pass the rest of his life there.
Certainly he would, unless he could devise some way to get off
unaided.  He did not reflect that perhaps he might
eventually be sought if the boatswain ever got word to New
York.  Even if a ship were sent to find him, the chances of
success would be so faint as to be negligible.  The prospect
was appalling, would have been insupportable but for Truda.

Why should he not take her for his own, willing or unwilling
though the islanders might be, pleased or displeased
though Hano might show himself?  Although she could not
describe it, the girl had grown passionately devoted to him
in that brief but most familiar intercourse and intimacy, that
was as close as could obtain.  He felt sorry for Hano in a
way, the only man on the island who might have aspired to
this beautiful maiden, when he found himself suddenly thrust
back, his place taken by this stranger; for Hano life, which
had been so fair, became horrible.

With fiery energy Hano paid more direct court to Truda.
He protested vehemently to Kobo.  He sought to enlist the
sympathies of the other men and women on the island and
perhaps succeeded to some extent, but not to the point of
open resistance.  The islanders looked up to Hano, but they
looked up much more to Truda herself, whose beauty and
purity of blood particularly appealed to them, and they
were mightily afraid of stern old Kobo, who seemed to have
the determination of matters in hand, and who was much
attracted to this new inhabitant cast up by the sea upon
their shores.

As the days slipped by, as his association with the maiden
revealed more and more a simplicity of mind, a tractability
of soul, a brightness of spirit, a quickness of intellect, that
accorded with her absolute physical perfection, Beekman
became more and more in love with her.  He set himself to
teach her to speak English, and she learned with the facility
of a child.  He could not teach her to read or write.  He had
no material for either, but he opened to her his well-stored
mind.  There was little else to do, in fact, and the two sat
together for hours, the woman receiving, the man giving.
The fact that she soon learned to speak in English added
to the awe in which most of the islanders held the girl,
increased the hatred of Hano, and at last aroused the
suspicion of the patriarch.

Beekman was careful of the feelings of his new friends,
but when it came to a question between their feelings and
the woman he loved it was not difficult to see that everything
else must give way.  In all these idyllic days the American
had held fast to his purpose of getting into that building,
which was the only spot from which he was barred, in order
that he might solve the mystery of the presence of this
people on the island, the key to which he was sure would be
found there.

One circumstance whetted his curiosity more than any
other thing.  On the night of the full moon every month
old Kobo disappeared.  Questioning Truda, he discovered
that always at that period in the month old Kobo spent the
day alone in the tabooed building.  Truda did not know
why.  She could not tell what he did there, but it was the
custom, and when Kobo died the next oldest man would do
the same.  The rest of the people were not allowed in the
building during the day, but before nightfall the door was
thrown open.  Kobo stood in the doorway and beckoned.
The people had been waiting and they all, down to the
smallest child, walked in.  Truda came last, but when
Beekman would have followed, Hano shut the door in his face.
Whatever the rite that was being observed, it was evidently
not meet that he, a stranger, should see it, much less
participate in it.

They stayed in the building a long time, long after nightfall,
and their supper that night was something in the nature
of a feast.  It was late when they retired.  It seemed to
Beekman that they would be heavy with sleep and that
perhaps such a night would afford him an opportunity to get
into that building.  He bided his time.  He was careful to
say nothing whatever which would arouse any suspicions.
He did not even ask the meaning of the strange ceremony
when he bade Truda good night and went into his own house
some months after his arrival at the island.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MOONLIGHT MIDNIGHT MADNESS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   MOONLIGHT MIDNIGHT MADNESS

.. vspace:: 2

In order effectively to lull suspicion, after the first
few weeks on the island, Beekman had made no attempt
at all to approach the forbidden building, not even by day.
He rightly judged that the listless people of the island
would presently tire of their unwonted night duty and the
watch would be abandoned eventually.  Nevertheless, he
neglected no precaution on that particular night as he stole
out of his house.  The tropic moon filled the sky with
splendor and the island with light.  It was easy for him,
however, to keep in the dark shadow of the palm trees.

Walking with the utmost circumspection and care and
looking about him constantly for any possible watcher, he
at last reached the platform whence he had been so violently
thrust on the day of his arrival.  The building was placed
in such a way that the platform was in deep shadow.  He
stepped up on it and tried the door.  It did not give to his
pressure, and although he finally thrust against it with
all his strength, which was considerable now that he was
completely restored to health and bodily vigor, it remained
immovable.

He had examined the door carefully as he had passed it
many times, and he now decided that it must be secured
inside by bars of wood in slots.  There was no latch or lock
outside of it.  Only old Kobo knew its secret.

Balked there, he stole around the building, taking care
to keep on the side away from the moon.  He hoped that
there might be another entrance at the back.  If he could
find one it would be better for him to get in that way,
rather than by climbing through one of the windows, which
were much higher from the ground than those of the
ordinary houses of the settlement.  That method of entrance
indeed presented no difficulty to an active man, especially
as he would be aided by the creepers, but to attempt it was
apt to attract attention and, therefore, it must only be
resorted to in default of any better plan.

He followed the wall carefully, turned the rear corner of
the building and discovered, what he had half suspected,
beneath a screen of vines and leafage an opening set low
down near the ground.  He parted the vines and peered
into the thick darkness within.  There was, of course,
absolutely nothing to be seen.  He had no means of making a
light.  For a moment he had an idea of going back to the
oven, a Dutch oven, he called it now, where a fire was
constantly kept burning, to kindle a torch.  He decided that
would be too risky and had just made up his mind to venture
into the black pit that yawned before him, not a single
detail of which was visible, when a hand fell lightly on his
shoulder.

He turned, clenched his fist and then let his hands fall as
he saw in the shadow the familiar face and figure of Truda.
She laid her finger upon her lips, turned, took a few steps
away from him, looked back and beckoned to him.  He
followed her instantly.  There was something so emphatic and
suggestive in her gesture and bearing that he could do
nothing else.  Besides, he was never so happy as when in
her presence, and she had never looked so beautiful to him
as then in the shadow, seen wraithlike, against the bright
moonlight beyond.  The exploration of the building could
wait.

One remarkable thing he had noticed about Truda was the
soundlessness with which she moved.  She never seemed to
break a twig or rustle a leaf as she passed.  There was
something fairylike in her motions.  It gave him an eery feeling
to see her wavering in the moonlight before him like the
shadows of wind-blown leaves.  He followed after, using
the same caution as before.  He wondered whither she would
lead him and what would be the end of this adventure.  He
had become measurably familiar with the island paths during
his sojourn of several months upon it and he soon realized
that she was leading him to that point of vantage whence
every morning it was her duty to watch the sea.  It seemed
to him an appropriate and beautiful place for a midnight
tryst, and he followed her with a beating heart, gladder for
every step he took.  He did not attempt to overtake her.
Indeed, he had tested her before, and for short distances she
was fleeter than he; besides, although they were now far
from the settlement, the spell of the night was upon them
with all its mystery.  They must make no noise on any
account.  He did not possess her power of silent motion.
She put her feet down by instinct, he by calculation.  This
handicapped him.  Besides, he was quite content to follow.

Meanwhile, he redoubled his care.  One never knew, he
thought, when Hano might appear, and old Kobo had a
habit of presenting himself suddenly at unexpected moments.
So they went on and on.  He felt like the fabled knight of
old, who pursued fleeting Fortune.

They came at last out from the shadow of the trees, left
the embrace of the jungle, and mounted the rocky, narrow
path, which led to the crest of wall, and it was not until
that crest was reached that he joined her.  The wall was
broad, smooth, and level where they stood.  It was a sort of
little amphitheater, and there were blocks of stone, which
made convenient resting places.  When he had seen them
before he almost come to the conclusion that it had been
artificially arranged.  At any rate, it was admirably adapted,
both as a place from which to watch the sea and as a place
for lovers' meeting in a midnight-moonlight hour.

She did not offer to sit down and the two stood side by
side gazing seaward.  Beneath them the cliffs fell sheer into
the cuplike bay, its bottom stygian in its blackness.  The
descending walls of the great cylinder were lost in that
darkness.  Their upper edges cut a sharp silhouette against
the light sky.  He had tried several times to get to the
points of the walls on one side or the other of the rift, but
there was no passing.  The place where they stood was not
only the best, but the only place from which to survey the
cup itself and through the rift the great sea beyond.  The
moonlight streamed in a broad bar through the upper part
of the opening and threw the upper wall on one side into
high relief.  He noticed that, were the moon in a certain
position, which it was now rapidly approaching, it would
flood the whole cup with light as the morning sun did, but
it had not yet reached that place in the heavens, and save
for that one portion of the opposite wall the Egyptian
darkness still prevailed.

The effect of the light beyond the rift was tremendous.
They could see clearly a stretch of the barrier reef through
the opening.  Mighty waves broke over it.  Huge rollers
fell upon it.  They could hear faintly in the silence of the
tropic night the crash of the tumultuous silver seas rushing
through the jagged needles of the barrier.  That was the
only sound that came to them, unless they could hear the
beat of their own hearts.

They stood and stared at the enchanting picture in silence.
The communion of equal appreciation, of sympathy, of
love, was the tie that bound.  The same throb of passion filled
the breasts of the man and the woman.  It was she who spoke.

"I cannot remember," she whispered, attuning her voice
to the soft silence of the night, "a morning on which I
have not stood here, but this is the first time that I have
ever come at night."

"The first time," whispered the man, passionately, "and
with me!"

He had made little secret, none at all, indeed, of his
admiration for her, but this time there was a new note of
rapturous admiration in his low whisper, to which her soul
vibrated.  She looked at him quickly, shrinking away a
little.  His arm went swiftly toward her and caught her
slender wrist.  He drew her to his breast.  In his arms she
felt the heart throb, which she had before inferred.  She
struggled a moment and then yielded to the quick passion
with which he drew her to him.  She upturned her face and
for the first time he kissed her.  They had lost the habit
of kissing, these forgotten people, and no one had ever
pressed her lips before.

"What is that?  What is it that you do?" she whispered
when she could command speech.

"I kiss you," he answered.

"I know not that word.  What does it mean?"

"It means that I love you, that I am yours and you are mine."

"It is very sweet," said the girl, artlessly.  "Once more."

She lifted her lips to his in innocent invitation, which
indeed he did not need.

"It was not for this," she murmured at last, "that I
brought you here, although it makes me very happy, and I
am glad we came."

"I, too, am glad," said the man, a little unsteadily; "but
why did you bring me here?"

"It was death for you to go in that house."

"Death?  Whence would it come?"

"The spirits.  None goes there but the oldest man, except
on the day of the full moon, when we all come in, but we
stay near the door, while only Kobo goes to the further
end."

"What does he there?"

"I know not.  The spirits speak to him.  Our faces are
hidden.  No one goes into the building except then.  It is
taboo, death.  I do not know what they would do to you if
they caught you there," she went on, switching from the
spirits to the living with wondrous facility.

"Truda," said the man, "I have no desire to anger your
gods, but I must go there.  You do not know how you
came here."

"Kobo says that many, many, many moons ago, so great
in number that no one can count them, our ancestors came
from across the sea.  That is all."

"I want to find out why they came and all about them and
I feel that I can find out there.  The great God I worship,
who has preserved me from all the perils of the deep, will
watch over me.  I must go there."

"But not tonight.  It is the one night when Kobo sleeps
within.  The spirits obey him.  I know not what they
might do."

"Tonight," answered Beekman, "I have better occupation."

"And what is that?"

"To be here with you, to love you with none by to look
or listen."  He pointed to a low, broad shelf of rock.  "Sit
there," he said, "and I will sit here at your feet."  Throwing
himself down, he leaned his elbow on her knee and looked
up at her.  "Do you know," he continued, "there is a land
far across the sea, a land of brave men and beautiful women?
They speak your language.  Your fathers must have come
from there as mine did.  I want to find out.  Some day we
shall get back to the world and that land, you and I.  I
want to know all about you."

"That you are here, that I love you, is enough for me
to know," whispered the woman, caressing his head with
her hand.

He kissed the pretty palm and smiled up at her as he
answered.

"But that is not enough for me."

"You say there are other women in that land?"

"Many."

"How is it called?"

"Holland.  It is a low country that borders the sea."

"And those women, they are beautiful?"

"Many of them."

"Would you love me if you should see others here?"

The man laughed.

"You are the most beautiful woman on this island."

"Yes," said the girl, simply.

"And in the world," he whispered.  "But no matter
how others might look, they would be nothing to me."

And again he gave no thought to Stephanie Maynard
nor to any other woman in the lands far away beyond the
seas.  She smiled down at him.

"It is good to hear you say that."

"It is my turn now," he went on.  "There are other men
there, bigger, stronger, wiser, handsomer men than I.  When
you shall see them--"

"I shall never see any one but you anywhere all my life,"
answered the girl, simply.

"But Hano?"

"I was to marry him only because he was the best."

"And if you found one better than I?"

"There could be none."

"I shall do my best to keep you in that belief," answered
Beekman.  "Oh, Truda, beautiful, innocent little Truda,
when I lay starving, dying on that barrier yonder, my hands
red with the blood of men, parted apparently forever from
all that made life worth while to me, I cursed my fortune
and would fain have died, but now--"

"But now?" whispered the girl.

"Now I have passed from death unto life, for you are
worth it all.  I am glad to tell you so on this very spot.
Here where I saw you first.  Look," he said, rising and
drawing her up close to him.  They stepped to the very
brink of the cliff.

The whole great cup was now brilliantly illuminated by
the moonlight, which streamed straight through the rift and
turned the black water far beneath them into a still mirror of
polished silver.

"I see."

"I lay there on the sand, half-fainting, half-dead, staring
upward at these grim, forbidding walls, when, as the
sunlight broke through the rift, I saw you for the first time.
I never had seen anything so beautiful, so dazzling to the
eye.  I was doubtful whether you were a human being even.
I thought you might be some vision, some spirit of the air,
some messenger from the sun."

"Do the men in that world whence you came all talk like
you, Beek--man?" queried Truda, using the only name she
knew him by.

"None," answered the man, "because none of them have
ever seen you."

In such sweet and passionate converse the night hours
drew on unmarked until the gray light on the horizon
bespoke the coming of dawn.

"We must go back," said the girl, withdrawing herself
for the last time from the sweet embrace.  "I would not
have any one find us here.  In the morning I shall tell Kobo
that I will have no other man but you."

"Let us wait," said the man, "until I have visited that
building and wrested from it the secrets that must be there,
then we shall tell him and you shall be my wife."

"I know not that English word yet, but you will be my
man, and I will be your woman when Kobo, without whom
these things cannot rightly be, shall have worshipped the
spirits and said the words."

"It is well.  You say Kobo only sleeps in the building this
one night?"

"That is all."

"Tomorrow we shall try it again."

"I will come with you," said the girl, "although I am very
fearful."

"And those spirits?" smiled the man.

"If they hurt you they must hurt me, too; for without
you," she went on frankly, "I cannot live upon this island."





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.. _`THE KISS THAT WAS DIFFERENT`:

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   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE KISS THAT WAS DIFFERENT

.. vspace:: 2

Now, Truda was terribly afraid to visit the mysterious
house--one doesn't get rid of a taboo inherited
through two hundred years in a night--but her timidity
had been somewhat modified by the indifference with which
the man she loved and whom, she revered as a god, viewed
the whole situation, at least from a supernatural standpoint,
and, as of old, knowledge was power.

Her intercourse with Beekman had been immensely enlightening.
Latent reserves of quality, inherited capacities long
dormant, had been summoned to the surface and quickened
into action by his converse, and by their association so
intimate and so sweet.  Although the period of their intimacy
had not been long, yet it was not alone in matters of the
heart that Beekman had devoted himself to her enlightenment.
At first he had tried to teach her everything, but,
realizing the bewilderment that must follow such a process,
he had striven to systematize his instruction in order that
she might grow in wisdom if not in stature, and that he
might introduce her gradually to the heritage of the present.
The results of the process had been wonderful.

The progressive degeneration, resultant of close inbreeding,
which had brought most of the islanders to so low a
point physically and mentally, seemed to have been reversed
in her by some curiously interesting and delightful freak of
nature.  It was easy to see that she possessed an unusual
mind, and that, given a chance, she could take her place
in the front rank of intelligence and capacity.  Rarely had
so fascinating a task of writing what one would upon an
unmarred slate been presented to any one, and Beekman
entered upon it eagerly and pursued it with zest.  He was
very human; he was a man, this woman was clearly his in
any way he wished her to be.  There was temptation in the
knowledge.  He realized it, fought it down, wondering if he
could or would strive against it always.  He could foresee
that it would grow stronger as the intimacy deepened.  He
feared that in the end--

To create is the supremest joy of humanity, in that effort
he comes nearest to realizing the measure of the divinity
that is in him.  There are no people so happy as those who
achieve things in art, science, literature, government,
business, what you will.  The loveliest of playthings, the most
promising subject for experiment had been put in
Beekman's hands.  She was his to make what he would.
Naturally, he fell in love with her, and not alone with her
beauty of face and figure, her transparent purity and the
sweetness of her childlike innocence, although these were
enough to have bewitched any man, but with the other
qualities that he saw budding and blossoming under his
touch.

So while Truda could not shake off the inherited fears of
so many decades in a moment, yet two things materially
modified them; her growing consciousness of a self in her
other than the mere animal, and her great trust and devotion
to the man for whom she had conceived and entertained an
instant passion even greater than that he lavished upon her.
These made her the more willing to brave the mysterious
terrors of the tabooed hut.  She had been in the building a
number of times on ceremonial occasions, and her curiosity
had been sufficient to enable her by furtive glances to
master many details, which she told him frankly, and which
he declared would be of great help to them in their
investigations.

By agreement the two met early in the evening, for the
people of the island were accustomed to go to sleep with
the dark, and, as a rule, an hour after sunset the place was
as quiet as at midnight.  The moon had not yet risen, which
contributed to their desire for concealment.  Warned by his
experience of the night before, Beekman made no effort at
the door, but, followed by his timid yet confiding companion,
he boldly entered the opening at the rear.  Light, of course,
was out of the question.  A torch from the fire was possible,
but the risk of getting that was too great for the attempt
to be made.  He had provided himself with a long, slender
staff and with this he felt about until he satisfied himself
that he was in a small, unpaved enclosure, or room.  Having
assured himself that no pitfall or gulf was in the floor by
means of his staff, he laid his hand upon the wall and walked
cautiously along it.

Truda, of course, had never entered this end of the
building.  She had never even peeped in as she passed by,
and she could aid him not at all.  Indeed, she clung to him
with terror, which, in spite of her efforts, grew with every
silent, slow-passing moment.  Beekman had an idea there
must be some connection between this chamber and the main
floor of the building.  He could tell that he had descended
below the level of the floor in entering and on lifting
his staff he discovered that the ceiling was just above his
head.

His anticipations were realized, for at the far end he
found an opening just wide enough to admit a man.  He
felt the walls on either side of the opening, and with his
staff discovered steps beneath his feet, leading upward.
He stepped into the opening, cast his eyes upward and
discovered a faint light above his head.  Assured, he mounted
boldly, Truda still following, and, after a short ascent, he
stood on the floor of the building at the end opposite the
main door.

The moon had just risen.  Indeed, he had timed his
entrance with that in mind, and although the unglazed
window openings were covered with a thick overgrowth of vines,
enough light filtered through to enable him to see sufficiently
clearly.

He found himself in a stone-paved room, about twenty
by forty feet.  About ten feet from where he stood a low
wall, or balustrade, of the soft, easily cut stone, with which
the island abounded, ran across the narrower axis.  There
was an opening in the middle of this wall.  The floor on
his side of the balustrade was raised several steps above the
main floor.  In the center of the end to his right, as he
looked toward the entrance door, was a pile of stones,
roughly squared with a flat top.  On this pile of stones lay
two dark objects, one on either end.  Between the two dark
objects on the central pile something rose above the stone
table.  On the further side of it blocks of stone were piled
against the wall in rude semblance of a seat.

Now, there was apparently nothing in the building to
alarm any one, yet Beekman found his heart beating rapidly
as he stood there, the shrinking girl by his side, clasping
his arm with a fierce and passionate grasp that bespoke her
trepidation.  It was absolutely silent within.  The gentle
night wind outside slightly stirred the long palm leaves, but
no breeze penetrated within and no sound of their rustling
was heard.  It was slightly cold in the building, although
the night was warm, with all the languorous, drowsy heat of
tropic midsummer.

Truda was obviously in a state of panic and Beekman
might have been infected therewith, but he shook himself
together, deciding that action was the best remedy for the
situation.  He made a step toward the pile of stones.  Truda
clutched him more tenaciously than ever.  She even threw
her arms about him.

"Oh, don't go," she whispered.  "It is taboo."

"Nonsense," answered Beekman, sinking his voice to meet
hers, "there's nothing here to hurt us.  Have I not told
you of the power of my God?"

"Yes, yes, but He is far away in the sky; our God is here."

"Wherever He is He can protect me and you," he said as
one may humor a child.  He unclasped her arms and slipped
his own arm about her waist, whereat she took some comfort.
"Come, we shall see," he added.

He half led, half carried the girl toward the pile of stone
until he stopped before it.  The light from the moon came
stronger.  He saw the tall object, the top of which had been
in the shadow now fully revealed.

"Why, it is a cross!" he exclaimed, under his breath,
greatly surprised at this sacred emblem of religion.

"What is a cross?"

"The sign of my God.  This is His house."

"Then your God and my God are the same," whispered
the girl.

"I believe so.  You see," he continued, "nothing has
happened to us."  He laid his hand on the altar, "this must
have been a place where your people who came from beyond
the sea worshipped God."

It was, indeed, obvious that this was the primitive
church of those first settlers upon the island where they
had performed their simple rites, the simulacrum of
which in uncomprehended words of prayer had alone survived
the centuries of isolation and separation from their
kind.

Beekman marveled that he had not thought of it before;
but who could have expected to find a Christian church
on an unvisited island in the South Seas, even though it
was obvious that some, at least, of the present denizens
thereof were white people, or had white blood in their veins?
That ruined tower-like structure topping the front gable,
at which he had wondered, had evidently been a belfry,
and perhaps it too had carried a cross.  Well, that
cross-like tower had fallen away, but here, on what was surely a
rude altar, in a fair state of preservation, stood the rudely
fashioned symbol of the faith, even though it was made of
frailer, more perishable wood.

Beekman was not a religious man, but even an atheist
might have succumbed to the influences of such a place.
He felt the cross reverently with a tender touch, confirming
his eyesight; and then, where old Kobo knelt uncomprehendingly,
following the customs of the past, he reverently
knelt down.  He rested his hands on that altar and bowed his
head to it.  After a moment, awe-struck Truda followed
his example and knelt by his side.

What did he pray knowingly?  What did the woman
pray ignorantly?  The man, that he might have strength
to be a clean man, still to cherish and be faithful to high
ideals in a land of no ideals; to observe the laws of God
in this place where there were no laws of man, to act
honorably toward this sweet and trusting child by his side; to
take no advantage of her ignorance, her innocence, her
devotion.  Yes, he prayed for strength, and he prayed
for deliverance from the island, that he might take her back
to her own kind, that he might add to the graces she
naturally enjoyed the refinements and good things of a
civilization which he alone, ragged, tattered castaway that he was,
had enjoyed and knew the meaning of.  And he did not
forget to pray that his hands might be cleansed of the
blood of man that was upon them.

The woman had not been taught to pray, that is, not
meaningly.  She knew of few material things for which to
ask in that island so bountifully provided by nature, and the
spiritual was still vague and voiceless in her heart; but
for one thing she could petition whatever power there
was above her, who somehow to her untutored mind seemed
present and about her.  She prayed that the man she loved
might love her and use her well--the natural prayer of
woman!

After a little time Beekman rose in better heart than he
had been since he had been cast upon the island.  He drew
Truda to her feet, and there before the altar, confronting
the cross, he kissed her, not with the passion and fire of the
night before, or of the warm, languorous afternoons when
they wandered amid flowers and blossoms 'neath groves of
palm.  There was something sacramental in the touch of
his lips.  There, that night, at that hour, in that temple
so sacred to her, the girl became a woman.  With quick
apprehension she felt the difference which she could not
explain.

"Your God is a very great God,", she whispered, breaking
the seal of that kiss.  "He shall be my God."  She
laid his hand upon her heart under the soft, sweet round
of her immature, innocent breast.  "I feel here that He
has spoken."

"May His blessing be upon you, and may He deal with
me as I with you," said Beekman, deeply moved.

"We must go," said the girl at last, her heart voicing
the "amen" she knew not how to speak.

"Wait, I must examine these," returned the man, releasing her.

He bent toward the dark objects on the altar.  The first
touch of his hand told him what they were--books!  The
light was too dim for him to make out what books, yet as
he lifted the cover and turned the leaves of the one on the
right he decided that it was a printed volume.  He examined
the one on the left in the same way and decided that it
was a manuscript volume.  One would be the Bible, of
course; the other, longer and thinner, less bulky, the
manuscript volume that would tell the story.

He picked them both up and tucked them under his arm.
Truda had told him that the church would not be entered
until another month had passed and the full moon came
again.  He could replace them in good time.  He must
examine them at his leisure.

"Do you think it well to take those things from your
God?" whispered the girl.

"One," said the man, "is His story.  In it He tells us of
Himself."

"And do those things speak?" she asked, wonderingly.

"To him who understands, yes."

"And do you understand?"

"Yes."

"But I cannot."

"I shall teach you.  Come."

Quietly as they had come, they descended to the chamber
of entrance and made their way without.  They separated
in the shadow of the church, and this time Beekman did
not offer to kiss her; but the maiden took no discomfort
or grief from that.  She understood.  He pressed her hand
in farewell, and the warm splendid vigor of his clasp she
carried away with her.  Indeed, she lifted the hand that
he had grasped to her cheek.  She laid her head upon that
hand when she gained her hut, where she soon fell asleep
to dream of him.

He had got the precious books.  He was consumed with
curiosity and interest, but there was no light by which he
could read them.  He would not dare to stand out in the
moonlight, which was bright enough at least to enable him
to identify the books.  Someone might see him.  He must
wait until the morning.  He hid the books in a heap of dry
fern and rushes that made his bed, and lay awake for a
long time longing for the day.





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.. _`THE MESSAGE OF THE PAST`:

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   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MESSAGE OF THE PAST

.. vspace:: 2

The next morning so soon as day broke he turned to
his treasure trove.  He could do this without fear,
since one of the customs of the island, which had never
been broken save the first time that he had been summoned
from slumber, was an inviolable respect for the dwelling
places of the islanders.  None entered another's hut
unbidden.  The curtain dropped before the door was a sign
that the dweller would be alone, and it was as strong a
barrier to alien entrance as the taboo about the temple.
Was the instinctive protection of privacy a heritage of the
past, too?

The larger, more bulky book was, as he had suspected.
an ancient Bible printed in old Dutch which he could make
shift to read largely because what he was reading was more
or less familiar to him.  It was leather-bound, brass-clasped,
and, though it was mildewed and decayed, the stout paper
and the honest ink and the clear type had resisted the ravages
of time in a way that would not be possible even in the best
bound and printed of modern books.

He laid the Bible reverently aside after quick examination
and turned to the other volume.  This also was leather-bound,
its pages written over in the same old-fashioned
Dutch.  It was much harder to read, but a glance told him
what it was.  It was a ship's log book.  There were weather
records, observations, nautical comments, and remarks; he
glanced at these and then fell to the story.  In it he knew
would be found the solution of the mystery of the presence
of Truda and all the rest on the island.

It was with beating heart that he pored over the first
page.  In after years Derrick Beekman made a fair
translation of that wonderful volume which he had printed upon
the finest parchment paper at the most exclusive printery
in the land in a limited edition for his friends and his
descendants, and he presented some of the copies to the
great libraries of the world, where the curious can inspect
them and read the story in full.  It is sufficient now to
say that this was the log of the ship *Good Intent*, which
Beekman decided to be the English equivalent of the quaint
Dutch name.  The *Good Intent* had belonged to the Dutch
East India Company, and early in the seventeenth century
had set sail from Holland with a good crew commanded by
Captain Adrian Harpertzoon Van Rooy.  With him,
according to the enumeration, came his brother, Jacobus Van
Rooy, and a number of other sailors, with a few soldiers
and a supercargo, Hendrick Handen.  The soldiers were
to garrison a factory in the East Indies, and they were
accompanied by their wives; and it further appeared that
Captain Van Rooy had brought with him his wife, Gertrude.

The long voyage to the Indian Ocean had been made
without untoward events until a storm had dismasted the ship
and she had sprung a leak, after tremendous and
uncontrolled rolling.  They had patched up the leak, rigged a
jury mast, and had driven before the wind--their only
way of sailing.  They had picked up, near one of the
islands, a native canoe containing nearly a score of
Polynesian men and women.  The canoe was in bad shape and about
to founder.  Captain Van Rooy had charitably received
the natives aboard his own almost wrecked ship.  It was
impossible for him to land them in that storm, and they had
wit enough to see that their only chance lay in going with
him or sinking.

After sailing many days, the *Good Intent* was run into the
vast cuplike harbor.  Evidently there had been an opening
through the barrier reef at that time.  They had beached
her and made their way to the top of the island, which
they found uninhabited, but fertile and teeming with plant
life.  They had stripped the ship of her cargo and
equipment, and it had been Captain Van Rooy's intention to
build a boat out of her when his heterogeneous company
had recovered from the hardships of the terrible voyage,
during the latter part of which they had suffered greatly
from the dreadful scourge of scurvy; but some catastrophe
had swept the hulk out of the harbor and had blocked up
the opening in the reef.  Beekman could not gather what
it was, an earthquake or a tidal wave.  Whatever it was,
Captain Van Rooy had been marooned with a dozen surviving
Dutch soldiers and sailors and his brother and mate
Jacobus; Handen, the supercargo; with eight women, the wives
of as many soldiers, and the captain's own wife, together
with half a dozen Polynesian men and twice as many women.[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] There is historic parallel to this incident in a similar settlement
of Dutch and natives on the little Island of Kissa, where they were
left unvisited and forgotten for over two hundred years.--C.T.B.

.. vspace:: 2

The book described in detail the building of the settlement.
The stone was easily quarried.  They were solid and
substantial people, these Dutchmen.  They had built their
houses in that way.  They had built a church, too; had
endeavored to act as civilized, God-fearing Christians should.
The counting of time had soon been lost.  Entries in the
log book, at first very full, grew more and more infrequent.
There was, indeed, little to note.  Nothing happened.  Life
was as monotonously pleasant then as now.  They had saved
seeds and plants, and some European animals such as dogs
and pigs--the animals multiplied; the seeds, being planted,
grew and offered a welcome supplement to the fruits of the
tropic island.

By and by the entries were confined to records of
marriages, births, deaths.  The Polynesian men appeared to
have died first.  Captain Van Rooy, while he lived, had
acted as the schoolmaster and the spiritual leader of the
inhabitants.  He had married them in due and proper form.
Their marriages were recorded in the log book.  The births
of their children were entered.  He had allotted to these
records a section of the book which was even yet not full.
It was possible to trace the lines of descent of different
families for as many as six generations.

When he had died, others, obviously less skillful with the
pen, less well informed, but with good intent, took up the
task of keeping the records.  Beekman afterwards made
calculations based upon the probable duration of lives, and
found that they had managed to keep the record, although
more and more imperfectly, until the birth of old Kobo,
the present patriarch of the island, who was Truda's
grandfather--descendant of the first Jacobus, certainly.  Of
course all of these things did not come to Beekman at once,
but gradually.  As the summary of his investigations is
alone necessary for this history, they are set down.

He discovered that old Captain Van Rooy had alone
among the Dutchmen apparently been proud of his line,
and had kept his children and grandchildren from any
intermarriage with those who had Polynesian blood in them.
Evidently the custom, or his habit, had become a fetish
for his descendants; for in so far as it was possible, and
Beekman noted this with delight, in one family at least the
pure Dutch blood had been maintained.  It was not possible
to avoid all admixture, but there was less of it in Jacobus
and Truda than in any other dwellers upon the island, and
next to her and old Jacobus in the purity of blood was Hano
of the supercargo's line, although his strain did not compare
with that of the woman.

The records of the first fifty years on the island were
fairly complete, but after that there was only the register
of marriages, births, and deaths among these people whom
the world forgot, and by whom it was soon apparent the
world itself was forgotten.

The joy which filled Beekman's heart as he disentangled
the story from the confusions of the blurred, faded,
time-worn records of the past which he had discovered,
indicated to the man the depth of his feeling for Truda.  He
had to the full the white man's pride in and sense of
superiority to any other race, and the unpleasant thought
that the woman who was so impregnably entrenching
herself in his heart had any large admixture of Polynesian
blood had been one against which he had struggled, with
not a great deal of success.  To be sure, that objection
did not bulk very large upon an unknown island in the
South Seas; it would be no bar whatever to any irregular
connection, which would have been natural enough with
most men under the strange circumstances in which he found
himself.  But Beekman was of a different breed.  He
honestly loved the girl with a passion which was sufficiently
great to consider her future before his own gratification.
Inevitably, while pondering any real and lasting future
relationship with her, he realized that her purity of
blood--white blood, that is--would be a much more important
consideration when they got back to civilization, if they
ever did.  And in the case of children, if any ever came,
a preponderance of Polynesian blood might create an
almost unbearable situation.

Beekman had not a particle of the spirit of the
beachcomber.  The good blood of decent, God-fearing America
at its best pulsed in his veins.  Nothing would have induced
him to settle down in some lotus-eating, non-moral life of
*dolce far niente* on some golden South Sea strand with his
wild, primitive goddess for a moment longer than he could
help.  He wanted her for a wife, and a wife of whom he
could be proud even before the men and women of his kind.

The sudden realization that the woman he loved was a
meet and fitting mate for him, not only in beauty and
intellect, but in blood as well, was wonderfully stimulating.
Naturally, he had often thought of escape from the island,
but he had never considered it before as he would consider
it hereafter.  He did not see any way as yet, but he was
persuaded that a way would be opened eventually.  He had
confidence enough in his own ability to devise it, he thought,
as soon as it was necessary.  Meanwhile he had another
task, and that was to complete, or to continue--for the
completion would be long deferred--the finely progressing
education of Truda--Gertrude Van Rooy, as she
undoubtedly was.

And he could hardly wait for the moment when he could
tell her of his discovery.  It would not mean much to her
then, of course.  She was not troubled with scruples as to
relationships or any future complications.  In that matter
she was neither moral nor immoral.  That question did not
enter her mind at all.  It was simply non-existent.  But two
facts counted.  He loved her and she loved him.  Nothing
else mattered.  In his own good time he would take her,
and she would be glad to be possessed.  Of course, that
ceremony, so meaningless to them all, but to which as a
sacred tradition from their mysterious past they all adhered,
would take place, and then they would go and live together
after the simple primitive way of the island, where the
human beings mated almost like the animals.  Artlessly she
longed for the day that was to be, but she was content to
await his pleasure.

He knew all this.  He realized, being neither blind nor
a fool, that he need only will to have, take to enjoy.  And
it made his restraint the harder.  If he had resigned
himself to life indefinitely on the island, it might, it would
have been different.  He might not have been able to find
the strength to resist temptation so freely, so innocently,
yet so passionately presented to him.  But he was always
seeing her in a different environment.  He was always
dreaming of another life in another land.  He wanted her
for a wife and nothing else.  Some day she would thank
him for this.  Now she only wondered, sometimes with
a touch of disappointment.





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.. _`THE WATCHER ON THE ROCKS`:

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   CHAPTER XXI


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   THE WATCHER ON THE ROCKS

.. vspace:: 2

The day after their visit to the church, or temple, he
had imparted the story to her, explaining carefully,
so she could grasp at least the salient points of the
narrative, how she and those who survived came to that island.
It was difficult to make her understand.  She had few
abstract notions as yet.  The concrete alone appealed to
the primitive.  But she had developed amazingly, and by
repetition and explanation over and over again she began
to appreciate the truth.  When he told her that she differed
from the rest of the inhabitants of the island, she could
understand that better, for she too possessed, albeit it had
been latent, a full measure of the pride of the white race.
She had gloried that her skin was fairer, her hair brighter,
her eyes bluer even than those of Hano and Kobo, much
more than those of any of the others.  Now she began to
catch a glimpse of the reason why, not only for her personal
difference, but for her instinctive joy in it as well.

"Then I am like you," she said at last, "of your people."

"Yes; of my race, of my blood," answered the man, and
the joy and satisfaction she felt in his voice thrilled her,
and satisfied her, too; for what pleased him pleased her
even more.

"What is to be done now?" asked the woman as they
retraced their steps from some island haunt where they
loved to linger in the cool of the evening of that day of
revelations.

She spoke English.  Her mind, like her body, was virgin.
She was excessively quick to respond to the stimulus of
his teaching, and she possessed a rare faculty for language,
he discovered.  Conversation was easy and unrestrained;
she could use Dutch words if necessary to supplement her
English, and even on occasion revert to the island dialect,
and he could easily understand both.

"I am going to teach you to understand the message of
the books."

"The words of your God and mine?"

"Exactly."

"And where, and when, and how?"

"Listen; I have thought of a plan.  I don't know what
they would do to us or to me if they caught me with the
books."

The girl shook her head with grave foreboding.

"They might kill you," she said, "but I don't know.
The things of the God--what do you call them?--books,
have never been taken from the taboo house."

"Church," he corrected.

"The church," she repeated, endeavoring with considerable
success to form the unaccustomed sound.  "I can't tell
what they would do, but old Kobo would be terribly angry
and afraid.  They are all afraid of that house, as I was
until you showed me a better way.  And Hano hates you,
anyway."

"Of course.  Personally, I don't fear the lot of them,"
said the man, smiling and quite confident in his splendid
vigor, "but I don't want to have any trouble.  I don't want
to be the means of introducing bloodshed and hatred into
this little paradise."

He spoke unwittingly, not realizing for the moment that
wherever human passions enter, even the highest and holiest,
they usually make a way through which others that come
not in the same category follow.  His arrival upon the
island, the unconscious supremacy he assumed as related
to the rest, the love that had sprung up between him and
this fair child of Europe, and of the nurture of the tropic
seas, had brought jealousy and hate and envy in their train.
There had been no crime committed on that island perhaps
since it had been discovered, certainly not for generations,
but now--well, he would see.  He went on in natural
unconsciousness of all that while the obsessed woman hung
upon his words--

"That place overlooking the deep bay, where first I saw
you, where you go to meet the sunrising--I know now
why you do it," he broke off.

"Why?"

"That is where they used to watch and hope for the ships."

"Sometimes I have seen a black cloud far away."

"The smoke of a steamer."

She nodded, not comprehending fully, but acquiescing
naturally in anything he put forth.

"But it never came near," she added as he went on.

"From there we can see not only the sea but the whole
island.  No trees grow near.  No one can approach without
being seen for a long distance.  We will take the books
and hide them there in the rocks and cover them up carefully.
There I will teach you to read the speaking leaves."

"But when old Kobo discovers they are gone?"

"We will put them back in good time.  It will be as
easy to put them back as it was to take them.  No one
goes into the church except at that monthly visit.  Are
you sure?"

"Yes."

"Well, the rest is simple."

Using one of the cocoa-fiber baskets with which the
islanders were accustomed to carry their produce from
field to house, the two books were carried to the hiding
place without suspicion the next morning.  Beekman found
a suitable recess, rounded it out with loose stones, and
made a dry hiding place for the volumes when they were
not in use.  The natives generally avoided that spot, but
once or twice Hano or Kobo or one of the elders had visited
it when the two were there.  And, as they had done before,
they came again in the days that followed, but the lovers
were always found apparently idly scanning the sea and
talking about indifferent things.

Of course, some suspicion was at first aroused by their
unusually long visits to that semi-sacred spot, but it was
soon dissipated in the indifferent and inert minds of every
one of them except Hano.  As he was whiter, so he was
abler than the rest.  He made up his mind that he would
overhear what those two, one of whom he hated as much as
he loved the other, had to say to each other in those long
hours.  He came in the night, searching for a place of
concealment where he could lie hidden and whence he could
overhear, but at first he found none.  To hide on the slope
that went upward to form the walls of the little amphitheater
which opened upon the bay or gulf and sea at the
top of the cliff was an impossibility.  In the first place, he
never could get there without traversing the only
practicable path and being observed the whole way.  In the
second place, if he had found a spot where he could lie
hidden, he would be so far from the lip of the wall that
he could neither hear nor see.  There were no caves or
crannies big enough to conceal him.

In despair, he stepped to the extreme edge and glanced
down, and instantly the solution of his problem presented
itself.  About six feet below the level of the little
amphitheater was a shelf of rock.  Access to it would be difficult,
dangerous, but not impossible.  He tried, and, although
he was not used to great heights, he made it.  Such was
the stimulus of his hate.  He examined the shelf of rock,
discovered that it ran inward a little, so that if necessary
he could conceal himself even from direct observation from
above.

The next day he would try it.  He would get up before
daybreak, and when Truda visited the place for her unfailing
survey of the sea at dawn, he would be concealed.  After
that visit the two invariably went back to the village for
breakfast.  Then they returned and the lessons began.  She
had proved an amazingly apt scholar.  She could spell out
many of the words of the Dutch Bible and express most of
the thought in simple English.  The written word of the log
book was still a mystery to her.  He had read it to her,
but had not tried to teach her from it then; but she had
made great headway with the printed word.  After she
had learned enough of that, Beekman intended to devise
some means to teach her to write, but for the present
printing was enough.  He began with the Gospel according
to St. Luke, which he had preferred to the others for its
clear, simple, and beautiful style.  Truda not only learned
the letters and the simpler words, but she also began to
apprehend the great truths of religion which Beekman had
held perfunctorily and sometimes lightly, but which on that
heaven-kissed hill, on that forgotten island, in the midst of
that great sea, he too began to appreciate and realize as
he had never done before.

Sweet indeed were those hours when he sat with that old
Dutch Bible open on his knee, while she sat upon a lower
rock by his side, leaning innocently upon him, her head
bent close to the pages of Holy Writ, following eagerly
his pointing finger with her glance and imbibing the
teaching that he gave her.  Imbibing other things, too, for
sometimes he broke off and closed the book and laid his
hand upon the girl's head or shoulder, or turned her face
up to his while she nestled closer to him.  They spoke
together, without reserve, of the deeper things of love and
life.  There were no conventions save such as the instinctive
sweetness and purity of the woman and the stern repression
of the man imposed.

Truda had become so proficient in her English now that
they no longer used Polynesian at all; they spoke English
or Dutch habitually.  Consequently, the listening Hano,
his ears attuned by jealousy and hatred and love and tumult
of passion to catch the slightest meaning, could make out
but little of what was said, especially as they sometimes
whispered with the soft yet passionate cadences of lovers
alone.

There was no wind that day.  The long, slow silting
of the waves through the crevices in the barrier far below
only came up to the top of the island in faint murmurs.
The listener could hear voices but not understand.  Indeed,
the clearest sound that came to him was the rustling caused
by the turning of the stiff, thick, parchment-like leaves of
the book.  He could not understand what it was.  He was
greatly puzzled by it.

So the hours wore away.  As it approached noontime
the cooling shadow cast upon the lovers by the rock wall
of the little cup in which they lingered, was withdrawn
from them by the upward movement of the sun.  The
lesson for the morning was over.  Hano heard them rise,
preparatory to going back to the camp for the noon meal
and the afternoon siesta.  He heard them put something
away in the rocks and pile other rocks around it.  That at
least was clear to him, his wits sharpened by his desire.
He waited until they had gone, calculated the time it would
take them to disappear in the clump of trees, and then
climbed back to the little amphitheater.

His first business was to search for what had been
concealed.  Without a clew it never would have occurred to
him to do so, nor had he wit or experience enough, as a
higher intelligence would have shown, to go directly to
the spot where the loose stones were piled artificially; but
he had the patience to leave no stone unturned, and his
persistent search under that burning sun was at last
rewarded.  After moving some of the larger stones, the
books were at last revealed to him.  He was struck dumb
with terror.  He knew very well what they were.  He
recognized them instantly.  He had seen them at a distance
upon the altar of the taboo house.

In his half-savage way he wondered that the blasphemers
who had broken the taboo had not been struck dead by the
angry, mysterious god whom they worshiped.  He could
only attribute Truda's immunity to some powerful spell,
or charm, cast over her by this mysterious visitor whom
he regarded as a devil.  He did not know what to do in
the emergency.  He realized that it was a matter for a
wiser head than his, if such could be found on the island.
Under other circumstances, unconsciously acknowledging
Truda's superiority, he would have gone straight to her,
but that was not to be thought of now.  His only recourse
was Kobo.

Putting back the stones which covered the sacred volumes,
he turned and ran with all speed to the settlement.  The
noon meal was over.  The islanders were resting in their
houses.  All was quiet, still.  Without a moment's
hesitation, breaking what was almost a taboo itself, Hano
dashed into Kobo's house, knelt down by him, shaking the
old man violently.

"Awake," he whispered.  "The taboo has been broken."





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.. _`TWICE SAVED BY TRUDA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium bold

   TWICE SAVED BY TRUDA

.. vspace:: 2

Not being tropic-born, Beekman did not take naturally
to the siesta.  Nor had he been long enough in
the tropics to have acquired the habit.  It was his pleasant
custom to lie awake during the rest period, day-dreaming
of the princess of this enchanted island.  Sometimes he
never even dozed, the occupation was so entrancing.  It
happened on that afternoon, however, that he had fallen
asleep.

He was not left to his own devices.  He was awakened
to find himself covered with something thick and heavy,
and his first movement was greeted with savage cries which
came to him through a grass mat which had apparently
been thrown over his face.  At his first movement he was
conscious that men had thrown themselves upon him from
every side.  Half choked and weighed down by a number
of heavy bodies, he yet struck out blindly with arms and
legs.  He was a powerful man, but he was taken at a
disadvantage, and, although he upheaved himself mightily
and strained like a Titan, he did not succeed in getting free.

On the contrary, a rope made of cocoanut fiber was passed
around his legs.  The slip-noose was tightly drawn and,
almost before it could be told, his feet were bound tightly
together.  He perceived that it was useless to struggle
longer.  As he ceased his wild efforts the cloth was dragged
from his face and he instantly sat up.  Before he had time
to do more than recognize the angry faces of the men on
the island, another rope was slipped over his shoulders.  As
before, the noose was drawn tight, and before he could
prevent it his arms were bound and the rope wrapped
around his body again and again.

He was as helpless as a trussed fowl.  His first thought
as he stared at the passion-convulsed faces of the men
was of shame that he had allowed himself to be so easily
caught; his second emotion was surprise.  What had transformed
these peaceful, listless, indifferent, gentle, decadent
islanders into truculent savages?  For the moment he did
not connect the violation of their sanctuary with his
present plight.  The whole male population of the island
had fallen on him; even the larger boys had joined their
elders.  If he had been on his feet and ready and possessed
of a weapon, even his sheath knife or his boat hook,
perhaps he could have beaten them off, for there were fewer
than a score of them, and the only one who had any real
vigor in him was Hano.  Obviously, he had taken the lead
in the capture.  Hano's determination and old Kobo's
cunning had brought about Beekman's undoing.

The American could not yet regard the situation as
particularly serious.  Passion and anger and bloodshed
were so far removed from any possible association with
those islanders that Beekman could only consider his present
plight as a temporary inconvenience.  To be sure, Hano
hated him, but the others not only liked but almost revered
him.  He would not have been human if he had not been
glad to see Hano limping from a particularly vicious kick
he had received.  Indeed, he laughed as he saw him
rubbing his leg, and that only infuriated the young man the
more, which was not wise on the part of the prisoner.  He
had yet to learn that even perverted religion, especially when
it serves as a cloak for other passions, as in the case of Hano,
could change the natures of men and bring about the most
malefic consequences to those who stood in its way.  It is
always the abuse of the useful that is most dangerous.

About the only thing really strong in the lives of these
islanders was their curious mixture of Polynesian idolatry
with degenerate recollections of Christianity.  Like a
half-truth, their religion in theory seemed to combine the worst
elements of the savage inheritance with debased Christianity.
They did not indulge in the savage rites of the
South Seas, those hideous practices had been abandoned
under the influence of civilization, but in theory at least the
worst features of that religion persisted.

The only laws upon the island were, first, the law of
ceremonial religious observances, which was as easy as it
was uncomprehended, and which no one had any interest in
violating; and, second, the law which made a taboo of the
temple, which was infinitely more important.  The more
unfamiliar they were with the temple, the more dread with
which they regarded it.  The mysterious taboo was the most
powerful thing in their lives.  The temple was, as it should
be, the house of their god, but there was a mixture of the
stern severity of the Christian--for Christianity was held
very strenuously in the days in which that Dutch ship blew
to the island--and the tremendous diabolism of the
Polynesian Tangaroa.  The rule of that compounded god was
fear-begotten, a rule of consuming fire.  They had by no
means learned the perfect love which would cast it out.

When Hano whispered into the ear of Kobo that the
taboo had been broken, the shrine had been violated, the
sacred--he did not call them books--objects, the property
of the god, had been taken from the temple and made a
plaything of by the stranger and Truda, the old man's
soul fainted within him.  So soon as he had realized the
purport of Hano's excited words, he had almost collapsed.
It had needed the young man's fiery urgency to awaken
him to the obligation of doing something.

Just what should be done did not come to old Kobo.
It would have to be debated by all the worshipers of the
god--the men, that is.  But one need was obvious.  The
blasphemer, the violator of the sanctuary, the breaker of
the taboo, must be secured before he could work further
mischief.  Doubtless into these dark and degenerate minds
had lodged the idea--among the very oldest of all
religious ideas--of propitiation.  They could perhaps placate
the angry god and avert from themselves the consequences
of his anger by punishing the man who had dared to raise
his hand against divinity.

It is on record that One Who His enemies said sought
to make Himself equal with God was punished by man, and
perhaps for the same reason.

That idea, so agreeable to the natural man, had been
strengthened by the struggle which had resulted in the
binding of the criminal.  Conflict always calls for
punishment of the vanquished.  Without shedding of blood is no
remission.  Battles are measured by butchers' bills, and the
fact that men fight makes the butcher a welcome assistant.

The women and children of the settlement, not having
been summoned to the conference of men which Hano had
brought to Kobe's hut, were not fully aware of the reason
for the commotion.  They clustered about the door of
Beekman's hut, peering within, but not daring to enter.
Indeed, Hano, at Kobe's direction, drove them back with
the curt statement that the men would explain to them
later what was the cause of their action and what was
toward.

Beekman's glances had eagerly searched the little huddle
of women at the door, but he had not found Truda among
them, for a very good reason.  At Hano's suggestion,
Kobo had bade two of the sturdier women keep Truda a
close prisoner in her own hut until he should decide what
was to be done with her for her participation in the dread
crime.

Speaking in Dutch-Polynesian, of which he had easily
learned enough for ordinary purposes, Beekman now
demanded to know the meaning of the extraordinary assault
upon him.  The men had been consulting in low tones in the
far corner of the hut.  Old Kobo detached himself from
the group and came forward, Hano following and standing
next to him.

"You have broken the taboo.  You have taken the
treasures of our god.  He will be angry with us.  We
have decided to kill you in order that he may not hurt us."

The conclusion was strictly in accord with the ancient
law of self-preservation.

"If he is angry with me," said Beekman at once, perceiving
the seriousness of the situation, "he will hurt me,
not you.  Therefore you have no reason to be afraid.  Let
the god himself kill me."

It was shrewdly suggested, but there was not wit enough,
except perhaps in Hano, to follow the reasoning.  Kobo
shook his head.

"You have broken the taboo.  Who breaks the taboo
must die.  It is the only way."

There was a simple finality about the statement of the
old semi-savage which at last struck terror to Beekman's
heart.  His blood ran cold.  He knew what atrocities were
sometimes perpetrated under the name of religion in the
South Seas.  The situation suddenly seemed to him to
be absolutely hopeless.  Arguments and appeals flashed
through his brain, came to his lips, yet something
withheld utterance.  In the first place, he was a white man and
he would not beg his life of these mongrels.  In the second
place, the only argument he could think of had been used
without effect.  Then his mind flashed to Truda.  Was she
involved?  How did these islanders learn of the theft of
the books? for of course he knew instantly that was what
Kobo meant.  And did they know of her part in the
adventure?  Her absence was convincing proof that she too was
suspected and in mortal peril.  He must find out for sure,
if possible, before anything else.

"You say that I have taken things belonging to the
god?" he began.

"Yes, and broken the taboo."

"What things?"

"Things from the taboo house, that lay on the stone at
the other end.  I have seen them there every time I have
gone in."

"And I also," said Hano.

"And we," chimed in the men.

"Where are they now?"

"Hidden in the rocks," answered Hano, "where Truda
watches the rising sun."

"How do you know that?"

"I saw them there.  I heard you and Truda this morning."

"Impossible!" cried Beekman.  "Where were you?  I
looked everywhere."

"I was hidden below on the face of the rocks.  There is
a place there."

"I see," said Beekman.  "And Truda, what of her?"

"Did she go into the temple?"

"No," said Beekman, quickly and unhesitatingly, lying
like a gentleman to save her if he could.  "I went alone.
She was afraid.  She tried to stop me.  She begged me
not to."

"She should have told me," said Kobo, "but because she
did not go, she shall not die."

"Give her to me," cried Hano.  "This stranger has cast a
spell upon her."

"I shall know how to free her," said Kobo.

"Meanwhile, may I ask what death is designed for me?"
asked Beekman.

"You have said it," answered Kobo gravely; "the god
will determine that."

He nodded his head to the men.  Six of them stepped
over and picked Beekman up.  They bore him out into
the open enclosure.  At Kobo's direction Hano summoned
the women.  Truda did not come, and neither were her
guardians present.  As those women who had been detailed
to watch her were among the most prominent in the
settlement, Beekman, lying on the ground with his head and
shoulders against a tree, noted their absence.  As the
islanders assembled Kobo waved his hand for silence.

"This man," he said, not without a certain dignity, "was
cast up by the sea upon our shores.  We received him
kindly.  We gave him a house to live in.  We supplied him
with things to eat.  He was free to come and go.  In return
for our welcome he has broken the taboo."  A wail of
horror came from one old woman.  It was caught up by
the others, and even the men and children joined in.  It
was quite evident that the crime was a real one in the eyes
of the people and there would be no hesitation in the most
extreme methods.  "The god will be angry with us,"
continued Kobo when he could be heard again.  "Perhaps we
can please him by giving him this breaker of the taboo."

"What would you do, O Kobo?" asked one of the older women.

"Lay him as he is, bound hand and foot, in the taboo
house for the god to dispose of.  It wants ten days before
we worship in the temple.  We will leave him there during
that time, bound, alone.  If he is alive then we will know
the god has pardoned him."

"But if he should get away?" asked one of the men.

"We will be the arms and eyes of the god.  We will watch
every moment the taboo house."

"And food?" asked one.

"And drink?" asked another.

"If the god wishes him to live, he will provide," said
the old man simply.  He signed to the bearers.  "The
taboo is broken, so all may come in this time."

They picked up the absolutely helpless Beekman and
bore him to the temple.  Kobo unbarred the door.  He
stood hesitating a moment on the threshold.  The taboo
was broken indeed, or had been, yet it was a great thing
he was about to do.  He could only trust to the god that
he would understand.  With a muttered jargon of prayer,
at which the people sank shuddering to their knees, and
which to Beekman was grotesquely and horribly Christian,
he finally entered the building, beckoning the bearers, who
followed, stepping hesitantly and fearsomely with their
heavy burden.  After them crowded all the rest.

"We will lay him there," said Kobo, pointing to the
opening in the railing or balustrade.

He stepped forward to give direction, and as his eyes
became accustomed to the dim light he discovered on the
altar or table the two books that Hano had declared he
had seen in the rocks.  He stopped, petrified.  Hano had
lied.  There had been no profanation of the temple.  He
had broken the taboo himself, and without cause.  His
veins turned to water within him.  He staggered and would
have fallen but for the strong arm of the younger man.

"There," he whispered, pointing, "the things of the gods
are there.  You have lied."

It was Hano's turn to be stricken with terror.  Had his
eyes deceived him?  Could those objects have been
duplicated?  What mystery, what magic was here?  He was
younger, stronger, and the sooner realized the necessity
for action.

"Out!" he cried, waving his hand.

"Shall we leave him?" asked the first bearer.

"No; bring him, and out, everybody, lest the god strike
and spare not."

He suited action to word.  Half carrying old Kobo, he
drove the rest out of the temple.  Kobo dropped on the
threshold.  Hano had nerve and courage to swing the
door, and then he backed up against it, ashy with terror.
Old Kobo rose to his feet.

"People of the island," he cried shrilly, "we have broken
the taboo.  Hano has spoken falsely.  The things of the
god are there.  O Tangaroa, pardon."  He bowed his head
in his hands.  "Woe, woe, woe!" he cried.

For a moment the islanders stood silent, and then they
joined his lamentations.

"Perhaps you will release me now," said Beekman at last.

Old Kobo's hand went out to the lashing.

"Forgive me.  This liar will take your place."

"Wait," said Hano, his courage coming back.  "I saw
the things of the god in the rocks.  I heard them moving
in the hands of this man and Truda.  She can testify."

"Where is she?" asked Beekman.

"Let someone go for Truda.  Let her be brought here,"
said Kobo.

One of the younger women started in the direction of
Truda's hut, when, from a clump of trees to the right of
the temple, around which the path ran, appeared the two
women who had been appointed to watch Truda.  The girl
herself was between them.  Each one clasped an arm.  She
came along the path without reluctance, her head held
high.  She shot a glance at her lover which reassured him.
He instantly realized the explanation of the happy chance
which had saved him, temporarily at least.

Truda had somehow escaped, had got the books, entered
the church through the rear doorway as before, and had
replaced the books on the altar.  What it had cost her he
could well understand.  Old Kobo stared at the three in
amazement.

"How did you come here?" he cried to the two women.
"I told you to keep Truda in her house."

"While we watched the door, O Kobo, she escaped
through the window.  When we found out we searched
for her."

"And then?"

"We saw her--" the woman hesitated.

"Where was she?"

"At the back of the taboo house," Answered the younger
woman in awe-struck voice, "with the things of the god in
her arms."

"You see," cried Hano, triumphantly, "I told you the
truth.  She went to the rock to fetch them.  She put them
back."

"How did she get in?" asked one old man.

"There is an entrance at the other end, vine-covered and
forgotten," answered Kobo, his eyes sparkling.  It had
been shown him as a boy, and had never been used.

"What then?"

"We were afraid to follow.  When she came out we
seized her and brought her here."

"What have you to say, Truda?"

"It is true," answered the girl.

"What is the use of questioning Truda?" interposed
Beekman, stopping the confession which trembled on her
lips.  "I took the books; I hid them in the rocks.  Through
them your God, which is my God, speaks to me.  I tried
to teach Truda His speech.  I will teach you all if you
will free me."

"Let us put him back in the taboo house," cried one of
the oldest.

"Yes, that will be best," cried a second.

"Leave him with the god," urged a third.

"I, too," cried Truda; "I also--"

"Be silent!" appealed Beekman in the language they two
alone understood.  "If you love me, say nothing.  Alive,
you can help me.  Dead, and we die together."

"What do you say?" asked Kobo of the men.

"I have a suggestion to make," said Hano.

"What is that?"

"You thought that my tongue was doubled, that I did
not speak the truth--"

"We were wrong," said Kobo.

"Let me speak now," said Hano.

"Let us hear him," cried one after another.

"Out of the deep this man came to us.  Doubtless his
God brought him to our shores.  Let us commit him to the
deep again.  Doubtless his God can take him away."

"What do you mean?"

"Let us cast him down from the cliff into the gulf below."

"That is well," said Kobo.

"It is," shouted one after another.

They loosened the lashings around Beekman's feet, lifted
him up, and forced him, surrounded by the men, along the
path that led to the little amphitheatre.  Everybody
followed.  This was business of the highest importance, and
until it was settled, nothing mattered.  When they got to
the little amphitheatre, in which all crowded who could
possibly enter, the lashings around Beekman's feet were drawn
tight again.

"What do you mean to do?" he asked.

"Thrust you over the cliff."

It was a fall of perhaps over five hundred feet sheer
down.  If he were thrown far enough he might fall into the
water, but even that would kill him.  In all probability he
would drop to the rocks.  There was that shelf of which
Hano had spoken where he had concealed himself.  By
bending forward from his place on the brink, Beekman could
see it.  So could Hano.

"Not here," said the latter, "but there."

They dragged Beekman over to a spot where nothing
broke the descent.

"Bring staves for all," said Kobo with obvious meaning.

All the men must join in the thrust, it seemed.  It would
be the only way to avert the anger of Tangaroa-God from
them all.  Meanwhile they laid Beekman carefully back
against the rocks while some of the men ran back for long
pieces of stout bamboo or cane.  Their intent was evident.
When the time came they would each one seize a staff and
together they would thrust him over.  So all would
participate, and from all the vengeance of the gods would be
turned away.

"Truda," began Beekman in that language which they
alone understood, "there is no help for it.  I must die.  It is
not the end I expected.  I hoped to get away from the
island, to take you with me, to teach you of the things that
lay beyond, to make you my wife.  I love you, facing death
as I am I say it with all my heart.  You can do nothing
for me.  But no matter what happens to me or what happens
to you, there is another life.  I have tried to tell you
about it and I shall wait for you there."

"And I love you, Beek-man," answered Truda in return
just as simply as he had spoken.  "You know that.  I
would gladly give my life for yours, and I shall follow
very soon.  You will wait for me?"

"Stop them," said Hano at last.

"Let him talk with his God, if he will, in these last
moments," answered Kobo.

"But not with Truda," persisted Hano.

"When Truda is yours you can make her forget what
she had learned."

"But I will never belong to Hano," cried Truda.

With a quick movement she broke loose from the women
who held her on the outskirts of the crowd.  She leaped
up the wall of the amphitheatre that wound around a
little distance away from the rest, and there she stood
poised.

"Truda," cried Beekman, who was placed where he could
see her every movement, "what would you do?"

"Stop," cried the girl in the language of the island, as
Hano started for her, followed by the others coming up
with the staves.  "Let no one come near me.  Hano and
Kobo, stand forth."

Such was her imperious emphasis that her command was
at once obeyed.  The two addressed separated themselves
from the crowd, which halted, but Hano again started for
the girl.

"If you come nearer, I shall leap over," she said quickly.
"Stand where you are, Hano."

He stopped in the face of this threat and stood as if
rooted to the spot.

"Beek-man has broken the taboo," said the girl in
the deep silence.  "Perhaps you do right to punish him--"

"O Truda," groaned Beekman under his breath, but if
the girl heard, she made no sign.

"He came from the deep.  You may return him there,
but he came alive, and you must return him alive."

"What do you mean?"

"You must send him down through the place where the
water falls.  You must unbind him.  You must give him
what he brought, the sharp thing that cuts and the bright
thing that strikes.  You must give him food."

"But he will come back," said one.

"You can watch the place."

"We can wall it up with stones," said Kobo.

"Will you give this man life?" cried Hano.

"If you do not," continued Truda, "if you do not swear
by the god to do as I say--"

"What then?"

"I will throw myself over the cliff before your eyes."

"O Truda!" exclaimed Beekman again, but in a different
way, for now he understood.

Now the most determined character of them all was Hano.
There was an assurance in the girl's words that carried
conviction to his mind, at least.  If she threw herself over the
cliff, she would be hopelessly lost to him, and the fact that
he could wreak vengeance on Beekman would not bring her back.

"Let it be as she says, O Kobo."

The old man was naturally inclined to mercy.  The fierce
passion of the morning had spent itself.  The taboo had
been broken, but nothing had happened.  The things of the
god were back in their places.  Truda's suggestion might
have persuaded him without the threat.  But the threat
had persuaded Hano.

"It shall be as you say," answered Kobo.

"Swear it," cried Truda.

"By the broken taboo, by the god whose things you have
put back, by the great Tangaroa himself, I swear it," cried
Kobo, turning to the others.

"We all swear."

Truda instantly stepped back from the verge.

"And you will marry me, Truda; you will be my woman?"

"We shall see as to that when you have disposed of
Beekman," said the girl.  "You will wait for me," she said
to Beekman; "not in another life, but there."  She glanced
downward.

Beekman nodded.  He understood.

"What do you say?" asked Hano jealously.

"I only gave him a message for his God," answered Truda.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TRUDA COMES TO HIS PRISON`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   TRUDA COMES TO HIS PRISON

.. vspace:: 2

And thus it came about that Beekman once more found
himself lying on the strand near the waterfall at the
foot of the cliff in the great cup-like harbor where he had
landed on the island not many months before.  Although the
lashings had not been cast off by those who had lowered
him to the strand, yet they had been loosened in the descent,
and he realized that by patient application he could presently
free himself from his bonds.  That, of course, was the
first thing to be done.

When he had finally cast off the loose piece of coir rope,
he rose to his feet and looked about him.  The place was
entirely familiar.  It had been etched upon his consciousness
in those agonized days when he had dreamed of getting to
the top.  There had been no change whatever.  Indeed, since
the blocking up of the original opening through which the
*Good Intent* had been hurled so many years before, there had
been no change, unless the slow disintegration of the rock
had slightly altered the face of nature.

He had been dropped by the lowering ropes to the very
spot where he had found the pineapple bedded in the sand.
He had no immediate need of any such providential
happening now, for behind him lay one of the cocoanut-fiber
sacks or bags which had been packed full of food enough to
last him for a week.  Truda had insisted upon that, and
they had grudgingly consented, all the women in the settlement
being more or less openly on her side.  But they had
failed to give him either boat-hook or sheath-knife.

Beekman had no shelter, but he could get along very
well without that.  Here were food, water, liberty, life,
within the circumscribed limits of the great cylinder.  He
had stepped back to the extreme edge of the stretch of sand,
the tide being low, and scanned the bed of the creek up which
he had once before climbed to the top.  In the narrowest
part he could see the natives piling up huge stones,
making an impassable barricade.  Of course, any considerable
increase in the quantity of water flowing down would
eventually roll them away.  The island must have a rainy season,
but unless or until it came, that wall of rock, especially if
it should be guarded, as he fancied it would at first, would
render ascent to the upland impossible.

There was absolutely nothing he could do.  Unless help
came to him from above, or from the sea, he would die of
starvation eventually.  He did not fear that, however,
because he believed that Truda would find some means to
get food to him.  Indeed, going over the incidents of the
afternoon, he marvelled at the resourcefulness and courage
she had displayed.  If it had not been for her escape from
her guardians, and her replacement of the books in the
temple, he would be now lying there bound hand and foot,
slowly starving to death.

He knew how hard it must have been for Truda to have
broken the taboo a second time, and alone.  That was the
first bold action which had saved him, and the second was
when she had stood on the brink of the cliff and threatened
to cast herself down unless he were lowered to the beach
rather than thrown bodily over.  And she would have done
it, too, as he very well knew.  That was the second time that
day she had saved his life.  True, she had been compelled
to make some kind of a promise to marry Hano, but he knew
her well enough to realize that she would never keep it.
Love, such as had not been known upon that island for two
hundred years of quiet mating, had entered her heart, and
she was made of the stuff that would willingly die rather
than profane it.

She said that she would join him on the strand, and he
was confident that somehow she would, and that her presence
would bring him fortune; yet, what would happen if she
came?  His own condition would be changed for the worse
immediately, since he would have no friend above to look
after his interests.  It was to her influence alone that he
could look for food.  If she were with him, her open defiance
of Kobo, Hano, and the others might, and probably would,
result in the abandonment of them both.  Yet, illogically,
but naturally, he longed for her presence as never
before.  He was proud of her wit and courage, and he
longed to tell her that--and other things.  He did not
think any of the islanders, unless it were Hano, would dare
descend into the harbor, which he shrewdly suspected was
as taboo as the temple.  If any did come, they would have
to come one by one, and he could deal with them, if
necessary.

The day was almost gone.  Before nightfall he was
minded to do one thing.  He clambered around the rocks
to the outer edge of the island and stared eagerly at the
barrier.  Yes, there on the reef, where it had been hurled
or lifted by an unusually great wave or tide coming at the
same time, lay the wreck of the whaleboat.  It had been
firmly fixed on the jagged rocks of the barrier, and as it
was just above the assault of any but the highest seas
coming at the full flood of the tide, it was still in much the same
condition as when he had left it some months before.

There was no way by which he could repair the boat
and make it seaworthy.  It was of no earthly use to him,
yet the sight of it gave him strange comfort.  It was
something which somehow tied him to his own land and
people.  He waded and swam out to it and looked it over
carefully, observing before he did so that the copper tanks
which he had taken from the boat and put in the niche
where he had slept the first night on the island, were still
there and apparently in good condition.  With some vague
idea that it might be well if he replaced them in the boat,
he swam back across the lagoon, launched the tanks, which
floated, proving that they were air-tight; paddled across
the lagoon a third time and set them back in their
compartments.  In one instance, the after end, he found this
difficult as he had been compelled to break the catches aft
to get it out, but at the other end, the bow compartment, he
experienced no trouble.  The boards had warped, but by
exerting all his strength he got the clamps caught and the
tanks replaced.  Exactly why he did it, or what he expected
from it, he could not tell, but, at any rate, it was occupation.
The boat could not take anyone anywhere, but, unless the
clamps broke, the tanks would keep it afloat, even if awash,
if it were ever washed off that reef.

He got back to the ledge when night fell with the
startling suddenness of the tropics.  He had made up his
mind to sleep where he had slept before: beneath the ledge;
but thought better of it.  He decided that he ought to be
where he had been seen last in case Truda should make any
effort to communicate with him.  He reasoned, naturally
enough, that such an effort would have to be made in the
dark to avoid observation.  The air at the bottom of the
great cylinder, its sides rising about him like the walls of a
tower, was cooler than he had been accustomed to.  He
emptied the mat-like sack, or basket, piling its precious
contents high up on the rocks, above any possible tide, and,
after he had made a very frugal meal, although he was
ravenously hungry after all he had gone through, he ripped
the mat apart, hollowed a place for himself in the sand,
drew the mat over him and lay there thinking; and, for the
first time in days, Stephanie Maynard came into his mind!

Now, there was no disloyalty to Truda in his thoughts
of the other woman.  He realized that he never had loved
her, and he was pretty confident that she had never loved
him.  The marriage which had been arranged had been one
of convenience, purely.  He was glad that he had escaped;
glad for every experience except that terrible one in the
cabin of the *Susquehanna*.  He wondered if, in her heart,
Stephanie would not be glad also, and George Harnash.
Little things which he had not noticed at the time bulked
larger in his imagination now, and he wondered if his friend
had not been more interested in his former betrothed than
any one had suspected.  He thought whimsically that it
would be a strange thing if Stephanie and George married
eventually, and then his thoughts went further.

Suppose they could prevail upon old Maynard to consent,
they might come to search for him as a wedding trip
on the great Maynard yacht, the *Stephanie*.  It would be
strange, he thought, lifting his head and peering seaward,
to wake up some morning and find the yacht in the offing.
He knew that was absurd.  If he were to get off that island,
it would have to be by some other means, and the possibility
of escape had grown much fainter since his present
misfortune.  Well, whatever had been back of that shanghaiing
process, and he was as bitterly resentful over it as if
it had not brought him happiness, it had resulted in his
meeting with the sweetest and most innocent woman on earth,
whose love for him had led her to the most amazing sacrifices
and exhibitions of courage.

It was a singular commentary on the man's mind that he
was as bitter against the men who had shanghaied him as
if only misery and sorrow had come to him.  He had
promised himself many a time if he ever did get free and could
find out who was responsible, it would go hard with that
man.  He would not let the law take charge of his
vengeance.  He would make it a personal matter.  One does not
live in the forecastle of a hell-ship like the *Susquehanna*,
where there is no law but that of force, and no right but that
of the strong, without getting a new view of individual
relation to individual and to the mass.  Nor does one live
in a tropic island with no law at all, except the taboos of
vague superstition, without intensifying that personal
element.

Presently, Beekman's thoughts turned to Truda.
Lightly, he forgot Stephanie.  All his hardships, the
horrors of that forecastle, the tragedy of that cabin, even the
events of the day, faded from his mind.  He saw her
white-skinned, golden-haired, blue-eyed and passing fair.  He
recalled her passionate devotion, her wit, her courage.  He
stared upward to the top of the cliff, cutting a black line
across the stars at the place where he had seen her for the
first time.  He could shut his eyes and see her still.  He
tried it again and again, and by and by his eyes did not
open.  He fell sound asleep.

He was not aware that in the still watches of the night
a figure bent over him.  Someone knelt beside him.  A
listening ear was held close to him as if seeking for
reassurance that he breathed, and then there was a stealthy
withdrawal and the figure slipped down upon the sand and
sat watching him.  It was not until the sun struck through
the entrance upon his face that he opened his eyes.  The
first object that met his vision was Truda.  She was half
seated, half reclining on the sand just out of touch, looking
at him as she had watched throughout the night.

"Truda," he cried, raising himself at once and throwing
aside the mat, "how did you come here?"

She pointed to the cliff, through which the brook plunged.
He noticed a long rope hanging down, buffeted by the
leaping waters into which it swayed back from time to time.

"Amazing," he cried, rising to his feet and stepping
toward her.

"Do you think anything could keep me there when you
were here?" said the girl, stretching out her hands to him,
and then he noticed, for the first time, that her palms were
cut and scratched and had been bleeding.  Her knees, her
feet, were in the same sorry condition.  He sank down on his
knees before her.  He took the hands which she yielded to
him without question and pressed them tenderly against his
cheek.

"You have hurt yourself," he said, that petty little fact
bulking larger at the moment than any other; "and for me,
my poor child."

"The joy in my heart," said the girl, laying one bruised
palm beneath her tender breast, "when I saw you asleep
and safe here, made me forget this."

"Why didn't you wake me?" asked the man, looking up at her.

"You were so tired," said the girl, laying her other
maimed hand on his head.

He could feel her wince as she did so.  He had opened a
cocoanut the night before.  The broken shell lay at hand.
He lifted her up, carried her to the bank of the brook, set
her poor, torn feet in the cool water, and, with the shell,
laved her hands and knees.  It was all he could do.  He
had nothing else.  Then he bent and kissed her lips, her
hands, her feet.  He strained her to his breast.

"You shall not walk a step or carry a thing until those
precious hands and feet are well."

"They are well now since you kissed them.  See, I feel
no pain."

She took him in her arms, in turn.  What mattered that
the white hands left little blood marks on his shoulder?

"First, you must eat," said the man, "and then you must
tell me how you came."

He pressed upon her the cooked food and fruit which she
herself had forced the islanders to provide.

"We may not get any more when this is gone," she said.

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," he quoted
recklessly; "eat now."

She did not understand, but the command was simple,
and she obeyed.  Whatever her lover said was right, of
course.

"Now, tell me," he said, when they had stayed their
hunger, "how did you come here?"

"They put me in the house with the two women to guard
me after they had lowered you down here.  I was to be
married to Hano today.  I would have died rather than
that.  I had told you I would join you here.  I persuaded
the women.  They like you, Beek-man.  They don't like
Hano.  They let me escape.  I went to your house, and
brought the bright-tipped staff and the thing that cuts.
I crept down the brook where you had come up."

"There was no watcher?"

"Yes."

"Did he let you pass?"

"He could not help it."

"What do you mean?"

"I struck him with the staff, and--"  She shuddered
and hid her face in her hands.

"Don't cry over that," said the man; "in all probability
you only stunned him.  He will be all right by now."

"I hope so.  He had done nothing to me, but if the whole
island had stood in my way, I was determined to come to
you."

"What then?"

"I climbed over the rock wall.  At first I thought I would
push it down, but it was too much for me.  Besides, the
stones might have fallen upon you.  I had a rope with a
piece of wood at the end.  I fastened the wood in the rock
and came down.  The rope cut my hands."

"And the staff and the knife?"

"I threw them over.  You will find them there."

"Wait."  He ran and brought them back.  "Arms," he
said, shaking them exultingly before her.  "With these we
can defy everything."

Indeed, the boat-hook and the sheath knife would be
invaluable should it come to a fight in the end.

"Yes," said Truda.  "In all the days of my life there has
been no anger, no bloodshed on this island; but since you
came--"

"Are you sorry I came?"

"Glad.  You have taught me life, love.  They are worth
the price we have paid."

"Always a price has to be paid for these things.  Whether
they are worth it or not is another matter."

The sun was well above the horizon now.  Truda glanced
upward, stopped, and pointed.  In the ravine whence the
brook fell, clustered against the wall, stood the islanders.
Their cries came faintly into the vast gulf in which the
two lovers stood.  Their gestures of hatred and scorn were
unmistakable, but they made no effort to come down.  The
rope was still fast.  Presently, they observed it, for it was
quickly drawn up, and, after a time, the islanders went away,
leaving a watcher at the wall.

"This place is like the temple," said Truda; "it is taboo.
I think none will come here."

"But you came."

"I would go anywhere for you," said the girl, simply.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"SO FARRE, SO FAST THE EYGRE DRAVE"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   "SO FARRE, SO FAST THE EYGRE DRAVE"

.. vspace:: 2

There was nothing they could do to better their
condition, but if there had been, it was not in Beekman's
mind to attempt it then.  Their near touch with death,
Truda's sleepless night, the condition of her hands and feet,
the nervous reaction in him, warned Beekman that no
demands upon her must be made yet.  He decided that they
should have one day of complete and utter happiness,
whatever the future held for them; so he devoted himself to her.

Again and again he bathed her hands.  He tore up the
tattered remains of his shirt sleeves to make bandages for
her feet.  He compassed her with such sweet observances
as he could achieve under such conditions.  He told her
how he loved her.  He pictured what their life beyond the
seas would be when they got away.  He told her that they
should escape, although he had no idea how.  His
determination was contagious.  She thought nothing could he
impossible, ultimately, to this god-like creature who had
come from across the seas to enlighten her as to what love
really was, and she believed him.

He carried her around the broken point of rock where
she had never been; he showed her the wreck of the
whaleboat which had brought him there.  He made her a bed for
the night in the niche of rocks, facing seaward.  He
covered her over with the mat he had made for himself.  He
sat down by her side, holding tenderly the bruised palm,
which really appeared to be very much better; clean flesh,
such as she had, healed quickly.  She went to sleep with the
trustfulness of a child, yet not with the emotions of one.
Indeed, her strange feelings matched his own as he sat
there on the sand by the woman who was his, body and soul.

Was he minded to take her?  He prayed God, as he
watched through the long hours, that whether he were
minded or not, he might be given strength to treat this little
child of nature as he would have treated the proudest woman
of his own world.  Let no man think that he had an easy
task, or that he passed pleasant hours.  When she was sound
asleep he laid her hand gently, palm upward, on the sand,
and walked away, pacing up and down the strip of beach the
long night through.

It was well that he remained awake, for, just before
sunrise, when the short dawn had already come, happening to
pass the jutting rocks around which he must go to get into
the harbor, he saw the outlines of a dark figure in the gloom;
seen faintly against the brighter sand, the figure of a
crouching man!  Something bright and slender quivered
in his hand.  He was peering forward eagerly.  Beekman
snatched the boat-hook and the knife from the sand where
he had laid them and ran toward the figure.  It was Hano.
He rose to his feet as the American approached.  He lifted
his arm.  Something flew through the air and cut a gash
along the side of Beekman's face and then struck the rock
behind him with a metallic clang, later he found it was an
old Dutch knife.

The next moment the American closed with him.  Hano,
mad with passion, struggled desperately, but he was as a
child in the hands of the white man.  Beekman broke his
hold and dragged the man's arms from about him, lifted
him in the air, threw him headlong on the beach.  He
lay sprawled in a heap, motionless, stunned, apparently, his
head bleeding where he had struck an outlying stone on the
sand.  Beekman was sorry that it had happened.  He could
enter so fully into the feelings of the man that he could not
blame him.

He turned back and awakened Truda.  He gave her the
knife and boat-hook and told her to watch the prostrate man
until he went around the rocks and got the ropes with which
he had been bound.  He did not think that Hano was likely
to recover consciousness, but, nevertheless, he had never gone
so fast as he did then.  Lightly binding the feet and hands
of the man so that he could make no further mischief, he set
himself to restore him to consciousness, which he presently
accomplished.

Hano would say nothing, nor would he answer questions,
not even to Truda.  He turned his head away, and suddenly
his eyes filled with tears.  Otherwise, he was as silent as a
stoic on the beach before them.  After the two made their
breakfast on the rapidly diminishing store of food, they
brought a share for Hano.  Beekman unbound his hands
and stood over him while he ate and drank, then he lashed
him again and drew him up into the niche where Truda had
passed the night.  Then he examined the wounded feet and
hands of Truda, and found them in much better condition,
but he did not allow the girl to walk over the rough and
broken rocks.  He picked her up in his arms and carried her
into the bay, that they might have the benefit of the fresh
water of the brook.  Then, and not until then, did he take
time to look at the sky and observe the weather, which, if he
had been a more experienced sailor, he would not have
deferred for so long a period.

He was alarmed beyond measure by what he saw.  There
was no sun visible, yet the sky did not seem heavily overcast.
A strange, coppery light seemed to filter through an
unusually thin but very absorbing mist that spread over the
whole heavens.  The sea had been very still throughout the
night.  Apparently, a calm had extended far and wide over
the waters.  There was always some slight motion on the
shore, and the silken slithering of the waves on the barrier
came to him very faintly.  The absence of any wind at all
had aroused no attention.  There was no wind now, yet
the surface of the deep was troubled.

After he had washed the girl's feet and hands and had
set her down on the sand, his attention was attracted by a
sudden resounding crash on that stretch of barrier that he
could see through the entrance.  It was as if some mighty
heave had raised and lowered the surface of the ocean.  As
he stared seaward, he thought that the mist was thickening
on the horizon.  It was growing darker there.  Indeed, on
the line where the sky and sea would have met on the horizon,
if he had been able to see, it was suddenly black dark.  The
sun was more than an hour high, he judged, although he
could see nothing but the coppery light through the mist,
and the mist was in rapid wraith-like motion far above his
head and far beyond the reef.  He could see that clearly
enough, although even yet no wind came to him.

Presently, there was another of those long, swinging
undulations, which broke with tremendous force on the
barrier, sending a cloud of water and spray twenty feet into
the air.  It was uncanny.  There was no cause for it.  It
was as if some subterranean monster had turned over in the
depths and upheaved the surface.  Truda joined him.

"I never saw anything like that before, and I have seen
the sea ever since I was a child," she said.  "The waves broke
on the rocks, but not like this.  It is so still.  Oh, look."

Another of the great undulations struck the reef, and
a gust of wind from nowhere, apparently, and gone almost
as quickly as it had come, carried the spray across the
lagoon and into the still harbor.  They saw it patter upon
the smooth surface.  They marked the wide circles spread,
interlace, break.  It was a warning to the man, at least.

"Some terrible storm is brewing," he said.  "If it equals
the promise of these waves, it will flood this gulf.  We must
seek shelter."

Now he had marked before--indeed, in his first exploration
he had essayed to get to the top by it--a broad shelf
of rock fifty or more feet above the level of the sea.  It
was inconceivable that any tide or storm could ever reach
that shelf.

"We must go there and wait," he said.

The ascent was not particularly difficult for a man alone,
but burdened as he was with the girl, it was almost impossible.
He carried her up in his arms as far as he could that
way and then set her down.

"You can leave me here," she urged.

"Nonsense; I'll have to take you the rest of the way on
my back."

So, in the old-fashioned way by which children were
carried pick-a-back, her arms and legs tight around him to
leave his hands free to help him climb, he scrambled up to
the shelf with his burden.  It took some time to get her
there, and the labor was tremendous.  Although there was
a strange chill in the air, sweat bedewed his brow.

"It was wonderful," said the girl.  "I didn't know you
were so strong.  No man on the island could have done that."

"Well, we shall be safe here," said Beekman.  "Look
yonder."

They were directly opposite the entrance.  As he pointed
seaward the black clouds on the horizon were torn by flashes
of lightning.  There was a deep sigh of wind in the air,
and the next moment, with a terrific roar, the strange and
terrible storm broke.  Truda shrank closer to the man.  She
was still sufficiently a child of nature to be awed by this
display of its terrible force.

"It's worse than I thought it would be," said Beekman.

They were still more or less sheltered from the wind, and
conversation was not yet difficult.

"I must go down again."

"Why?"

"I forgot Hano."

"He tried to kill you."

"Yes; but he is lying there, bound hand and foot.  He
would have no chance at all if the water came flooding in."

"Is that the white man's way?" asked the girl.

"It is the way of the white man's God."

"Has He told you to do this?"

"I think so."

"Go, then."

He kissed her and climbed down the declivity until he
reached the sand.  It was already covered.  The tide was
at full flood and the wind was now driving into the gulf
with increasing force.  The barrier was a mass of white
mist and spray shining eerie and ghost-like against the
black horizon, torn with lightning, fast merging into the
copper-misted sky above.

He must hurry.  He scrambled over the rocky promontory
with reckless haste.  Hano was lying where he had left
him.  The waves were sliding over the little mound of sand
into the hollow.  His face was grey with terror.  As
Beekman bent over him with the sheath-knife, he shrieked, but
what he feared did not occur.  His lashings were cut.
Beekman dragged him to his feet.  He pointed to the sea
and upward to the rocks.  He took him by the hand and
started to lead him, but Hano broke away and ran in the
other direction.  There were ledges of rock there, and,
dumbly and dimly alive to the danger, he chose to go that
way.  Beekman followed, but he could not prevail upon the
islander to go with him.

His own position was becoming precarious.  The wind
was beating upon him with amazing power.  The waves
were sweeping over the barrier as if it were not there.  He
must think of Truda.  She would be mad with anxiety.  He
even feared she might attempt to descend if he did not
return.  He waved his hand at Hano, whom he saw climbing
up the rocks, and turned back to the harbor.  As he had
suspected, Truda had started to come down.  She stopped
when he appeared, and waited until he joined her.  He
brought up what he could carry in his hands of the
provisions which he had stored in the rock.

"I was coming for you.  Where is Hano?" asked the girl
as he drew himself up by her side.

"He climbed the cliff and went the other way.  I tried to
bring him here, for this is the better place."

"He is in the hands of his god," said the girl.

"As we are in the hands of ours," answered Beekman.

He turned toward her, and for a moment his back was to
the sea.

"Look," she cried, peering over his shoulder.

He turned his head.  What had happened before was
child's play to what met them now.

.. _`271`:

"My God!" cried Beekman, staring into the white mist,
appalled by what he saw.

A wall of water thirty feet high, although, to the man, it
looked to be a hundred, was rolling in from seaward with
the speed of an express train.  Its top was curling, the
spray whipping from it, but it was yet an unbroken mass.
The thoughts of men take strange turns in such emergencies.
It reminded him, for a second, of the pictures in
his mother's Bible of the passage of the Red Sea, the waters
a curling wall, concave over the heads of the pursuing
Egyptians, about to break.

"What is it?" screamed the girl.

"A tidal wave."

The words meant nothing to her, but the voice of the
man told her that there was death in the moving water.

"Whatever happens, don't let go of me," he shouted.

He stooped and kicked off his heavy shoes, clasped an arm
around the girl's waist.  Her arms met around his neck.
He was staring seaward, ready for a plunge.  Woman-like,
she kissed him, and then the wave struck the island--wall
of water meeting wall of rock.  For a second, Beekman
thought he could feel the massive cliff on which he stood
quivering.  The next moment the great bore tore its way
into the harbor.  It leaped and surged through the narrow
entrance in a madly foaming, green avalanche.  Constricted
by the walls, it rose and rose.  He had one glimpse of the
mighty wave towering above his head where he stood fifty
feet above the sea level, and the next moment it broke, and,
with a crash like a thousand thunderbolts, fell upon them.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE INDOMITABLE EGO`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE INDOMITABLE EGO

.. vspace:: 2

The crest of the wave was traveling faster than its
middle section, which had been retarded by the land.
That fact, and that alone, saved the lives of the two poor
mites upon whom it fell, for, instead of being dashed back
against the rock wall by the terrific surge of the inward
sweeping sea, the wave curling above their heads struck the
wall a second in advance of the great body of water.  It
broke, fell upon them, swept them from the shelf, plunged
them into the depths with such force and violence that it
was the return thrust of the water which finally caught
them--the backward undertow, rather than the inward rush.

Beckman had never heard so deafening a roar in all his
life.  He had, on one occasion, felt a great superdreadnaught
roll and quiver under the simultaneous discharge of
her own principal batteries under actual service conditions.
It was child's play to this.  Not that he had any thought
about it now.  He was only conscious of the roaring in his
ears, the awful pressure upon his body, as he was driven
down, down, down, until it seemed as if the bowels of the
earth had opened before him and swallowed him up; as if he
would never be lifted again out of the great deep which
had sucked him under.

He held his breath instinctively, of course, but it seemed
as if his lungs and heart would burst.  His whole being was
merged in two frantic desires: to keep on holding his breath,
and not to let go of the woman who clung to him.  Mercifully,
although his body had shielded hers, she had almost
lost consciousness.  There remained to her only the
desperate instinct to cling.  She twined her arms and legs about
him.  He drew her closer and closer, although the tremendous
thrust of the sea seemed to be striving to tear them
apart as well as draw them under.  Thus linked into a human
warp and woof, they were hurled down and down, out
and out.

Just when he had come to the conclusion that further
resistance was impossible, that he must breathe or die, or
breathe and die, the two interwoven figures, caught in a
mad whirl of the torrent, were thrown upward.  Their
movements were arrow-like in their swiftness; or, better,
they were driven as a stone from a mighty catapult.
Swimming was impossible.  There was no effort that could be
made.  There was nothing that he or the woman could do
but to cling tighter and tighter.  To hold on, that was all!

Truda's grass petticoats were torn to pieces in an instant.
The water, in its awful churning, stripped Beekman to his
bare skin.  It would have torn his shoes off if he had been
wearing them.  Nothing that he had ever imagined equalled
the force, the pressure, the stripping, ripping suction; the
driving, beating, thrusting of the sea, unless it was a
full-fledged western tornado.  He had met such on the plains.
Of course, these comparisons did not occur to him then.  All
he thought of when they were thrown out of the water and
into the spray-laden air, which made seeing difficult, but not
impossible, was to breathe, to breathe quickly and deep so
as to be prepared for the next buffet of fortune.

As soon as he struck the air he opened his eyes.  They
were still in the very midst of the deep, cylindrical harbor,
its dark walls seen vaguely through the spray uptossed by
the broken bore.  His brain registered impressions almost
faster than the afferent and efferent nerves could carry them.
The swiftness with which the two bodies, still clinging
together, were whirled about in the maelstrom caused by the
introduction of these titanic forces within the narrow
confines of this gulf alone kept them from sinking.  Beekman
could not have made a stroke for any reason.  He was
incapable even of movement of his own.

In the first place, he was so bruised and beaten and
exhausted by the tremendous pressure of the water that
every muscle was almost useless.  In the second place, he
could not let go of the girl, even with one arm.  He had
held her only by a superhuman effort of will and strength
which must have been met and equalled by a similar
determination on her part.  Even to free one hand, meant
parting.  It flashed into his mind that death was at hand; that
no human beings could live in such a sea; that the next
second would find them cast beyond the whirling periphery
of the vortex and hurled against the rocks.  At least, they
could, and would, die together.

Yet, Beekman suddenly became aware that the harbor
entrance was wider than before.  He noticed, too, that the
waters appeared to be receding, although the tumult, for
instance, of the rapids of the Niagara River, was as nothing
to it.  The next instant, as if nature had not yet exhausted
her malefic powers, a second earthquake, traveling more
slowly than the wave which the first shock engendered, reached
the island.  By chance--or was it God?--the whirling
revolution of the two human beings carried them farthest from
the nearer shore when this last appalling cataclysm of
nature took place.  The solid wall before them seemed to
melt away before Beekman's eyes and dissolve into the vague
mist and foam.  The sight terrified him perhaps more than
anything else.  It benumbed his very soul.  Not only had
the foundations of the great deep been broken up, but the
immutable hills themselves were shaking like the sea.  Was
it the end of the world, or only the end of Beekman and
Truda?

The quivering transmitted even through the boiling water
seemed to still the wave for a moment.  As Beekman hung
poised, almost as a soul might, 'twixt heaven and earth, the
moment the mad action of the water stopped they began
to sink.  Then he did strike out feebly, but desperately.  The
girl clung to him, half senseless, a perfectly dead weight in
his arms.  The great wall of rock before him wavered, bent
forward.  It seemed to rise in the air.  It slipped downward
with the sound of a mighty rending.  Screams as of an
earth in labor pains seemed to fill his ear.  He caught a
glimpse of a great rift, beyond which he could see, as no
mortal had ever seen before from where he floated, the palms
of the upland.  And then the falling rock smote the water.

Being luckily farthest away, and just opposite the
entrance, the great wave which was engendered drove the
two far out to sea.  He had time to note, as he swept
through the now strangely widened entrance, that he could
not see a trace of the barrier.  The water, which barely
reached its highest point at the highest tide, had completely
buried it.  Outside the narrow, enclosed harbor, while the
waves still rolled terribly, the sea was smoother.  They did
not break.  The force of the surge which had hurled them
seaward being spent, they began to sink again.  The
instinct of life was still present, and although every motion
was anguish, Beekman thought it safe to free one hand with
which he continued to strike out boldly.

His painful swimming was aimless.  Indeed, it was only
the result of a now unconscious determination to keep afloat
as long as strength remained.  He must go whither the
waves carried him.  By this time Truda had fainted dead
away.  Her grasp on his neck relaxed.  She straightened
out in the water.  He turned her on her back, caught her
long hair, which had been blown out like a flag, in his teeth
and swam on.

While it would only be for a few moments, still the spirit
of the race, the indomitable persistence of humanity--that
quality by which at least it has some claim to be
considered begot of Divinity--made him swim on, driven by wind
and sea and tossed helplessly about.  He set his teeth more
tightly, shut his eyes, and struck out and out and out.  He
would not give up his own life.  He would not desist from
the efforts to preserve, even for a few swiftly passing
instants, that life, dearer than his own, which trailed behind
him as he swam.

But he reached the end of his strength.  Some instinct
made him open his eyes and lift his head: the old instinct
to die with head up, facing the enemy; not to pass with
averted countenance and in shrinking posture.  Before him
he saw something white.  He did not know what it was, but
the next moment, in the grinding sway of the sea, it struck
him hard on the shoulder.  He had strength enough to
clutch at it ere he went down.  It had struck him on the
right arm, and the force of the blow had deprived him of
the use of that vital member.  Ordinarily, he could have
swam with one arm, but not now.

As he clutched the object before him, it occurred to
him that this was the end.  He wished that he could have
had another word with Truda; another kiss; but, to his
surprise, he found that he was not sinking.  To his brain
came the consciousness that he was touching something
familiar.  He looked again.  It was dancing and bobbing
in the seas, but he was near enough now to recognize what
brief stay Providence had thrown to his hand.  It was wood,
painted white.  He saw the boards lap-streaked together.  It
presented a strangely familiar look.

Through water-filled eye gate, through numbed arm and
bruised body gate, it told its story to the man's brain.  That
he could read the message, was an evidence of his vital force
and infinite determination.  A ship's boat, the forward part
half under water, yet riding singularly light.  He could not
yet reason as to what boat it was, or how it came to be there,
but the fact was indelibly impressed upon his consciousness.
It meant a further respite from death; another temporary
stay on their dread journey.  They were not beaten yet.

His right arm was useless.  He tried desperately to lift
it, but could not.  He thought it might have been paralyzed,
but the pain, when he attempted to move it, suggested to
him that it might be broken.  He did not dare to let go with
his left arm, and yet if he did not draw his fainting
companion up on that boat, she would die.  They were now
surging far to sea, the reflex of the great tidal wave rolling
them on.

He could turn his head and see Truda's body half buried
in the water.  Still holding the boat, which lay across
him--he had struck it broadside--with his left hand he worked
himself around till the sides running aft embraced him.  He
felt about with his foot and discovered at once that the after
part of the boat was gone.  He did not yet have wit enough
to determine why the forward part of the boat floated so
far out of water.  At any rate, he was in a much better
position for action.

Pulling and swimming, he got himself well between the
two sides, with the bow directly in front of him.  Then he
drew himself to the right, and, although the pressure by
which he held himself by hand and shoulder from washing
out of the boat induced the most excruciating pain in his
arm, he dared to release his grasp on the gunwale with his
left hand.  Still holding Truck's golden hair in his teeth,
he reached out and drew her forward with his left arm.  By
an effort--he never knew how to account for the feat of
strength--he got her to the boat; then, seizing her under
the arms with his left arm, he forced her upon the bow of
the boat until her head lay back upon a little flat platform,
which he soon discovered was a locker, or compartment in
the very eyes of the boat.  Thus, himself lying across the
boat, holding himself steady by the pressure of his knee
and back, and the girl lying along the boat lengthwise, her
head on the forward compartment, his left arm holding her,
he knew he had done all that was possible.  The pain in his
right arm and shoulder had passed away, leaving a sort of
deadness.

There was a broken thwart just back of him, and he
found that he could relax his pressure a little and sink back
against this jagged piece of wood without slipping into the
sea.  It was a good thing, he realized, for the tremendous
thrust of his legs against the unsupported side of the boat
might have torn apart even the frail support that was left.

In all this, Truda had, as yet, made no sign of life.  He
was sure that she had not been drowned.  He thought the
shock, and the battering, and the terror had rendered her
unconscious.  Whatever it was, there was nothing more that
he could do except to hold on in his constricted condition and
wait.  He told himself a thousand times that it was useless;
that it would be, perhaps, best in the end to let go, but the
indomitable ego did not sanction that.

Rising and falling on the seas, he could catch glimpses
of the island.  It was so changed by tidal wave and
earthquake that he never could have recognized it.  The harbor
was gone.  Here and there, when they rose on the crest of
a wave, he could see the barrier reef.  A part of it had been
torn away.  Where had been a wall was a great concavity
that led upward and inward.  The earthquake had done
that.  What had it done to the people of the island?  He
was too far away by this time to distinguish much except
the general transformation.

As they floated on, his eye, ceaselessly roving the waters,
caught sight of a brown object rising and falling, tumbling
and turning with the helpless look of a once living thing
driven and tossed.  A freak of the sea brought it nearer.
Another freak of the sea turned the brown object over.  He
saw that it was Hano, dead.  He wondered if all the other
denizens of the island had met a like fate.  Of course, the
water could not reach them as it had reached Hano, and
Beekman, and Truda, but the earthquake--then, as he
speculated hazily, the sun suddenly appeared.  The black
bank of cloud was riven and torn.  Its greater moiety
drifted to leeward, driven by some strange and powerful
wind of the upper air.  Fortunately, where they floated
there was but a gentle breeze.

The warmth, the rest, it may be, he knew not what,
revived the woman.  She opened her eyes, lifted her head, his
left arm tightened about her.  She bent to him.

"Is this another world?" she gasped brokenly.

"Not yet," answered the man.

"How did we come here?"  Before he could answer, she
cried, "I remember.  The wave.  What is this?" she asked
after a time.

"A boat," he answered, and then he knew that it was
the forward half of the wrecked whaleboat which had
brought him to the island, had landed on the barrier, had
been torn from the pinnacles of rock by the same sea that
had overwhelmed them, and which had been thrust into his
hand for their salvation.

"We shall die here in the water," said the girl, "but we
shall die together."

The man shook his head.

"I think not.  God, our God, has preserved us so far.  He
has given us this poor support.  It can not be that this is
the end."

It was almost the end of Beekman, in spite of his brave
words; for, now that Truda was safe and alive, now that
he had achieved the impossible, now that, by God's will and
her lover's help, she had been brought through the
maelstrom, he fainted dead away.  His head fell back.  His
knees relaxed.  His hand unclasped.  His arm released her.
But for that broken thwart, he would have slid away and
out of sight.  It was Truda's turn.  She caught him by
the shoulder.  She crouched down on the forward compartment
and held him until consciousness returned.  When he
could think coherently, he remembered how he had put the
air-tight tanks back, and he blessed God for having
inspired him to that, at the time, useless action.  It was that
air-tight compartment which held them.  Truda dragged
his head free of the water and held him there until he
recovered his strength a little.  The sharp pain in his arm, which
had been numbed, helped to keep him from fainting again.

And so they drifted side by side, a naked man and woman,
as they might have come from a Garden of Eden, on the
poor shattered remains of a small boat, their weight
keeping it awash in the long, still rolling, but gradually
subsiding waves, thanking God for life, for that poor support,
and for love.  And by and by the night fell, and still
they clung to each other, floating on calming seas, until
presently the boat came to a rest beneath the tropic stars
staring down upon these jettisoned inhabitants of that
island paradise, these bits of human flotsam kept above the
waters by love and God.





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.. _`IN DANGER ALL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   BOOK IV

.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   "*I've a neater, sweeter maiden,
   In a cleaner, greener land*"

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium bold

   CHAPTER XXVI

.. class:: center medium bold

   IN DANGER ALL

.. vspace:: 2

It was, indeed, a solemn little group that was seated
around the table in the great cabin of the *Stephanie*.
The dominant spirit of the occasion was not the masterful
financier, the brilliant young executive, or the beautiful
and charming maiden.  It was a grizzled veteran sailor who
had called the conference in that section of the *Stephanie*
which he rarely entered save for business purposes.  The
grave anxiety of Captain Weatherby's face was reflected in
the faces of John Maynard, George Harnash, and Stephanie
Maynard.

"And you think the yacht's condition is serious, do you?"
asked Maynard.

"Just about as serious as it could be, Mr. Maynard,"
answered the captain.

"Yet there's not a better built ship on the seas than this,"
observed Harnash.

"Granted," said Captain Weatherby; "she's all that
money and skill and steel and science could make her, but
she's only a manufactured article, after all, and she has
just bucked the biggest thing in nature.  That she has come
off as well as she has is a tribute to her builders."

"And to her sailing master," put in Stephanie deftly.

"If you hadn't handled her just as you did, none of us
would be here now," added Harnash heartily.

"That's as may be," answered the captain modestly.

"It's the blessing of God and your own skill," commented
Maynard.

But the captain went on.

"We are here, but the yacht is in bad condition.  She is
making water faster than the pumps can keep it down."

"Is there any immediate danger of our foundering?"
asked Maynard.

"Every danger.  In fact, it is certain, unless--"

The captain paused.

"Unless what?" asked the owner.

"I've sailed with you a long time, now, Mr. Maynard.  I
know your temper on land and sea, and that of these young
people, as well.  What you want is the plain, blunt truth,
and you're going to get it.  Unless I can beach this yacht
somewhere within the next twenty-four hours, send a diver
down, and, if necessary, careen her, and come at the leaks,
she--"

He paused again.  It was not necessary for him to go on.
His meaning was obvious to all of them.

"In that case, there are always the boats," observed
Harnash.

"Have you been on deck this morning, Mr. Harnash?"
asked the captain.

"Yes, I have."

"How many boats did you see?"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Harnash, "I forgot that."

"Of course," said the captain, smiling grimly at his own
sarcasm; "and a landlubber like you, meaning no offense,
sir, wouldn't be apt to notice it, but the deck has been swept
clean.  The bridge is still there, and the smoke stacks,
but pretty much everything else is gone.  There's not a boat
left at the davits, and even the launch amidships is badly
stove up."

"A raft?" said old Maynard.

"There's not much woodwork in this boat fit to make a
raft out of, sir," answered the captain, "but I've got the
men at work on the wooden fittings and doors trying to
patch up something."

"Of course, we're not in any immediate danger," said
Stephanie.

"Depends upon what you mean by 'immediate,' Miss
Maynard.  The yacht will float for twenty-four hours;
perhaps thirty-six."

"Then, after that, we shall be in God's hands," said the
girl quietly.

It was a platitude, of course; but, in great emergencies,
humanity always resorts to platitudes.  They are familiar;
made to order, as it were; and resorted to as the line of least
resistance.  There are certain conventional expressions to
which man instinctively reverts.  Men exclaim, "My God!"
in the crisis, even though He be none of theirs and they
have not hitherto known Him.

"In His hands, Miss, and mine," said the captain steadily
with the assurance of the capable and efficient.

"What else have you done or planned?" asked Maynard.

"I've searched for the leak but we cannot locate it.  The
hours after the tidal wave were so full that it got a start
on us, but we are keeping the pumps going while working
away at the raft."

"Of course; but that is a last resort."

"I'm driving the ship as hard as I can, too, sir."

"In the hope of what?"

"There's an uninhabited island to the nor'west of us;
hasn't even a name that anyone recognizes.  I'm heading
for it."

"Can you careen the ship there?"

The captain shook his head.

"The charts say that it is completely surrounded by a
barrier reef.  It appears to be a volcanic rock about which
the coral builders have been busy.  But it is the nearest
land; the only land we can possibly make in our present
condition; and, at least, we won't drown on it.  We can save
enough from the *Stephanie* to support life, and I have no
doubt we can find some means of getting away or communicating
with other ships," continued the veteran sailor
confidently, although he knew, and everyone else realized, more
or less, that the chance of either was very slim.

"Well, whatever happens to us, Captain Weatherby,"
said Harnash, "I'll never forget my last glimpses of you
on the bridge, jumping the boat at full speed into that tidal
wave."

"It was our only chance, Mr. Harnash," said the captain.
"If that wave had caught us broadside, or even on
the quarter or astern, we would have gone down like a
stone."

Indeed, no one aboard the ship would ever forget the
approach of that great, roaring, thunderous tidal wave.
No one would ever fail to remember how Captain Weatherby,
as cool as he was at that moment in the cabin, standing on
the bridge, had shifted his helm, had pointed the bows of the
yacht at the rushing, whirling water, had signaled for every
pound of steam, and had driven the great white ship at full
speed fairly and squarely into the midst of it.

Before it broke and fell the three passengers had been
ordered--yes, that is the word, ordered--below.  Captain
Weatherby had been prepared to detail seamen, who would
have obeyed him unquestionably, to carry the great magnate
who owned the ship and the other two below if they had
hesitated a moment in complying with his command.  He did
not even stop in the emergency to put it in the form of a
request or suggestion.  John Maynard knew a man when
he saw him, and without a moment's hesitation, he went aft
and plunged below with the others, just in time, too, for
the hatches to be battened down and every opening through
which the water could penetrate the ship from above as
tightly closed as the wit of man could devise.  They would
never forget, either, how they stood close together in the
cabin, waiting the meeting of ship and sea.

They could not see, but they could feel the appalling
shock of the bows of steel encountering the hurtling water
wall.  They could feel the gigantic wave break over the deck
and fall crashing upon the steel ceiling over their heads.
So great was the tumult, so loud the smashing falling of
the water, that they did not hear the rending and tearing
of the upper works of the ship, the boats carrying away,
the deckhouse going adrift, and everything movable swept
astern; and even the screams of some of the men, washed
helplessly away, in spite of the life lines, at which they
clutched frantically, were not noticed in the wild tumult
of the storm.

Following the great wave came the short but terrible
cyclonic disturbance, which almost completed their undoing.
It was not until calmer weather supervened and the night
fell that Captain Weatherby could take account of his ship
and of his crew.  He deemed it best to say nothing of his
terrifying discoveries until the morning, but at dawn he had
awakened his passengers to the melancholy conference in the
cabin.

It was rare, indeed, that John Maynard found himself
helpless.  There were few situations to which his readiness,
his resources, his inventiveness were unequal; but this was
one.  It was Captain Weatherby's field of action.  There
was nothing that Maynard could contribute, except an
example of cheerful willingness to do what he was told
without hesitation and without argument.  It was a good
lesson for the master financier, albeit the price he bade fair
to pay for the learning of it might render it of little avail.

"Well, Captain Weatherby," he said, rising, "as my
daughter says, we are in God's hands, and, as you justly
added, in yours, too.  We have every confidence in you that
you will do the best for us that humanity can do under God.
If it should prove of no avail, it will not be your fault.
Meanwhile, this is the first chance I've had to express my
admiration and gratitude.  My friendship and respect you
have had for a long time, but never as today."  Maynard
extended his hand to him.

"Mine, too," said Harnash, following the older man's
example.

Stephanie, more moved than the other two, less restrained,
perhaps, slipped her arm about the captain's neck and
kissed him on his weather-beaten check.

"As from your daughter at home," she said.

"Here are brave hearts," said the captain, deeply touched.
"Good stuff in all of you.  We'll all fight harder because of
this," he added.

The next moment the hatchway was darkened by one of
the junior officers.

"Captain Weatherby," he began.

"What is it, Mr. Lefner?"

"We've made out the wreck of a boat adrift off the starboard
bow with two people on her; one of them at least is
alive, for through the glass we can see hands waved."

"Have a boat cleared away at--"  He stopped.  He
had forgotten for the moment that there were no boats.  He
glanced up at the telltale compass above his head and noticed
the shifting of the needle.  The first officer was changing
the course of the yacht to run down the wreck; that would
be the only way.  "We are still capable of saving life,
Mr. Maynard, even though it be for a little space.  Perhaps you
would like to come on deck.  It is safe enough now.  I've
rigged up a railing of life lines to take the place of those
carried away."

He put his foot on the ladder and mounted to the deck,
followed by the others.  Harnash snatched a glass from the
transom as he passed.  They knew exactly where to look
for the wreck.  It was quite visible to the naked eyes.  There
were no glasses on the bridge.  It had been stripped clean
of everything by the wave and only stood by a miracle.  The
whole party moved up toward the bow of the ship and
mounted the bridge.  Harnash handed the glass to Captain
Weatherby.  He focused it and fixed his eyes on the rapidly
nearing object, now directly over the bows, since the yacht's
course had been changed.

"I make out two naked figures on what appears to be the
fore part of a whaleboat.  One of them is a woman, sir," he
observed, handing the glass to Mr. Maynard, who stared
and then passed it to the others standing by.

"Ropes to the starboard gangway," said Mr. Gardner,
the first officer, after a word with the captain.  "Mr. Gersey,"
he spoke to a veteran seaman, who stood forward, easily
balancing himself to the roll of the ship, his arms folded.
Instantly the boatswain turned and saluted.  "Stand by the
starboard gangway.  Have some hands ready at the battens
with a rope.  One of those castaways doesn't look able to
help himself, and we'll have to draw him aboard."

"Aye, aye, sir," he answered, turning aft to the gangway,
followed by the seamen he summoned to his assistance.

Although she was already deep in the water and sluggish,
the *Stephanie* was under complete command.  Nicely steered,
she passed the bit of wreck to windward and rounded to.
Her engines had been stopped previously, and just as the
wreck surged to the gangway she came to a rest in the
gently moving sea.  Gersey had sent Templin, who had
proved himself one of the smartest seamen on the yacht,
down the battens of the starboard gangway with a rope's
end, in which a bowline had been cast.  Standing on the
lower batten with the water halfway up to his waist on
account of the ever-deepening draught of the leaking yacht,
Templin caught the surging boat by the stem and held it
firmly.

The woman was sitting crouched down on the forward
lockers, or what remained of them.  Templin motioned her
to try the battens.  She shook her head and pointed to the
figure of the man, who lay at her feet, his head in the very
bows of the boat, his legs dragging in the water.  He was
alive, but apparently helpless.  His face was flushed and
his eyes bright with fever.  Templin sensed the situation
at once.

"The lady wants the man passed aboard first," he called out.

Gersey nodded.  He sent another seaman down to help
Templin, and although the situation was difficult, the two
men worked together intelligently.  They passed the bowline
around the body of the man, drew it tight, and the next
moment willing hands aboard ship hauled away, and while
Templin bore the body out so it would not scrape along the
sides of the yacht, the man was soon drawn aboard.  The
girl watched without a word, but in great anxiety, until this
rescue had been effected.  Then she strove to rise, but she
had been so cramped by sitting so long in that position that
she could not make it.  The seamen helped her to her feet
and, half carrying, half urging, they finally got her on the
deck.  She had no sooner set foot thereon than she collapsed
and fell in a dead faint.  The officers and men were crowded
about the two figures near the gangway, when Maynard,
Harnash, and Stephanie approached.

"Take the woman to my cabin," said Stephanie.  She
turned to her maid, who had also come on deck, as two of
the seamen picked up the fainting castaway and bore her
aft.  "Celeste, you and I will look after her, with
Dr. Welch's help."

"At your service, Miss Maynard," said the ship's surgeon,
following her.

"Take the man aft to the spare cabin," said Maynard,
as the others moved away.  "Dr. Welch, you'd better examine
him as soon as you can.  Harnash--"

But Harnash did not hear.  He was bending over the
prostrate man.  The man's face was covered with a thick,
short, dark beard and mustache, but there was no mistaking
him.  Harnash had been struck by something familiar in his
appearance as the wreck lay alongside, and when he bent
over him on the deck he knew at once who it was, in spite
of his beard.

"This is the man we have been seeking," he said to
Mr. Maynard.

"Good God!" exclaimed Maynard, looking hard in turn.
"Yes," he added, "it's Beekman!"





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.. _`THE SPEECHLESS CASTAWAYS`:

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   CHAPTER XXVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SPEECHLESS CASTAWAYS

.. vspace:: 2

It was broad daylight by this time, and the high peak
of the island was already visible, although low on the
horizon.  Ordinarily, the arrival of the castaways would
have been a matter of deepest interest to Captain
Weatherby, his officers and the men on the ship, but under the
circumstances their presence simply meant two more persons
to feed and care for.  His owner could look after them.
Indeed, Captain Weatherby had not left the bridge as the
two had been passed aboard, and he had not heard that one
of the persons he had picked up was the man for whom they
had been combing the seas in an exhaustive search of every
island in Polynesia.

He was engaged in the desperate task of getting the
sluggish ship to the island, if possible, before she sank.  The
existence of that island was charted, but it was marked as
uninhabited, desolate, completely encircled by a formidable
reef and very dangerous.  Ships avoided it, giving it a wide
berth.  It promised them little.  Still, in their condition,
perhaps a very little meant the wide difference--or is it
narrow?--between life and death.  A good sailor, like a
good doctor, never gives up entirely until the very end.
While the ship floats she has life, and while she has life there
is hope; but Captain Weatherby was forced to admit to
himself that the amount of hope was very small, indeed; that
is, for the ship, and not much more, he feared, for her
people.

Ordinarily, he could have made the run to the island in
half a day.  It seemed to him under present conditions he
would be fortunate if he reached it by evening, and yet he
must reach it before dark if he were to save the lives
committed to his care and skill.  To make a landing through the
breakers on a reef-encircled island by means of an improvised
raft would be an almost impossible task in daylight, and
under the most favorable circumstances, and quite an
impossible task at night in any sort of sea.  Consequently, he
drove the waterlogged *Stephanie* as fast as she could be
driven in her condition, his chief engineer ably seconding
him, employing every expedient to keep up steam and to
increase the speed.

Weatherby was a resourceful man.  He had spent some
years in Cramp's shipyard in Philadelphia, after retiring
from the command of great liners.  The love of the sea was
strong upon him, however, and he had been tempted to the
easy and pleasant work of commanding the *Stephanie* by
the munificent offers of Maynard, who, since he owned the
biggest yacht afloat, was not satisfied with any but the best
captain.  Therefore, if Captain Weatherby could find a
suitable strip of sand on which to beach the ship, if necessary
to careen her, he believed that with his carefully selected
force of engineers and mechanics and seamen he could stop
the leak and put her in seaworthy condition again.
However, that was not to be thought of.  That desolate,
reef-guarded island toward which they were heading was the only
one they could by any possibility hope to reach, and if the
charts were true, as they undoubtedly were, it would not
afford any facilities whatsoever for such work as would be
necessary.  It never occurred to him that the earthquake
which had raised the tidal wave which had wrought their
undoing might have broken the barrier and have changed
conditions at the island, so as to provide him with the beach
he craved.  He was simply going to the island, because, when
the ship sank, it would at least enable them to keep alive,
for a little while longer, at any rate.  Consequently, he paid
no attention whatever to the pair he had rescued as he put
the ship on her course again.

There were plenty of people capable of looking after
them better than he.  Indeed, to his casual inspection they
seemed to be two islanders, rather fairer of skin than those
whom he knew.  He wondered how they came to be where
they were.  He had seen that the wreck which had kept them
up was part of a ship's boat and not the remains of a native
vessel.  It did, indeed, occur to him that possibly they might
have come from that island for which he was heading, which
might not be uninhabited, after all, but time would soon
settle those problems.  In the meantime his duty was clear.

Beekman was incapable of recognizing any one.  He had
been silent enough in the water, but when they got him on
deck he had begun to mutter incoherently things they could
not understand.  Harnash, after his discovery of his identity,
seemed incapable of action.  The sight of his friend brought
back vividly his own perfidy, and the desperate condition in
which he saw Beekman to be intensified the swift and sudden
recollection of his own baseness.  Mr. Maynard had nothing
with which to reproach himself, of course, and it was he who
first recovered himself and repeated his order that Beekman
should be taken to the cabin.

For a moment Harnash found himself wishing they had
not found Beekman, and for a moment Maynard, in whose
good graces Harnash had become more and more solidly
entrenched, had the same thought; on his young subordinate's
account only, of course.  As the days of the cruise
had passed without any tidings of the missing man, and as
the possibilities of their search grew smaller and smaller,
they both became resigned to and in a measure satisfied with
the situation, even if Stephanie had not shared in their
feelings.

Harnash had made a grievous error; he had done an
unworthy thing.  The consequences had been such as no
one had dreamed of, but Harnash had manfully confessed
and he had done his best to atone.  Mr. Maynard could not
be in the presence of Harnash and his daughter without
realizing the depth and permanence of their devotion.  It
was deplorable, of course, that Beekman had been sacrificed
to their happiness, but there was no use blinking the facts.
Here was Beekman alive and on the ship.  Maynard never
dreamed but that he would at once claim Stephanie for his
wife, and by putting himself in Beekman's position,
Maynard could easily imagine what his feelings toward Harnash
would be when he knew.  Whatever happened, Beekman had
to be told if he lived.  It was all terribly awkward and
embarrassing and quite an impossible situation.

Nor was Maynard unmindful of the fact that the naked
man before him, over whom a coat had been hastily thrown,
had been found adrift with a woman.  He had no doubt
that some irregular connection had been entered into, or
some sort of relationship had grown up between the
castaways.  This woman was presumably a native, but that
would be no ultimate barrier toward Beekman's claim to
marriage with Stephanie.  At any rate, the situation, which
had gradually been clearing because they had not found
him, became suddenly more complex than ever when they
did.  Both Harnash and Maynard were ashamed of their
feelings, and that very shame, the personal humiliation a
man experiences who has given way momentarily to unworthy
thoughts or impulses, made them more resolutely determined
to do everything in their power for him.

The yacht carried a surgeon, of course, who messed with
the officers, and was scarcely admitted to any more social
intimacy with the owner and his party than the others.
Dr. Welch had met the party in the gangway, and in obedience
to the suggestion from Stephanie, he had followed her into
the cabin.  The maid's cabin was abaft the bathroom and
dressing room, which separated it from Stephanie's luxurious
cabin.  There was a spare berth in Celeste's cabin and there
the unconscious Truda was bestowed.  The doctor made a
swift personal examination.

"There's nothing very much the matter with her," he said
at last; "exposure, cold, lack of food or drink, prolonged
nervous strain, and surprise probably account for her
collapse."

He administered proper restoratives, directed that she
be well rubbed down and wrapped in blankets and given
suitable food and drink, and predicted that in a day or
two she would be all right, which, indeed, proved to be the
case.

"Remarkably light colored for a Polynesian," he observed
professionally to Stephanie as he turned away to leave his
patient in the care of the two women.

"Yes, and with a distinctly European cast of countenance,"
answered the girl.

She bent over her as the doctor left the room in obedience
to a summons from Harnash that he come to the other
cabin to look at the other castaway immediately.

Stephanie was the exact antithesis of Truda; dark where
the other was fair, brown eyed where the other was blue eyed.
To be sure, Truda's dazzling fairness had been modified by
the sun under which she lived, and Stephanie's complexion
was clearer, if darker, owing to her more sheltered habit of
life, but Stephanie recognized to the full the extraordinary
beauty of the sea nymph before her.

Truda, who had never seen so splendid a brunette, made
the same unconscious acknowledgment as her civilized sister.
The yacht, its sumptuous fittings, the wonderful things
about her, this extraordinary being bending over her in her
unusual clothes, all added to the poor little islander's dismay.
Even Celeste, by no means unpleasing in her trim maid's
dress, was a thing for Truda to wonder over.  These were
the women of that other faraway world of which Beekman
had told her.  It could not be that in their presence he could
continue to love her, and so Truda, agonizingly jealous,
was afraid.  Everything was new and strange; the yacht
itself, the deep throbbing of the hard-pushed engines, the
very bed on which she lay, the expensive furnishings of the
cabins, added to her trepidation and alarm.  Save so far as
mental habit and life had been altered by intercourse with
Beekman and what he had taught her, she was still, in
many of her instincts and habits, a savage, and a savage
suddenly and with no warning introduced to the highest
civilization.

Fear tied her tongue.  She had not said a word.  She
would not speak.  It seemed to her that she had forgotten
how to use any language but the native speech of the island.
She could only stare in dismay, appalled, silent.  Stephanie
had an exquisite voice; low, trained, cultivated.  Beekman
had often admired it and her use of it.  She was a singer,
and her speaking voice, unlike that of many singers, was as
musical as the other.  She bent over the girl and addressed
her in English.

"What is your name?"

Truda understood well enough, but she was utterly
incapable of answering.  Her lips could scarcely frame a
Polynesian word, much less an English one.  She could only stare
wildly.  On a venture Stephanie repeated the question in
French, then in Italian, then Celeste shook her head.

"She is not of the south, not Latin, mademoiselle," she
said; whereupon Stephanie, summoning the remains of a
brief schooling in the harsh tongue, repeated the question
in very indifferent German.

There was no answer.  That exhausted the linguistic
possibilities of the cabin.  Presently the steward appeared with
broth, which the doctor had ordered.  The two women, social
differences more or less laid aside with this new and
interesting plaything, had meanwhile covered the nakedness of
the poor girl, who was entirely submissive and unresisting.
in their hands, with one of Stephanie's daintiest and most
beautiful night robes.  Save for the grass or fiber petticoat
of the Polynesian, with an occasional grass mat about her
shoulders, Truda had never been so completely dressed
before.  She was scarcely dressed in that filmy, diaphanous
adornment; but by comparison it seemed to her that she
was strangely and fully clothed.  The lace and linen and
silk had a strange feeling to her, yet she was woman enough
to delight in the beauty of the garment, to marvel childishly
at its color, its softness.  She lifted her lovely arm and
stared at the short sleeves.

A thought struck Stephanie.  At a word from her Celeste
brought from her toilet case a silver mirror.  Without
explaining, she suddenly held it before Truda's eyes.  The
girl stared, screamed, threw up her hands.  There had not
been a still pool on the whole island.  She had never seen
herself before.  She was frightened, but Stephanie, a little
repentant, reassured her.  She held the glass before her own
face, so that Truda could look and see the reflection.  She
took the girl's hand and put it upon the glassy surface and
then she put the mirror back in Truda's hand.

Mindful at last of the doctor's orders that the castaway
should have sleep and rest, Stephanie and Celeste left her,
carefully closing the door of the cabin behind them, and,
worn out, Truda fell asleep, the mirror lying by her side,
reflecting a very pretty picture indeed.

Now, Beekman was in a very much worse condition than
Truda.  He had done the fighting.  Truda had been a
more or less passive instrument in his arms during that
horrible struggle with the tidal wave.  Not only had his
been the physical strain, but the mental as well.  It is true
that Truda had not been without her share of that mental
strain after Beekman lapsed into unconsciousness a second
time and presently grew delirious.  It was Truda who had
held him on the wreck of the boat during the night, who had
kept him from sinking, and who had repaid him in this way
for her life, which she owed entirely to him.  It was Truda
who had seen the ship in the growing dawn, who had made
the signals which Beekman could never have made.  Had it
not been for Truda's erect position on her knees, the
watchers on the ship might never have seen the wrecked boat
with its human freightage.

In addition to all that he had gone through, when
Beekman had been slammed against the boat by a wave his right
arm had been severely injured.  It was obvious to Dr. Welch
and the others that Beekman was in bad condition.  The
physician made a very thorough examination of him.  His
eyes were open, his lips muttered unintelligible things from
time to time, but he was obviously not in possession of his
reason.  He knew none of them and could tell no coherent
story.  That right arm, especially, attracted the doctor's
attention.  The skin was scraped and torn from its upper
half.  There was one long bruise.  But for the antiseptic
effects of the salt water it probably would have been in
worse condition than it was.  Fortunately, the numbness and
pain were caused from muscle strain and muscle bruise, for
it was found that no bones were broken.  Physically, so
far as his bones were concerned, Beekman, like Truda, was
intact.

"I don't know what happened to them," said Dr. Welch.
"They must have been caught in that wave somehow.  They
have both had a terrible battering."

"This is Mr. Beekman," said Maynard.

"What, the man we have been seeking?"

"The same."

"Well, by Heaven!" exclaimed the physician.  He recovered
himself in a moment.  "I think we'll have him all right
in a day or two.  That's a nasty scrape he got on the right
arm.  The flesh is torn nearly to the bone, but the salt
water has helped it, and as soon as it heals he will be all
right.  He is suffering now from fever brought on by the
exposure.  I have no doubt he saved that woman, and for
a man to bring himself, let alone another human being,
through a tidal wave like that--well, what he wants now
is food, sleep, and complete rest.  If you gentlemen will
turn him over to me, I'll look after him, and when he
wakes up, I'll guarantee he will be able to tell you all
about it."

The doctor's advice was good.  There was confidence in
his bearing and in his words, which carried conviction to the
two men.  They withdrew and sat down together in the
cabin, while the doctor, summoning his mate and a steward,
busied himself with his patient.

"Well," said Maynard, in anything but a joyful manner,
"our cruise has been a success."

"In so far as finding Beekman," was the equally melancholy
answer, "but if the yacht sinks we won't have bettered
his condition appreciably."

"No, of course, not," returned Maynard, thoughtfully.
"Yet, I have great confidence in Captain Weatherby.  I
shan't give up hope until I feel her sinking under us."

Harnash nodded.

"The only thing to be decided now is, shall we tell
Stephanie?" he went on.

"Tell me what?" asked the girl, coming into the room
and overhearing the last words.

"I--er--"  Harnash hesitated.  "About our castaways,
the man we picked up--"

"Is he alive yet?  Will he live?"

"Dr. Welch guarantees it," answered her father.  "He
has been badly buffeted, his arm is cut and bruised, and he
is prostrated from physical and nervous strain."

"Is he conscious yet?"

"No, but Welch thinks he will be when he wakes up.
How about your patient?"

"She's all right.  She's conscious and Dr. Welch says that
she only needs nourishment and rest.  She's asleep now, I
imagine."

"Who is she?  What is she?" asked her father.

"She didn't say a word.  She must be a Polynesian,
although she looks strangely like a European, especially
since we clothed her for the night."

"Didn't she say anything at all?"

"Not a word.  She seemed frightened.  On a wild venture I
tried her in English, Italian, French, and even German.
She made no response, yet she seemed to understand.
Incidentally, she's one of the most beautiful girls I ever
looked at."

The two men stared at each other.

"Didn't your man say anything at all?" asked Stephanie,
no suspicion at all in her mind.

"Not a thing.  He muttered continuously and more or
less unintelligibly, but he is not sane yet," answered her
father.

"Does he look like a South Sea islander?"

"He isn't one."

"What is he, then?"

The two men looked at each other again.  Neither answered
the question.  Stephanie stared, greatly surprised, and not
in the least understanding.

"Why don't you answer?  What is the mystery?" she
asked, obviously somewhat annoyed by their inexplicable
hesitancy.

"He is an American," observed Maynard, slowly.

"It's Beekman," said Harnash.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THEY COMFORT EACH OTHER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THEY COMFORT EACH OTHER

.. vspace:: 2

The three seekers after Beekman were spared the
necessity for immediate decision as to the telling of the
story they had come so far to relate, for Dr. Welch came
from the cabin on the heels of Harnash's startling revelation
and reported that the patient was already quite composed
and that he would soon be asleep.  He guaranteed that he
would awaken refreshed, in his right mind, and, save for
the wound in his right arm, as well as ever.  More careful
examination disclosed that the wound was more superficial
than otherwise.  It would yield rapidly to treatment, the
surgeon declared.  Then having looked at his other patient,
and finding her also fast asleep, Dr. Welch discreetly left
the trio to their own devices.

"Of course," said Stephanie, relentlessly, "as soon as
possible he will have to be told that our engagement is
broken, and why."

"Yes," added Harnash, mournfully, "and as soon as he
wakes up I shall tell him that I alone am responsible for his
whole sorry plight."

"On the contrary," put in Maynard, sagely, "while I have
no doubt that Welch is right, that Beekman will be much
better when he does come to, yet he won't be completely
himself.  It takes more than a few hours of sleep to recover
from such an experience as he must have passed through,
and that torn arm is going to give him some trouble, at any
rate.  How he is going to receive both announcements no
one can tell."

"He has a just right to be angry with me," said
Stephanie.

"And much more with me," confessed Harnash.

There was a community of responsibility and blame,
which, if anything were necessary, bound the two lovers
more closely together than before, and, in answer to a
common impulse, a human craving for sympathy, they
approached each other to supplement invisible commiseration
with something more tangible.  Mr. Maynard looked
away while George kissed Stephanie softly.  When Maynard
turned his head back they were standing side by side,
while George was supporting Stephanie, who really needed
no physical assistance whatever, by clasping her firmly
about her waist.

"I never appreciated before as I do now what an infernal
scoundrel I was and what a dastardly thing I did," said
Harnash, in bitter self-scorn.

Stephanie was too honest and too clear eyed not to
realize the truth of his words.  She was too acutely
conscious, however, of a certain share in his guilt, at least
constructively, and too much in love to let him affect
her in the least degree, except, perhaps, to fill her heart
with compassion and tenderness for her lover at the
terrible task imposed upon him.  She patted the hand upon
her waist and nestled a little closer to him, if that were
possible.

"We won't go into that any more," she began, gently.
"It was awful, as I have always said, but it was as much my
fault as yours, and you have done everything you could to
atone."

Harnash sighed deeply.

"He may not forgive me for all that," he said, doubtfully;
"I don't see how he can."

"He must when he knows how you have repented and
what you have done since then," continued Stephanie, firmly.
"Why, if it hadn't been for you and the sailors, father and
I never would have been here, would we, father?"

Mr. Maynard had his own views as to that, but he saw no
reason for obtruding then upon these two lovers.  With wise
discretion and ready tact he nodded acquiescently.

"And there is one thing," went on Harnash, repeating
himself, "that he cannot possibly condone."

"And what is that?" asked Stephanie, swiftly.

"The loss of you."

"Well, he can't blame you for that, at least.  That's
my fault entirely.  I never should have promised to marry
him in the first place.  I never should have continued to
let him think I would marry him in the second place.  As
soon as I found out I loved you I should have told him.
If I had, what trouble and sorrow might have been
avoided."

This time it was Harnash who attempted to comfort her,
tritely enough, too.

"You acted for the best, of course," he said.  "You were
the soul of honor."

"Yes, I suppose so.  But unless one acts in the right
way, the fact that one's desires are for the best is of little
moment; besides," she went on, after a little pause, which
no one broke, so weighty and grave were the responsibilities
and possibilities of the situation, "I don't believe he ever
really cared very much for me, after all."

"It's impossible," protested Harnash, with a conviction
which was a delight to her soul, "that anybody could come
in close and intimate association with you without--caring."

"You say that because you love me, but lots of other men
have known me very well, and--"

"It strikes me that the conversation is becoming rather
purposeless," interrupted Mr. Maynard, a little impatiently.
He had quite forgotten that the airy nothings of lovers
true are much the most purposeful things which can engage
their attention, when they are in the mood.  "It is settled
that we shall not tell him until he is better able to sustain
the shock.  For one thing, if what Captain Weatherby fears
comes to pass, we shall all be so busy saving our lives that
these love affairs will be of little moment."  Again
Mr. Maynard blinked the fact that love affairs are of infinitely
greater moment to lovers even than the saving of life.  "Of
course," he went on, "whether he is still in love with
Stephanie or not, Beekman is going to be frightfully indignant
and resentful over the outrage, of which he was the victim.
But we knew that when we started.  We knew the
engagement was broken.  We knew that you and George had to
face the music, Stephanie, and now that the time has come,
face it, that's all.  As for me, I'm going on deck."  He
paused at the foot of the companion ladder and looked back
at the other two.  "I wonder what sort of a relationship
subsists between Beekman and that woman we picked up
with him," he added as he ascended.

"I wonder, too," said Stephanie, turning to Harnash, a
gleam of surprise in her eyes.

"It would solve everything beautifully if he had fallen
in love with her," returned Harnash, optimistically.

"What, Derrick Beekman in love with a savage!"

"Well--er--not exactly in the way in which I love you."

"Do you mean to tell me he would fall in love any other
way with any respectable woman?" flashed out the girl,
changing her tactics to the great bewilderment of the more
conventional man.

"Well, I don't wish to say anything about this island
person, of course, but--"

"George," said the girl, "she's as beautiful as a dream,
much more beautiful than I am."

This was a statement which Harnash could not allow to
pass uncontradicted, and he denied it in the most effective
way, which interrupted further speech, if only for a moment.

"Nonsense, impossible!" exclaimed he, when the kiss was
finished.

"Did you get a glimpse of her?"

"I only saw a limp, drenched figure being hoisted aboard.
I noticed she was whiter than the people of the islands we
have visited."

"Why, her skin, save for the touch of the sun, is whiter
and finer than mine.  Her figure, which has obviously never
known the restraints of--of--civilization is absolutely
perfect.  Her hair is like spun gold, and there's enough of
it to cover half her beautiful little body."

"What you say is very interesting," observed Harnash,
indifferently, "but it doesn't particularly concern me.  The
only type of woman that appeals to me is your type."

He emphasized this statement in truly appropriate, if
somewhat conventional, fashion, and Stephanie received
statement and emphasis alike with obvious satisfaction.

"There's another thing," she went on, when this second
kiss had also run its course, "she doesn't look in any
way--form or color or feature--like a South Sea islander.  In
these weary months of cruising and visiting island after
island we have seen a great many, and not one of them has
been as she."

"What does she look like?"

"A European.  Our kind of people.  She has white race
somehow stamped all over her."

"Do you think she can be European?"

"Who knows?  She didn't answer to any European language
at my command.  There wasn't a thing on her save
the remains of a belt that seemed to have held some kind of
a native skirt."

"After coming through that tidal wave the surprise is
not that she had nothing on, but that they were alive at all.
Beekman was in about the same case.  Indeed, I don't think
he had anything on, either.  Probably the suit he wore when
he went adrift was pretty old and could not stand much
weathering.  It was a happy thought of yours to have me
bring some of Beekman's clothes with us in case we did
find him.  He couldn't have worn your father's or even mine
now.  He seems to have grown broader somehow.  He looked
as though he were a head taller than I am and he seemed in
splendid bodily condition."

"The girl is shorter than I," said Stephanie, "but on a
pinch she can wear my clothes."

"If she's an islander you'll find it difficult to get her
into--er--many of the things civilized people wear."

"I shan't try," said Stephanie, smiling at her lover's
sudden hesitancy.  "I've got all sorts of negligées and
kimonos that she can wear without--"

"So you can break her into the harness of civilization
gradually," laughed George.

"Yes, including shoes."

"I'm sure she'd never get your dainty slippers on," went
on the fatuous lover, and Stephanie, looking down with him
at her small, exquisitely shod feet, agreed with him.

"Her feet, while they are not large, are larger than mine,
but beautifully shaped, and I dare say they have never been
bound up in a shoe."

"I feel that this is to be our last happy day," said
Harnash, irrelevantly.

"We'll hope not," said Stephanie.  "Indeed, I'm sure it
won't be."

And so they babbled on, forgetful for the moment of all
the facts of the case and the demands of the situation, not
the least of which was Captain Weatherby's firm conviction
that unless he got the ship ashore in a very short time, they
would be adrift on whatever makeshift support they could
compass.

It came into Harnash's mind, as he thought of what was
laid upon him, that such a catastrophe might not be the
worst thing to which to look forward.  At least, he and
Stephanie would die together, and if contrition, sincere
repentance, and an earnest purpose of confession and
amendment availed, they would be together in some future,
where there might be no giving in marriage, but where there
would be love and joy and the communion of soul with
soul in ways scarcely to be apprehended by poor humanity.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE ISLAND HAVEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ISLAND HAVEN

.. vspace:: 2

The two patients, aided thereto by the doctor's wise
regimen and skillful prescription, slept quietly on
through the long day.  Celeste watched the maiden most
of the time, but she was relieved on occasion by Stephanie,
who did not tire of studying the innocent, charming, and
beautiful face and figure of the girl, so quietly sleeping;
the mirror which had so frightened and fascinated her lying
near to the cheek that it so beautifully reflected.

Harnash and Maynard visited Beekman's cabin from time
to time, but his slumber was even more profound.  The
doctor found that the nascent fever had been broken, and
that nature, good health, splendid constitution, and the
medicine were doing exactly what he had prophesied they
would.

It was late in the afternoon when the yacht drew near
the island.  The very best charts of the South Seas were
in the chart room, and Captain Weatherby had mastered all
they told about this unknown, unvisited island.  He was
greatly surprised, when the sluggish ship drew near enough
for those on deck to make things out, to find that the
formidable barrier, which was reported on every chart to be
continuous, was obviously broken.  They could see the
white water above the encircling reef on either side, but right
in front, opposite what appeared to be a deep circular
harbor, embayed and surrounded by enormous and towering
cliffs, the sea ran smooth!

Of course, the encircling reef might continue below the
surface without showing above, but after carefully
studying the smooth water through the glass, Captain Weatherby
did not think so.  Furthermore, an inspection of the cliffs
that surrounded the harbor showed wide differences of color.
A part of the cliff wall was dark and weather-stained, as
if it had mellowed for ages under the assaults of sun and
wind and sea.  Other parts were lighter and the wall sharper.
Points of rock freshly jagged and serrated, as if the
erosions of time had not softened them, rose on one side
where a brook now tumbled down a rather gentle incline
from the upland to the harbor.

"What do you make of that, sir?" asked the captain of
Mr. Maynard, who was also examining the island with his
own powerful glass.

"If I know anything about it," was the answer, "it is
freshly broken rock.  See how much lighter and sharper it
is to starboard than that black towering mass to port."

"Exactly."

"What would have broken it?"

"Perhaps it was the earthquake."

"It is more than likely."

"There is still argument about these tidal waves, sir, but
the consensus of the best opinion is that they are caused by
subsea earthquake shocks.  Such a shock may have struck
the island, broken the barrier, torn down the cliff wall."

"Is this the island that has sheltered Beekman?"

"Must have been.  There is no other hereabouts."

"It will be uninhabited, then."

"That's as may be," answered the old sailor, lifting his
glance to take in the upland, which was now clearly visible
through the enormous rift, which looked as if it might have
been made by an avalanche or landslide, and down which
the tumbling, dashing stream of water sparkled like silver
in the light of the declining sun.

"I don't see any smoke or any evidence of life," observed
Maynard, following his example.

"If the charts are true, this island hasn't been visited
in the memory of man, and a ship as near as this one is
would be a sight to arouse the curiosity of any native.  They
ought to be on the cliffs watching for us if there are any,"
said the captain.

"On the other hand, they might think it is some kind of
god or devil and be in hiding."

"Well, we will soon know," said the captain.

"What do you mean to do?"

"I'm going straight through that dark space where the
barrier is broken, and, if the way is clear, right into that
harbor.  Off to starboard there's a stretch of sand.  I'll
beach the ship there.  It is high tide.  We will go on easily.
Then I will send a diver down and see what is to be done.
Have you anything to suggest, Mr. Maynard?" he continued,
turning to the owner.

"Nothing.  The job is yours," answered Maynard.

"If I had a boat I'd send her in ahead to take soundings,
but as it is we must depend upon ourselves.  For'ard there,"
he shouted, "Mr. Gersey?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Let two of the best men take soundings with the hand leads."

By this time everybody on the yacht was on deck, except
the castaways and their watchers.  Two leadsmen on either
side leaned far out from the ship and as she swept slowly
through the somewhat narrow opening between the jagged
jaws of the barrier on either hand, they began to heave
their leads.  The water shoaled rapidly, but not alarmingly.
Indeed, bottom was the thing that Captain Weatherby
wanted most of all to feel under his water-laden ship.  The
engines were stopped.  The ship under its own momentum
moved slowly across the lagoon into the smooth, still waters
of the great cylindrical harbor.  The deep silence was
broken only by the rippling splash of the bow wave and by
the long-drawn musical calls of the leadsmen in the chains.
So she drifted through the entrance beyond the wall over
which Beekman had so often clambered, and the whole
wonderful harbor burst into view.

Beekman would not have known one side of it, for one
side of it was gone.  The rocks still rose as of old upon
the other side.  The heaven-kissing cliff where he had first
seen Truda in the glory of the morning, still stood, and
the unbroken rocks ran around the left hand, but the other
side was changed.  Where the brook had plunged over
precipitous cliffs it now rolled down a long, easy slope, terribly
broken, to be sure, but quite different from the mighty
rampart of old.

The narrow beach whereon he had lain had somehow
been lifted up and extended out at a very gentle angle far
into the harbor.  The eye of the captain took it all in.
There was his resting place.  His hand sought the
Chadburn signal.  The throb of the engines broke the silence.
The man at the wheel put the helm to port.  The sluggish
yacht gathered additional way, swung heavily to starboard,
and finally slipped through the shallow seas, glided up on
the sloping sand, and came to a dead stop.

Providence had favored the sailor, as it often does and
has done.  The *Stephanie* was safe, exactly in the position
in which her captain desired her to be.  He turned to
Mr. Maynard.

"The tide is at full flood.  We are fast aground.  If we
can't make her seaworthy now, I'll forfeit my head."

His eyes sparkled.  He gave orders for carrying out
anchors to moor the ship, for rigging tackle, for getting
the diver's uniform ready for an under-water inspection
of the hull; at the same time he directed the capable
engineers, now that there was no more steam needed for the
engine, to turn every ounce of power into the pumps, and,
if possible, to rig others temporarily to clear the ship of
water and keep it down, hoping that perhaps they could
come at the leak from within as well as from without.

It was so late in the evening before the ship was safely
moored that it was not practicable for any of her people
to go ashore that night.  Captain Weatherby thought that
at low tide the next day the sandy beach would be largely
uncovered and with a very little ferriage they could make
most of the journey on foot.

There was not the slightest evidence below in the
sumptuous cabin that night at dinner of the sorry condition of
the yacht.  Her fittings and appointments had not been
damaged.  The napery and silver and glass were shining
as usual under the electric light.  The service was as perfect,
the food as delectable, as if the ship was not lying on a
sand bank embayed in a cavernous harbor in front of a
deserted island, leaking; a ship which they might or might
not be able to render seaworthy.

It was characteristic of the two men and of the young
woman that they all dressed for dinner as was their custom.
And although Beekman and his story and theirs were
uppermost in everybody's mind, because there was nothing
new that could be said about either under the circumstances,
they talked at dinner of other things entirely--the ship,
the probabilities of Captain Weatherby's getting control of
the leak and making the necessary repairs, the island they
would inspect tomorrow, the wonderful adventure they had
gone through.  In the middle of the dinner they heard
voices raised in the cabin in which Beekman had been
sleeping.  They recognized his own deep tones expostulating
with the steward; they even caught the sound of a little
struggle.  In her agitation, Stephanie arose from the table
as the door opened and Beekman, clad in a set of his own
pajamas, stood staring at the party.

"Stephanie!" he exclaimed.  "Thank God!"  He made a
step forward.  "Just as soon as the steward told me the
name of the yacht and her owner, I couldn't remain in the
cabin.  What happy fortune brought you here?"

"We've been searching for you.  Thank God, we've found you!"

"And Truda?" asked Beekman, his eye taking in the
cabin and overlooking Harnash, who sat on the opposite
side, his face as white as linen, fingering the tablecloth
nervously.  "Truda?" he raised his voice.

Truda was awake.  At the sound of the voice of the
man she loved she brushed by the scandalized Celeste, and,
clad only in Stephanie's nightgown of diaphanous linen,
she appeared in the doorway with extended arms.  Beekman,
who seemed strangely oblivious to the fact that he too was
not arrayed in clothes appropriate to a dinner party,
instantly crossed the cabin and took her hand.

"This," he said, "is Miss Truda Van Rooy, two hundred
years ago of Amsterdam, Holland, and--"

"And today?" asked Stephanie, bewildered beyond
measure and scarce knowing what she asked.

"Of the island at which your yacht has sought harbor."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`REVELATIONS AND WITHHOLDINGS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXX


.. class:: center medium bold

   REVELATIONS AND WITHHOLDINGS

.. vspace:: 2

The only acknowledgment Miss Truda Van Rooy
vouchsafed to this amazing introduction was to sink
to her knees by the side of Beekman and press her pretty
lips to his hand.  The introduction and the action startled
Stephanie almost beyond the power of expression, but her
surprise was instantly lost in another consideration.

Miss Truda Van Rooy on her native heath, clad only
in a Polynesian petticoat and her native modesty, was
entirely unexceptionably clothed, and no one would give
a second thought to any possible deficiency in her raiment;
but Miss Truda Van Rooy in the luxurious and very up-to-date
cabin of the yacht, her delicate figure clearly discernible
through French lingerie, was an entirely different
proposition.  Everyone, even Beekman, was acutely
conscious of the situation except the girl herself.  If she
thought about it at all, it would be with a sense of
discomfort begot by unusual draperies.  For the rest, she
made a lovely picture.

She had rebraided her hair, and Celeste's deft fingers
had given a civilized touch to the twisted locks so
gloriously crowning her lovely head.  Celeste, herself, more
scandalized or at least less restrained in her horror, stood
in the doorway of the cabin, a picture of nervous dismay.
Stephanie, realizing the situation at last, was quicker to
act.  She drew Truda to her feet, interposed her own
person between the girl and the others, and sought gently
to force her back to the room whence she had come; but
Truda opposed this urging with a sudden fierce vigor,
despite her smaller stature and slighter build, against which
the American girl was more or less helpless.  An unseemly
struggle was only prevented by a word from Beekman.

"Go with her; I am in no danger," he said.

"And who, may I ask, is she?" asked Mr. Maynard as
the three women disappeared in the cabin.

"She is the last descendant of a shipload of Dutch
soldiers, sailors, and traders who were cast away on this
island two hundred and fifty years ago, together with some
Polynesians they had picked up and who had lived here
ever since; 'the world forgetting--by the world forgot,'"
he added, the quotation being so exquisitely apt, although
he was not in a poetic mood.

"And her relation to you, if I may ask?"

"I have held her in as much respect as I have held your
daughter, Mr. Maynard," returned Beekman haughtily, for
the question irked him exceedingly, although he could not
fail to recognize that it was natural and indeed inevitable.
"Until the earthquake and the tidal wave yesterday,"
continued Beekman, "the barrier reef completely surrounded
the island.  The people on it lived in a sort of cup, crater
of an old volcano, I think; very fertile and beautiful, but
quite hidden from the sea, access to it from the beach being
extremely difficult, almost impossible.  The earthquake
changed all that."  Beekman had noted through his cabin
ports the situation of the yacht and the havoc wrought
by the awful catastrophe.  "Tomorrow I will show you the
island and we will seek for survivors of the catastrophe.
Have any been seen?"

"None," answered Maynard.

"Perhaps they have all perished," said Harnash, forcing
himself to speak.

"A fitting end for an isolation of two centuries and a
half," said Beekman mournfully.

"And how did you come to the island?"

"It's a long story," answered Beekman.  "I'll tell it to
you when we are all assembled.  Meanwhile, if I could get
some clothes--"

"You have only to choose from your own, Derrick,"
said Harnash.  "At Stephanie's suggestion, when we
started this search for you, we brought along some of your
clothes."

"Good.  And this beard--"

"My man will fix you up," said Maynard.  "I'll send
him to you.  Are you hungry?"

"The steward has been feeding me what he thinks is proper."

"And your arm?"

"Sore and stiff, but it will be all right in a day or two.
I suppose I should have stayed in the berth, but when I
heard the name of the yacht and caught the sound of your
voices--well, you know.  I'll be back just as quickly as I
can dress."

When Beekman returned to the cabin half an hour later
he was completely metamorphosed.  He laughed at his own
fancy, but from the very complete wardrobe they had
brought him he had chosen to attire himself in the same
sort of a conventional dinner suit as Maynard and Harnash
were wearing.  The thick beard and mustache which had
so worried him had disappeared under the deft manipulations
of Mr. Maynard's man.  Clean shaven, clothed, in
his right mind, one might have thought that the adventures
of the last year had passed over his head without a
trace.

For a moment poor Truda was hard put to recognize
in this new man the one she had loved and who had won
her heart.  On her part the change was even more striking,
albeit in a different direction.  She was now completely
covered up.  With exquisite taste, Stephanie and Celeste
had arrayed her in a soft, rich silken garment of mandarin
blue fantastically embroidered in delicate gold thread, a
product of one of the most famous looms of ancient China.
It was confined about her waist by a sash of cloth of gold,
and fell in loose folds to her feet.  The two women had
got stockings on her feet, but the ordinary slipper was
impossible.  Soft footwear of Turkish leather met the
situation.  The broad mandarin sleeves of the coat, or kimono,
fell back when she lifted her hands, revealing her
exquisitely proportioned rounded arm.  The garment was cut
low at the throat and held by a brooch of pearls, and, to
please her fancy, as one adorns a doll or child, Stephanie's
famous pearl necklace was clasped about Truda's warm,
brown neck.  From this mass of blue and gold and white
her lovely head with its golden crown rose magnificently.
Poor Truda had been as clay in the hands of the potter.
She had suffered everything silently without resistance.  It
had been his will and she was his property.  She had
possessed all the beauty of wild and lovely nature before.
Without losing much of that appeal, she now exhibited it
in conjunction with an ancient oriental civilization, albeit
to occidental eyes half barbaric.

Looking not unlike a lamb dressed for the slaughter,
Truda sat by the side of Stephanie, who seemed to the
untutored eyes of the semi-savage not unlike a goddess.
The table had been cleared of all save the after-dinner
coffee and the decanters.  Later, Beekman found himself
amazed at the ease with which he took up the customs of
civilization and its refinements after so long and so violent
a break therewith.  For the moment he could only stare
at Truda, and she returned the stare with interest.  Who
was this radiant creature to whom the delights of color had
been added?  he asked himself.  Who was this godlike figure
of man in the awesome and yet enhancing raiment?  she
questioned.  It was not until Beekman smiled and spoke
to her, using instinctively the familiar Polynesian dialect,
that she could catch her breath and feel her heart resume
its beat.  He used the Polynesian because somehow it was
more intimate, because he could say in it what he liked to
her without the others being privy to his communication;
and, finally, because he instinctively divined that in her
agitation, which was obvious, her birth-language, which she
had used from childhood, would be more soothing and
agreeable to her.  Naturally, his first question was as to
her condition.

"How do you feel after all we have been through?"

"Well; and you?" said the girl, and all who listened
so closely never suspected that Truda knew any other
language than that Beekman used, and they were amazed at
the music in her voice, the soft syllables falling through
her lips entrancingly.

"I'm all right, save for this bruised arm, and that
be well in a day or so."

Then Truda herself struck at him with a question.

"This beautiful woman.  You know her?"

"Yes."

That seemed perfectly natural to Truda.  She had no
idea of the size of the world.  All of these godlike beings
must know one another as a matter of course.

"And you love her?"

Beekman smiled.

"I did once, but not now."

"Is she the woman you told me of on the island?"

Beekman nodded.

"If you don't take me and keep me," said Truda, suddenly
passionate, her face flaming, "I shall die.  You might
better have let me go in the waves yesterday."

Beekman crossed the cabin and stopped by her side.  He
laid his hand on her head and turned her face up to him.

"You're the one woman for me, Truda," he said simply.
Then realizing his obligations to the rest, he turned to
them.  "You will be anxious to know what we were talking
about.  I asked her how she was, and she told me she was
well and asked in her turn for my welfare."

It was obvious to Stephanie at least that his translation
by no means represented the sum total of the conversation
that had passed between the two, but having her own
ends to serve, like a wise woman, she gave no voice to her
suspicions.

"Now, if you feel like it, we should like to hear the whole
story," said Maynard.

"To begin with," said Beekman, "as George has
probably told you, I guess we had a glass too many on that
last night in New York, although we really drank so little
that I have been inclined to the belief that there must have
been foul play somewhere.  At any rate, all I really know
is that I woke up twenty-four hours or so later in the
forecastle of an old-fashioned sailing ship called the
*Susquehanna*."

"We learned that much ourselves," said Mr. Maynard.
He pressed an electric button on the bulkhead by his side,
and to the steward who answered he directed the boatswain
to be summoned.  "Just a moment, Beekman," he said;
"we have an old friend of yours aboard, and here he is,"
he added as the weather-beaten, grizzled head of James
Gersey was cautiously projected around the door-jamb.
"Come in, Bo's'n," he exclaimed heartily.

The next instant Beekman caught him by the hand.

"How did you come here, Gersey?" he cried, "and how
are Templin and the rest of the men?"

"Templin an' some others of us shipped aboard this
yacht, Mr. Maynard makin' the proposition an' Captain
Weatherby bein' agreeable.  We wanted to hunt you up,
an' bein' as we'd seed the last of you when we set you
adrift, 'twas thought we know'd more about you than
anybody else an' could be the best help."

"Wonder of wonders!" exclaimed Beekman.  "I guess
your story comes before mine, Mr. Maynard."

"Well, to make it short," said Harnash, after a glance
from Maynard, "the *Susquehanna* caught fire and was
burned at sea.  Captain Fish went down with her, refusing
to leave the bridge.  The mate's boat was lost.  Gersey's
boat was picked up and brought into Honolulu, and from
him we learned the whole story of your adventures on the
ship.  As soon as we heard them we decided to search for
you, in the hope that you might have landed on some of
these islands, or have been cast away, which has proved to
be the case, and here we are."

"You know the unfortunate cause of my leaving the
ship?" asked Beekman, his brow darkening.

"Of course; we have the log book of the *Susquehanna*."

"And I must face a charge of murder when I get back?"

"You needn't worry about that," said Maynard quickly.
"Manuel made a deposition saying it was in self-defense.
The testimony of the men was added.  You'll never hear
from it again."

"Thank God for that!" said Beekman fervently.

"Go on with your story."

Rapidly and graphically Beekman put them in possession
of the wondrous romance of which he had been a part.
Without reserve he told them everything that had happened,
except one thing--his love for Truda.  He suppressed
that most carefully, and Truda, who sat silently listening,
her wits sharpened by love and jealousy, understanding
much more than he or anyone dreamed, noted that fact
with a horrible sinking of the heart.  In her simplicity she
could not believe that anyone could love her after seeing
Stephanie.

Now, Beekman purposely left out of the conversation
that feature of his life.  His relations with Stephanie were
still, to all intents and purposes, what they had been.  As
he reflected upon it while dressing, it seemed to him that
she had offered him the greatest evidence of devotion to
him by coming on the cruise to search for him.  That any
other motive was back of her action naturally did not occur
to him.  He inferred that she was more in love with him
than he had dreamed.  He recognized that her presence
added to her claim upon him.  It was a situation fraught
with difficulty.

It was evidence to his own heart of the depth and
sincerity of his feeling for Truda that the presence of
Stephanie only disquieted him, and that even her lovely
perfection did not move him one bit.  He could not,
however, as he was a gentleman, blurt out the fact that he no
longer loved her, did not want to marry her, and would
not marry her.  Hence the constraint and restraint with
which he told the story.  It was a tale sufficiently thrilling
in itself, such as Sindbad the Sailor might have told to
some auditory in the *Arabian Nights*, and their arrival at
that very island after that tremendous, titanic convulsion
of nature which had brought them together, was not the
least wonderful feature of the whole situation.

When he was finished they questioned him.  Especially
were they interested in the history of the people of the
*Good Intent*, whom they had followed into the harbor after
a lapse of two hundred and fifty years.

"I have no doubt that the earthquake shock, which was
sufficient to tear away one side of the island wall and this
harbor, as you have seen--for, before, every side was as
sheer as the side off to port yonder--has wrought
terrible damage to the settlement; but we shall find that out
tomorrow."

"Meanwhile," observed Maynard, "I think we have had
quite enough excitement for the day."

"And our interest in your story has caused us to forget
the awful strain you have sustained, to say nothing of this
dear girl here," said Stephanie.

She patted Truda's hand as she spoke, and smiled at
her kindly.  She had hoped that in Truda lay the solution
of the tangled relations between Beekman and herself, and
her natural kindliness of heart was thereby intensified.  And,
besides, with a thought for her lover, she was glad for a
postponement of the inevitable disclosure.

"We must all turn in," chimed in the wretched Harnash,
thankful for a further respite of a few hours.  "Captain
Weatherby will want us out of the ship in the morning,
anyway."

"Exactly," said Maynard, with the same thought as the
others.  "After another night's rest you will be in better
condition to show us everything we are so anxious to see."

"Before we separate," continued Harnash, "I want to
tell you, Derrick, that our business affairs are in the best
condition.  On your behalf and my own, I have entered
into a business relation with Mr. Maynard.  We have been
unusually successful, and our own investments have about
doubled, I think."

"That's good," said Beekman.

"I'll take you in with me and Harnash, who has already
proved invaluable," said Mr. Maynard, "on the same terms,
Derrick, so your future will be assured."

This was good news to Beekman, but it was bad news,
too, for it added to the obligations of the engagement.
He put a good face upon the matter, however, and thanked
Maynard cordially.

"Now we'll bid you good-night," said Stephanie, rising,
Truda following her example.

She had extended her hand to Beekman.  He had made
no previous effort to kiss or embrace her, of course,
although their engagement would have abundantly
warranted him in such affectionate greetings.  Now he took
her hand, however, and kissed it tenderly.  Poor little
Truda lifted her face up toward him in turn, but the
necessities of the situation made Beekman turn away, which
added to the girl's heart-break, for she could not know of
the pang his refusal gave him.  She could not understand
why the parting that night was so different from other
partings which had taken place on the island.  He had
always kissed her before, why not now?  It must be because
of this new and glorious woman.  She had felt, after the
terrible hazards they had survived, that nothing could
possibly come between them; but that something had was
obvious.  She stifled her feelings with the stoicism of a
savage, which is exactly paralleled by the repression of
civilization, and turned and followed Stephanie to her
cabin.

She refused the bed in the cabin.  She even shook her
head at the luxurious sofa opposite, which was offered her.
She piled some cushions on the floor, divested herself of
her clothing, as was her primitive habit, drew a rug over
her as a concession to the civilization she was dimly
beginning to comprehend, and at once feigned sleep.  So also
did Stephanie, and the two women lay awake a long time,
waiting with anxious hearts for the day.

Of the two, Truda was the sadder, because she thought
she was losing her lover; while Stephanie, in spite of her
anxiety, was confident that things would work out right
in the end for all of them.





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.. _`VI ET ARMIS`:

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   CHAPTER XXXI


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   VI ET ARMIS

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The next morning Captain Weatherby was glad indeed
to be rid of his passengers.  His divers had already
found the leak.  It was now his opinion that the broken
plate could be replaced and the leak made tight, or
controlled, until they could get to a dry dock in some civilized
port, without careening the ship.  If all went well, in two
days the *Stephanie* would be ready to leave the island.  Of
course they would have to get her off the sand, but she had
been so beached that with the numerous crew she carried
the captain could improvise a cofferdam and dig her out,
if necessary, although that would naturally be the last
resort.  It was probable that ground tackle and her own
extra-powerful engines would do the trick.  Meantime there
was much work for all hands, and the idlers were better away.

After breakfast, which was a trying meal for Truda,
since she had no knowledge whatever of the utensils and
equipment of civilization, the two women and the three
men, accompanied by Dr. Welch, who had pronounced both
patients well on the way to recovery, but who thought best
to keep them under observation while he visited and
examined the island from a scientist's point of view, were ferried
over on an improvised raft to the strand, whence they found
it not a difficult climb to the upland.

Horrible indeed had been the destruction by the storm
that had followed the earthquake.  What had been a
paradise was now devastated.  A few of the animals
were still alive, but not a single human being was seen.
The little settlement was in ruins.  Every house had
been leveled to the ground.  A deep crevice had opened
in the basic rock.  It ran underneath the ruin of the
church.  Beneath the great heaps of stone on either
side of this gulf they could see the crushed bodies of the
islanders.  It was easy to reconstruct the scene and to realize
what had happened.  The storm had given them plenty of
warning.  It was of so unusual a character that they had
had an abundance of time to choose their places of shelter.
Moved by such a mental stimulus, as can easily be imagined,
they had chosen to assemble in the taboo house.  The taboo
had been broken, anyway.  The god was angry with them.
This was the form of his punishment.  What was more
natural than that they should turn to him?  Perhaps they
had some idea of prayer; it may be some lingering remains
of Christian faith, which would have led them to assemble
in the church in time of peril, had been added to the
consciousness that the taboo was broken.  At any rate, the
men, women, and children all of them had crowded into
the church.  It was the largest and most substantial of
all the buildings, and the earthquake had thrown it down
upon them.

The huge rift that had been opened in the island had
engulfed many of them, evidently.  Whatever the case,
not one of them was alive.  The rift had divided the ruin
into two parts.  Most of the people evidently had remained
near the door.  Old Kobe's body was found in the opening
in the rail, his hand stretched out to the broken altar upon
which the mouldering cross still stood.  They found the two
precious books without much difficulty, and that was all.

Truda had disappeared.  She presently rejoined them,
clad in her usual way in one of the grass or fiber petticoats
which she had resurrected from one of the houses of the
women which had not been completely demolished.  She
had laid aside the light garments which Stephanie had put
on her, and she seemed a different woman.  They noticed
it, of course, but made no comment.  And now Dr. Welch,
easily realizing that the friends would rather be alone,
made his excuses and wandered away, out of hearing, at any
rate, while he busied himself in observation and interesting
studies.

"I'll have Captain Weatherby send a party of men to
clear this away and give the bodies decent burial," said
Maynard, breaking the solemn pause.

"That's good," observed Beekman; "I was about to
suggest it."

"Well, there's nothing further to do here," said Stephanie.
"Let's go back to the yacht."

"Before we go," broke in Harnash, "I've got something
to tell you, Derrick, and the best place and time is here
and now."

The moment had come!

"And I also have something to tell all of you," answered
Beekman, realizing that he must settle his affairs sooner
or later, and his natural temperament inclining him to
sooner rather than later.  Stephanie knew perfectly well
what Beekman had to tell.  She had not seen him and
Truda together without becoming entirely aware of the
state of affairs, but Beekman had no idea of the
communication Harnash intended to make.  He looked at him
as he spoke.  "Good God, old man, what's the matter?"
he burst out.  "You're as white as the spray yonder."

"I've a confession to make, and I want to tell you before
I make it that I do it of my own free will.  After you know
what I've done, you will hardly believe that, but Mr. Maynard
and Stephanie can both testify to that."

"We can," said Maynard.

"And we do," added Stephanie.

"George, I don't know how to take this tone from you.
I've always found you strictly honorable.  Your word has
always been your bond.  And your friendship has been
beyond price.  You can't have anything very dreadful to
confess, I imagine.  It can't be money, because you just
told me about the investments."

"I wish to God it were," said Harnash bitterly.  "I'd
rather be branded as a thief than--"

A dawning suspicion flashed into Beekman's mind.  Why
had he never thought of it before?  His face changed.

"What is it?" he demanded.  "Speak out."

"You wondered how you were shanghaied and I was not.
Well, I--I did it."

"What?"

"I had it done, that is."

"Ah, and Woywod?"

"He was a boyhood friend.  He would do anything for
me.  It was through him."

"By God!" cried Beekman passionately, forgetting everything
else as his life on that hell ship came back to him,
as he recalled the brutal bullying and the miseries that he
and all the other men had endured, and that last terrible
scene in the cabin, which had stained his hands with the
blood of man; and that it was in self-defense did not make
the stain any less vivid.  "You--my friend--the best
man--at my wedding!"

Harnash, by a magnificent display of courage, kept his
head erect and forced himself to look squarely into
Beckman's eyes.  Maynard watched the two men with a curious
interest as he might have watched a great dramatic climax
in a play.  Stephanie was fearfully concerned, yet she was
proud of her lover, for in an utterly impossible position
no man could bear himself with more courage and more
dignity than Harnash exhibited then.

"Yes," he said, "you can't say anything to me that I
haven't said to myself.  You can't characterize my conduct
more bitterly than I have done."

"Damn you," cried Beekman, his quick temper entirely
uppermost, and before anyone could say a word or interpose
he leaped upon Harnash.  He had only the use of his
left hand, but with that he struck him a fearful blow on
the side of his face.  "When I think of all you made me
suffer," he continued, "I could kill you."

"I call heaven to witness, and you all," cried Harnash,
the blood flaming in his cheek beneath Beekman's hand,
"that I sustain this blow not because I fear but because I
merit it.  You see that Beekman's right arm is helpless;
I could kill him if I would, but I deserve it."  He turned
his face toward his friend.  "Strike again," he said, with
sublime, almost heroic, purpose; but Beekman's hand fell.

What Harnash said was true.  The two were not equally
matched.  Under ordinary circumstances Beekman was the
stronger, but now the advantage was with the other man.
"I couldn't strike a second time a man who won't strike
back.  If you would fight me I'd kill you with one hand.
Why did you do it?"

Now it was Stephanie's turn.  She interposed.

"Because I loved him."

"You?"

"Yes, I."

"And our engagement?"

"I would have carried it through.  I refused to tell you
the truth."

"What truth?"

"That I loved George and that he loved me."

"So you made love to my promised wife behind my back,
did you?" cried Beekman, the scorn and contempt he infused
into his words fairly scorching Harnash.

"I loved her before you did," protested the other, "but
I never said a word to her.  I never sought anything from
her until--until--I--"

"Until I let him see that I didn't care for you, except as
a friend, and that I did care for him," put in Stephanie
deftly again.

"What then?"

"I begged that I might tell you the true facts of the
case," said Harnash.

"And again I refused," said Stephanie.  "I knew that
marriage was my father's wish.  It had been arranged with
your father.  I believed that you loved me.  There was no
other way."

"And did you know that he intended to do this?" asked
Beekman in his rage.

"Now, by God, that's too much," cried Harnash.  "That's
an infernal shame.  You can insult me, but you can't insult
her, Beekman!"  He stepped forward with clenched fist.

"Strike one blow.  I beg you to do it," taunted Beekman.

But Mr. Maynard interposed between the two men and
held them apart, for now Harnash, as angry as the other,
would have struck him.  Beekman had lost some of the
advantage of his position by his implied charge against
the woman.

"I didn't know it," answered Stephanie quickly, "but if
I had I might have--the temptation--you didn't love me,
did you?"

"I did then, but not now," answered Beekman scornfully.

"Ah," said Stephanie, quickly and greatly relieved, "I
thought so."

"If you had only come frankly and told me the state of
affairs, how much trouble would have been avoided,"
continued Beekman.

"Yes," said Stephanie, "we see that now; but, on the
other hand, you wouldn't have won the heart of the woman
you do love," she continued boldly, staking everything on
her guess.

It was the first moment in the interview that Beekman
had given a thought to Truda.  Instinctively he turned to
look for her.  She had been standing near by, listening.
She had made out, with her imperfect knowledge of
English, only that these two men were quarreling over this
woman.  It intensified her conviction that Beekman must
love this glorious woman.  There was no place in his heart
for her.  Outside his heart there was no life possible for
her.  Her people were all gone.  The island was a ruin.
There was but one course left her.  She stole softly away
and presently began to run.

Now, the earthquake and storm had overthrown the clump
of trees which hid the little amphitheater on the top of the
cliff, still intact, whence Truda and her forebears for so
many years watched the open sea, and the long path was
clearly visible from where they stood.  They could see her
bright figure, outlined against the gray rocks, running
toward the brink.  Of what she would do there, no one, of
course, could be sure, but in Beekman's mind flashed a
suspicion which grew to a certainty.  He forgot Stephanie;
he forgot Harnash; he forgot his wrongs--he forgot
everything but that far-off flying figure!

"My God!" he cried, "she thinks I don't care.  She'll
throw herself over the cliff."

Without a word, he tore over the debris-encumbered path,
and without a second's hesitation the others followed.  Even
Stephanie gathered up her skirts and ran like Camilla
over the ground.  Dr. Welch, happening to turn at the
moment, saw them and followed also.  As he ran, with
deadly fear in his heart, Beekman shouted after her.

"Truda," he cried.  "Stop!  for God's sake, wait!"

It was the first intimation the others had received that
she understood English.  But Truda ran on.  She heard his
voice, indeed.  She partly comprehended his appeal, but it
seemed to her that it was only in pity that he called.  She
was possessed by a certain panic terror, a certain wild
jealousy, a certain horrible despair.  She could never be
like that glorious creature over whom the men quarreled
as men have quarreled since time and the world began.
Even if he did love her, he could never love her long.  There
was a passionate abasement in the swift comparisons she
had been making since she had been brought on board the
yacht.  It was no use.  She must go on.  And not only did
her own misery impel her flying feet, but some vivid
considerations for his happiness.  She was not of his kind.
She was only a savage islander.  She only realized it since
she had been picked up by the yacht, because she had never
before had any standards of comparison.  Thus, in spite
of the second that her heart gave to his appeal for the
moment, she ran on.

Beekman stumbled and fell.  He fell on his wounded arm,
opening the wound again.  He lay half-stunned for a
moment, and by the time he had struggled to his feet the
others had joined him.  The race was lost.  Truda had won.
The little group around Beekman could see clearly into the
amphitheater which Truda had entered.  She stepped to
the edge and glanced down.  The sheer fall of perhaps five
hundred feet would kill her instantly.  It had been her
purpose to fling herself from the brink without a moment's
hesitation, but, like Lot's wife, she was fain to take one
look backward, one glance of farewell.

"Oh, God!" cried Beekman, stretching out his left hand,
the only one he could move, to the little figure posed against
the sky in all its golden brilliance as he had seen it when
he had lain upon the sand, a castaway, the first morning on
that island.  He thought and they all thought she would
go over without hesitating, but she looked back.  That
backward look was her salvation.

Quicker witted than any, and realizing from her own
womanly intuition what was in her sister woman's mind,
Stephanie saved the day.  As Truda's head came around,
Stephanie took the boldest and most astonishing action of
her whole life.  There, in plain view of Truda, she struck
Beekman full in the face with her clenched fist, and before
anyone could stop her she struck again and again.  She
rained blow after blow upon him.  She was a vigorous
young woman, and in her excitement she had no idea of
the power which her frantic excitement gave to her blows.
Beekman, half-dazed from the other fall, and weakened
from loss of blood from the reopened wound in his arm,
was too astonished for resistance.  Indeed, the first blow
was enough.  Instinctively, as one blow succeeded another,
he threw up his arm vainly and then went down fairly
under a mighty thrust into which she put all the force
of her body.  Indeed, she almost leaped upon him as he
staggered backward.  She recovered her balance with
difficulty as Beekman fell a second time.  He cut his head
on a rock as he went down, and lay there with his arms
outsprawled, senseless.  As he did so Stephanie stepped
forward with uplifted foot as if to stamp upon him.  The
next moment, Harnash, thinking her mad, clasped her in
his arms.

"Stop, stop," he cried.  "What has he done to you?"

"It was the only way," screamed Stephanie, hysterically.  "Look!"

Then, and not until then, did they appreciate the
meaning of her action.  It was plain to the jealous heart of
Truda.  She had seen the first blow and the second.  She
had seen her lover go down.  She saw him lying there.
What was this woman doing?  How dared she lift a hand
against Beekman?  Had he been killed?  Rage--hot,
savage, passionate--filled Truda's heart.  There would be
time enough to die later.  Meanwhile she must teach this
woman a lesson.

More swiftly than she had fled, she turned from the cliff
brink and came bounding down the path, and yet there was
some joy in her heart.  Whatever Beekman might feel for
this woman, it was obvious that she regarded him with
scorn.  But it was mainly murderous resentment that filled
Truda's soul.  Her face was transformed.  It was
convulsed with passion, with anger, with savage rage.  There
might have been some infiltration, some slight strain of
Polynesian blood in this woman.  She was aflame to defend
her lover, with the spirit of the lioness sacrificing her life
for her cub.  In fact, the passion in her face was appalling.

"Father," cried Stephanie as she approached, "don't you see?"

It was Maynard who caught the island girl in his arms.
It was he who held her firmly, despite her frantic struggles,
while Stephanie approached, with Harnash holding her
tightly, but to protect her from assault, because now he
knew why she had done it.

"I only did it to stop you," she cried.  "He loves you,
not me.  This is the man I love.  Don't you understand?"

The passion faded out of Truda's face.  She did indeed
understand.  She had been blind, mad to have doubted her
lover.  A great anxiety came into her face.  She stared
down at Beekman in agonized contrition and alarm.  Her
heart almost stopped at what she saw.  Mr. Maynard
released her, gave her freedom.  She knelt down by her
lover's side.  She lifted his head in her arms and laid
it against her breast.  She called to him passionately in
every language with which she was familiar.  She
pressed her lips to his lips, to his face, to his bleeding
forehead.

Dr. Welch now came up with the party.  Fortunately,
he had brought a flask with him.  A few drops restored
Beekman to consciousness.  He opened his eyes and gazed
into Truda's face.

"Truda!" he said, struggling to a sitting position.
"Thank God, you came back to me!"

"And this woman?" asked Truda, looking up at Stephanie.
"Do you love her?"

She would have the truth from him, not from Stephanie
or any other.

He shook his head.

"Forgive me, Stephanie.  I love only you, Truda."

"But when you go back to that other world of which
you told me, and I am there, alone?"

"I will love only you," he answered in a voice which
carried conviction even to Truda.

She bent over him and laid her face in his hands.

"It strikes me," said Mr. Maynard, "that you haven't
come out so badly, after all, Beekman."

"No," said Beekman.  "Harnash, it was a--it wasn't
a--pleasant--thing you did, but now that I love Truda,
I can understand.  We'll say no more.  Let's forget it and
be friends again."

"And you forgive me?" asked Stephanie, kneeling by
his side, while Truda jealously raised her arm as a barrier.
Stephanie laughed.  "I won't touch him," she said.

"What shall I forgive?"

"That violent assault of a moment since," she said as a
deep flush spread over her face.  "It was the only way to
let her see we were nothing to each other."

"It was a very effective way," said Beekman, his native
humor coming to the rescue.  "George," he said, extending
his hand to his friend, "let me give you a piece of advice.
Take a few boxing lessons before you take this lady for
your wife."

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