Chapter X What Reggy Drew
Mrs. Witherbee, driven into a corner by an angry Rosalind, confessed that somewhere in the back of her mind there may have been a lurking purpose when she invited Reggy Williams to become a member of her summer household. Not being subtle in the least, Mrs. Witherbee interpreted the wrath of Rosalind at its face value. Hence, she sustained a shock within an incredibly short space of time.
“It was a most thoughtless thing,” said Rosalind sternly.
“But, my dear, I didn’t for a moment dream that his attentions would really—”
“Attentions? Bosh!”
Mrs. Witherbee opened her eyes wide.
“I’m not interested in his attentions—not in the slightest degree,” said Rosalind. “They do not disturb me one way or the other. I am, however, purely from the standpoint of humanity, interested in the preservation of his life.”
“His life!”
“Certainly. I thought you knew.”
“But Rosalind, dear—”
“Why in the world you didn’t ask me I don’t know,” said Rosalind, making a hopeless gesture with both arms. “Everybody else knows it.”
Mrs. Witherbee’s faced had attained a greenish pallor.
“Knows what?” she asked tremblingly.
“Knows that Reginald Williams has a heart that is liable to drop him in his tracks any time.”
Mrs. Witherbee raised both hands and opened her mouth.
“Certainly,” added Rosalind sharply. “He’s been suffering from it for some time. He’s not allowed to take violent exercise, or to undergo any excitement or sudden shock. He has to be kept perfectly quiet. And above all he must not be given the slightest hint of his trouble. You see, he doesn’t know it himself.”
“Doesn’t know it!”
“Indeed not. The physicians are afraid that it would make matters worse to tell him. So they told only his family, and his family has informed his friends. And Reggy is really in the hands of his friends without knowing it.”
“But he’ll be with friends, here,” said Mrs. Witherbee, brightening.
“Friends—yes!” exclaimed Rosalind. “But how about the excitement? Think of what’s been going on here—of what may happen at any time. Why, it might kill him!”
Mrs. Witherbee sat down suddenly and limply.
“What shall we do?” she moaned.
“There is only one thing to do, of course; that is to make the best of it. He must be kept absolutely quiet, but he must not know that he is being kept quiet.
“Under no circumstances must he be told anything about burglars or smugglers or spies or anything of that sort. He must not know about the burglar-alarm, or the raids at this place and Mr. Davidson’s—or anything! It may be a matter of life or death with him. Nobody must even suggest such a thing!
“Why, Gertrude mustn’t even wear that bracelet, because it’s so odd it will start him asking questions, and then the whole thing is likely to come out!
“Everybody must be told to say nothing whatever about anything that might give him a shock. Not only that; they mustn’t even do anything exciting.
“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” faltered Mrs. Witherbee as she rocked in her chair.
“It’s too late to stop him, of course,” continued Rosalind. “I suppose he’s at Clayton by this time. So the only thing we can do is to take the utmost precautions. And we must be particularly careful that he does not even suspect!”
“Oh, we will; we will, my dear.”
“And you’ll tell everybody?” said Rosalind anxiously.
“Every soul! I’ll tell Stephen immediately. We’ll all help—we’ll be so careful!”
Rosalind watched Mrs. Witherbee hurry in search of her husband and smiled grimly.
“Something had to be done about it,” she murmured. “I couldn’t think of anything else offhand.”
It was dusk and the Witherbee household was sitting on the porch unnaturally quiet when a voice from the path that led to the wharf rent the air with a bellow.
“Ho there, somebody! Wonder you wouldn’t welcome a guest!”
Simultaneously a tall, bulky figure appeared at the edge of the lawn and crossed at a rapid walk. It stopped at the foot of the steps. Two grips that were carried in one hand were tossed upon the porch with a flirt of the wrist. Then followed a trunk, which had been balanced jauntily on one shoulder. And then Reggy Williams cleared five steps in one leap and began shaking hands with everybody.
“Nice folks!” he shouted. “Not a soul to meet a fellow! Hello, Rosalind; you’re looking fine and fit. Hello, Gertrude! Hello, Tom, you lazy mucker! Why didn’t you give me a hand? Didn’t know I’d be here so soon, eh? I’ve a good mind to carry you down to the river and chuck you in.”
He charged about the porch like a nervous rhinoceros, bawling salutations and leaving in his wake an array of painfully throbbing fingers.
Reginald Williams stood six feet three. He was wide and thick and boisterous, and there was a deep red tan on his face that actually served to exaggerate his bulk.
Mrs. Witherbee, her hands clasped to her bosom, regarded him with horror.
“Won’t you—please—take a chair?” she whispered timidly.
“Chair? Why, thanks—if you’ll stick it in front of a table. I haven’t had a mouthful since noon, and I don’t mind saying I can eat anything and everything you’ve got in the house. Here, Tom! Don’t fuss with that trunk; I’ll take care of that later.”
Mr. Witherbee cautiously pushed a porch rocker against Reginald’s legs.
“We’ll get you some grub,” he said anxiously. “Only sit down first. Rest yourself, old man.”
“Rest! That’s all I’ve done all day in a train that didn’t have ambition enough to keep within two hours of her schedule. I could have pushed the blamed thing faster than it went.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Witherbee, his brow furrowed in anxiety. “But just sit down a bit. Enjoy the air—it’s great up here. See that view—isn’t it amazing? Everything so quiet so, peaceful Oh, it just puts ten years on a man’s life to spend a little while up here! No worry, no cares, no excitement.”
Reginald sat reluctantly.
“No excitement!” he exclaimed. “Then, by George, we’ll make some! How do you live without it? I can’t. I’m going to start something, sure as you live. But I’d like to eat first.”
The Witherbee family ventured inquiring glances at Rosalind. That lady’s face bore a curious expression of doubt and dismay. But she did not lose her self-control. Stepping behind Reginald’s chair, she raised a finger to her lips and shook her head warningly.
“I’ll get you some toast directly,” said Mrs. Witherbee. “And how do you like your tea?”
Reginald guffawed, then apologized:
“Excuse me; didn’t mean to be rude. But if you’ve got any cold ham in the house and some bread and butter, and a scuttle of hot coffee you needn’t bother about the toast and tea. And you needn’t fetch it out here; lead me to it.”
The Winter girls exchanged apprehensive glances. Mr. Witherbee made a sign to his wife, who disappeared into the house. Rosalind followed her. The two ladies met in the pantry.
“I—I’m frightened to death,” whispered Mrs. Witherbee. “Is he always that way?”
“Nearly always,” sighed Rosalind. “That’s what makes it so sad.”
“I hadn’t thought of it as being sad, my dear. It—it just seems sort of terrible. Doesn’t he know?”
“Ssh! Of course not. He doesn’t even suspect.”
“The poor man!” said Mrs. Witherbee softly. “Then it is sad, isn’t it? Isn’t there any way to—control him?”
“It’s very difficult,” admitted Rosalind. “He’s headstrong. And of course, not knowing, you can’t expect him to restrain himself. He’s always been accustomed to leading an active life.”
“Active, my dear! Why, he’s violent. My knuckles are still aching. Do you really think we ought to let him have ham—and coffee?”
“We might as well,” said Rosalind in a hopeless voice. “He’d probably make a scene over toast and tea.”
“And he seems so healthy, poor fellow! And so strong!”
“He’s deceptive,” Rosalind observed hastily.
There was a heavy tramping of feet overhead, then a crash that rattled the dishes in the pantry. Mrs. Witherbee rushed into the hall, stifling a scream. Rosalind bit her lip.
When the mistress of the island returned her eyes were wide with terror.
“He—he carried his trunk up-stairs!” she gasped. “He wouldn’t let Stephen or Tom touch it.”
“He does those things,” said Rosalind unhappily. “He doesn’t realize, you know. We can’t restrain him by force, but we must do all we can.”
“Does he have—attacks?”
“Oh, often. Terrible ones.”
Mrs. Witherbee clasped her hands.
“And it’s a two-mile sail to the nearest doctor!” she moaned.
“Never suggest a doctor to him,” warned Rosalind. “He wouldn’t understand and you can’t tell what he might do. Don’t think of such a thing!
“But if anything should happen—”
“We must run the risk. We must make the best of it somehow. I’d cut more ham than that, I think; he’ll only be out after more if you don’t. I’ll get the bread; no need to call the servants. I imagine we’d better bring it to him on the porch.”
An awed household watched Reginald Williams eat. It was a rapid and extensive proceeding.
“Sorry to have put you out,” he roared genially as he emptied the coffee-pot. “But a man has to have a bite now and then to keep his body and soul in close relation.”
“Of course,” assented Mrs. Witherbee gently. “Good food, rest, and plenty of sleep.”
“Oh, I’m not sleepy! I’m good for all night if there’s anything doing.”
“We live very quietly here, Mr. Williams.”
“Oh, well, we’ll manage to start something. Won’t we, Tom?”
Tom Witherbee mumbled an unintelligible reply and glanced at Rosalind. She shook her head severely.
Suddenly Reginald missed the master of the house.
“Where’s Mr. Witherbee?” he demanded.
“He—he went out in the launch,” faltered Mrs. Witherbee.
“Why the dickens didn’t he invite somebody? Nothing I’d like better on a night like this.”
“He just went over to Mr. Davidson’s island,” explained Gertrude in a soothing tone. “He didn’t think anybody would want to go.”
At this point Fortescue Jones, who had been regarding Reginald with amazed eyes, entered the conversation. Said he:
“He went over to see about bur—”
The elbow of Tom Witherbee put an abrupt end to the sentence.
“To see about what?” demanded Reginald.
Mrs. Witherbee rolled her eyes helplessly. Her husband had gone to the burglar meeting.
“To see about burlap,” said Rosalind hastily.
“Burlap?”
“Certainly—burlap. He wants it to wrap things in.”
“Must want it pretty badly,” commented Reginald, “if he has to make a special voyage to get it. Oh, well, if we can’t go sailing let’s start something. Let’s dance!”
Rosalind leaned weakly against a pillar of the porch.
“We—we don’t dance,” said Gertrude.
“Don’t dance!”
The eyes of Reginald Williams successively met those of the two Winter girls, Polly Dawson, Gertrude, and Rosalind.
“You haven’t all sprained your ankles, have you?” he asked.
“I mean we haven’t been doing any dancing here,” explained Gertrude desperately. “We—Mother doesn’t like it.”
This statement astonished Mrs. Witherbee to such an extent that she opened her mouth and held it that way for several seconds. Then she nodded.
The next half-hour on the Witherbee porch was crowded with the efforts of ten persons to curb the restless spirit of a young man who wanted to do something.
They spoke softly and upon soft topics, such as gardening and clothes and fresh air. They argued nothing, but agreed upon everything. They urged Reginald to sit down. They tried to make him wear Mr. Witherbee’s top coat. They watched with sickening dread as he smoked. They scarcely breathed when he proposed to take a moonlight swim.
Then one by one they went off to bed, yawning prodigiously and declaring that it was getting very late. Reginald and Rosalind found themselves alone.
He waited to make sure that the last of the company had disappeared, then turned to her with a bewildered look.
“What on earth is the matter with this crowd?” he demanded.
“What seems to be the matter?” asked Rosalind.
“Matter! They all act as if they were afraid to make a noise or turn around. They even whisper. Nothing’s gone wrong here, has it?”
“No, indeed!” hastily.
“Well, it’s about as cheerful as a shipwreck. Has it been going on like this very long? I don’t see how you and the rest of the younger folk stand it.”
“It’s rather pleasant to be quiet for a change, Reggie.”
“Quiet! I don’t call that being quiet—it’s sepulchral. I came up here to have a good time. I’m going to shake this crowd up to-morrow.”
“You mustn’t!”
Rosalind’s voice was anxious. Something more would have to be done, she was certain. Reginald was capable of executing his threat.
“I’ll tell you,” she said in a low tone. “But you must not mention the fact to any person that I did tell you. It’s on account of Mr. Morton.”
“The Englishman? What’s the matter with him?”
Rosalind hesitated. What was the matter with Mr. Morton? She felt that she was rapidly becoming mired.
“Well, you see, Mr. Morton is just recovering from a breakdown,” she ventured.
“What kind of a breakdown?”
“Mental.”
“Loose in the bean, eh?”
“Reginald! You know I hate slang. No; he’s not—that. Not nearly so bad. But he had a breakdown—mostly nervous, I think. It came from overwork, I believe. He must have absolute quiet—no excitement, nothing to irritate him.
“But you must not mention it to a soul, Reggie; and particularly you must not let him see that you notice anything peculiar. He’s very sensitive.”
Reginald grumbled.
“So that’s why we all have to keep very quiet,” said Rosalind with finality.
“He ought to be shipped off to a nut college,” declared Reginald. “Anybody like that is liable to break loose at any time. I didn’t come up here to be a keeper.”
“Well, you are not compelled to remain.”
Rosalind’s voice was cool.
“Oh, but I am I You know very well I couldn’t stay away. Why, I practically invited myself.”
He tried to capture one of Rosalind’s hands, but she, alert, easily evaded his clumsy caress.
“Please don’t begin that again,” she said in annoyance. “If you do I’ll go home to-morrow.”
“But, Rosalind, you know very well—”
“Will you stop?”
“Oh, very well! But I give you fair warning that I haven’t stopped for good.”
She sighed and frowned.
“I thought I’d struck the limit of unsociability on the way down here,” observed Reginald. “The fellow that brought me was deaf and dumb.”
“Really?”
“Couldn’t speak a word. Couldn’t hear, either. I had to write on a piece of paper where I wanted to go.”
“A boatman, was he?”
“Yes. And the worst of it was, his boat broke down a couple of times on the way, and he didn’t seem to know much about fixing it. I couldn’t help him, and he didn’t even have the satisfaction of being able to swear.”
Rosalind found herself listening with breathless attention.
“What sort of a boat was it?” she asked.
“Not much to look at. Rather dirty, too.”
She had more than a suspicion.
“What did the man look like?” carelessly.
“A chap with a beard. Long, thin person. Why?”
“Oh, nothing! I think I’ve seen him around. You say he is a deaf-mute?”
“Absolutely. I met him on the wharf up at Clayton, and when I asked him a question about the boats he made signs at me. Then I felt sort of sorry for him, and thought I’d give him a job.”
Rosalind’s brain was in a whirl. Sam, the boatman, playing the deaf-mute! She could not even begin to guess a reason.
“He knew where the place was, all right; I’ll say that for him,” added Reginald. “But it’s not particularly entertaining to be cooped up with a dummy in a bum boat for a couple of hours.”
“I should imagine not,” she murmured.
“But I did the swearing for him, anyhow. And—funny about that, too—he must have understood what I was doing, for he grinned from ear to ear and nodded his head. It must be tough not to be able to do your own cussing.”
“I don’t suppose it does afford much relief to do it with your fingers,” Rosalind agreed. “That is,” she supplemented righteously, “if it ever does give one any relief. It’s a miserable habit.”
“It’s not a habit,” said Reginald. “It’s a vocation, if you do it right. Who’s this coming?”
Heavy, deliberate footfalls announced the return of Mr. Witherbee from the meeting of the vigilants.
“Get your burlap?” inquired Reginald pleasantly.
“Burlap?” echoed Mr. Witherbee.
Rosalind interposed hastily.
“You must have forgotten your errand,” she said, laughing. “You know perfectly well you started out to get some burlap.”
“Burlap?”
Mr. Witherbee repeated the word with a rising inflection.
Rosalind had slipped behind Reginald and was making a frantic pantomime. The master of the island stared at her for a few seconds, wrinkling his forehead.
“Why, certainly,” she said. “Don’t you remember saying you were going to see if Mr. Davidson had some?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Mr. Witherbee slowly. “Come to think of it, I did start out to get some. And just as you say, I forgot all about it. By the way, sit down, Williams. Take it easy. You must be tired after a long day’s journey.”
“Everybody seems to think I’m tired,” sighed Reginald. “I guess in order not to disappoint them I’d better go to bed. Good night.”
He stamped noisily inside and up the staircase.
“Is—is he all right?” asked Mr. Witherbee in a hoarse whisper.
“Oh, perfectly. We’ve kept him just as quiet as possible.”
“That’s right; that’s right. Poor chap. And he’s so healthy to look at, too! By the way, what’s this burlap game?”
Rosalind laughed.
“It’s all on account of that stupid Jones boy,” she explained. “He started to blurt something about why you had gone to Mr. Davidson’s, and he had half of ‘burglar’ out when Tom bumped him with his elbow. Then I had to finish it somehow, and all I could think of was burlap. You see, it had to be something that couldn’t possibly excite Reggy.”
“I get you,” grinned Mr. Witherbee. “Burlap, eh? I’ll have to remember to get some now.”
Suddenly his expression changed and he became grave.
“We’ve organized,” he said in guarded tones. “There were seven islands represented. We’re going to hire a patrol. Some of them are going to get watchmen, too. And it’s high time, Rosalind.”
He stepped closer and looked about him cautiously.
“Somebody’s been on the island again,” he whispered. “But don’t say anything yet!”
“Again!”
“To-night, I think. Somebody’s stolen the dog!”
“You are sure?”
“Positive. I tied the beast up near the dock when I went out in the boat. And he’s gone!”
Rosalind could only blink at this intelligence.
“But I don’t want to worry Mrs. Witherbee about it,” added that lady’s husband. “And of course we’ve got to keep it from Williams. So don’t say anything. Good night. Grand watchdog, that; I guess he needed stealing.”