Chapter XXI New Lights on Sam
For a little they stood upon the ledge, the storm beating into their faces. Rosalind scarcely sensed the pounding of the hail. She and the boatman had almost clasped hands with death, and the memory of it drove other thoughts from her mind.
The trivial parts of the affair occupied a curiously exaggerated importance in her reflections. She realized that it was absurdly insignificant, yet she found herself considering chiefly, not the fact that by any effort truly astonishing he had flung her to a refuge far above the boiling river, but the mere incident that while she lay in his arms his scrawny beard, cold and wet, had brushed her cheek—yes, even his mustache. She wondered if he had really kissed her; she was not sure. Nor—and this was another curiosity—did she seem to care.
She remembered, too, the stertorous whistling of his breath as he flung her from him—the queer, Buddhalike appearance of his head, with the hailstones matted among the hair—the way that his eyes blinked as the water streamed down his forehead—the rough and sure clasp of his arms—the fact that one of his feet slid several inches along the rolling deck as he gathered himself for the last effort. All the little things were photographed with microscopic fineness upon her mind.
“There must be better places than this,” he suggested. “Come on.”
He seized her by the arm, turning her toward a rocky slope that led upward from the ledge. She shook herself free with an impatient energy, resolved that she would do something for herself.
They scrambled up the slope and found themselves at the edge of a grove of trees. Here at last was a partial shelter; they went in under the branches.
Rosalind stumbled ahead, her soaked garments clinging to her legs with a persistence that endeavored to trip her. Now and then a branch snapped ominously above their heads, but they paid no attention to these warnings of a new danger. It seemed like luxury to be shielded even imperfectly from the relentless stabbing of the hail.
“Is it an island?” she asked.
“That’s sure,” said the boatman as they plunged forward through the shrieking gloom.
“The—the boat is gone?”
She knew it without asking, yet the question rose mechanically to her lips.
“Gone for good,” he nodded. “That’ll save you a whole lot of trouble, I guess. I hated to see her go; you had that old carbureter adjusted to a hair.”
Rosalind smiled in spite of herself.
“The trouble was in the air-intake,” she said as her foot struck sharply against a root, almost upsetting her. “The mixture was too thin.”
“I didn’t know what it was. Ouch! Caught that branch right in the eye. But it was the new batteries that did the trick most of all.”
“And a clean spark-plug,” she added as a sudden gust flung her roughly against a tree. “A dirty one is a crime.”
“If I get another launch—I’ll get a two-cylinder, and— But then I won’t be One-Cylinder Sam, will I?”
“Get a four if you can afford it,” she advised, pausing for an instant to free her wet skirt from her ankles. “It’ll burn a little more gas, but you’ll get more speed and less vibration— Heavens!”
The latter exclamation came as she went headlong over a jutting stone.
He picked her up and steadied her on her feet; then, linking his arm in hers, he urged her forward. The storm roared overhead, but they paid no heed to it.
“Where are we going?” she asked after a little.
“Just going,” he replied. “It’s better than standing still.”
They came to an open space, hesitated for an instant, then plunged out from the shelter of the trees and crossed it. As they neared the farther side a large, dim object barred their way.
“A house!” he exclaimed.
They broke into a run and stumbled up the steps that led to a porch. Rosalind staggered to a willow rocking-chair that was swaying furiously in the wind and sank into it. The boatman looked around him; then grinned broadly.
“Well?” she demanded.
“It’s Davidson’s!”
The freak of fate that brought her and the boatman to the scene of his escapades impressed her lightly at the time.
“We can get out of the storm then.”
“You can, at any rate. Let’s see.”
He tried a door that stood back of her chair, but found it locked.
“This is the side of the house,” he said. “Let’s go around front.”
She rose wearily and followed him along the porch. The front door was locked also. He bade her wait while he went to the rear, but when he returned it was with the news that all the entrances were fastened. They tried ringing the bell, but it brought no response save the clanging of a gong.
“Servants must be out,” he commented. “Joy-riding in the yacht, I suppose. Let’s have a look at the windows.”
They were fastened.
Rosalind began to shiver. The hail had changed into a downpour of rain, but the wind showed no sign of slackening.
“I guess a locked house won’t bother you and me,” said the boatman, with a laugh.
He walked to the nearest window, lifted his foot, and sent it crashing through the glass. Through the opening he thrust an arm, slipped back the fastening, and raised the sash.
“Welcome!” he called, beckoning to her.
Without hesitation Rosalind entered the house by way of the window. The boatman followed her.
“So long as there’s nobody home I’ll come in myself,” he said.
They were standing in the dining-room; even in the gloom of the interior Rosalind could discern a shining of glass and silverware that stood on a sideboard. Sam groped along the wall for an electric switch and, finding it, turned on the lights.
“Let’s try the library; there’s a fireplace there,” he said.
Rosalind remembered how he knew, but she felt it was not a time for dwelling upon previous house-breakings. She followed him readily, crossing a broad hall and entering a room where the floor was cushioned with thick rugs.
The chimney-place had been set for a fire, but no match had been applied to the kindlings. He found one on the center table, and Rosalind, sighing contentedly, watched the red flames grow and spread.
Next he pushed a heavy leather chair across the floor close to the hearth, and motioned her into it. She sat obediently and stretched her feet close to the blaze. Without a word, he dropped to his knees and began taking off her shoes.
She felt too comfortable to protest. Besides, he did it with the wholly impersonal manner of a salesman; also, Rosalind reflected, it was a sensible thing to do.
After he had placed her damp shoes close to the fire, at one side of the hearth, he brought her a foot-stool. Then he disappeared in the direction of the dining-room. When he returned he was carrying a tray, upon which were a decanter and two glasses.
“Sherry?” he asked.
“Thank you.”
She took the glass that he filled and sipped its contents. The boatman helped himself.
“Still blowing,” he commented as he watched the sparks sucked up the chimney.
Rosalind gave little thought to the tumult without. She was too thoroughly luxurious. Even though her gown was wet, she felt that she had been thrust into a wholly sybaritic environment. Lazily she watched two little, ascending volumes of steam as her stockings began to dry before the fire.
“How about eating?” he asked.
“We might,” she admitted. “That is, if you know—”
“Been here before,” he answered, smiling. “You remember, I guess.”
She watched him as he went back to the dining-room, and a minute after that from another apartment she heard sounds, which she judged to indicate the pantry or the kitchen.
It was rather curious to be in a house with a burglar, she reflected. She did not think of it as hazardous, or unlawful, or even improper—merely as curious. Ethics had been knocked out of her adventure long ago. She was thankful for the wine he brought her; she would be glad when the food came. These were material comforts, very real and needful; and her mind for the present was dwelling only upon material things.
It did not seem to her that it was even unusual to break Mr. Davidson’s window, to enter his house, to light his fire, to drink his sherry, to eat his food; these were but mere incidents in a necessary proceeding.
Nor did she waste much thought upon the ringleader and companion in the affair. Who or what he was did not matter much—just then; it was what he did that counted. And Rosalind knew, if she had been alone, that she would have done precisely the same thing. She found it rather pleasant to have somebody else performing the drudgery. He came back with a loaf of bread, some butter, and a can of potted tongue.
“I’m making some tea,” he said. “It’ll be ready as soon as the water boils.”
He carved a slice of bread, buttered it for her, and offered it. She accepted with a nod of thanks, and mentally noted the fact that he knew how to cut thin slices.
The food and wine warmed her; they even thawed her wonted austerity. When he had finished eating, the boatman rummaged some cigarettes. He offered her one; she declined, but with a smile. Had she been alone—well, she might.
Under past circumstances, such an assumption on his part would have roused her to rebuke. But she was in an oddly comfortable mood.
As he settled down in a chair and stretched his long legs toward the fire, she studied him furtively. Particularly she studied his head. So far as shape went, it seemed quite unlike any of the pictures that represented the heads of typical criminals. It was rather well constructed, along conventional and respectable lines.
The beard he wore baffled her somewhat in an attempt to read his face; but that also, she decided, represented a normal average. Rosalind was in no sense a criminologist; yet in outward aspects the boatman had a law-abiding appearance.
He even revealed some traits that she admired. He had courage, for one thing; and resource for another. He had strength, too, which counted for something. In certain things he was rather ingenious, if frankly unprincipled.
Strangely enough, the thing for which she would have marked him “Excellent,” had she been making out his report-card, was the very one that had so frequently lashed her to anger—his absolute lack of servility.
From most persons, and always from her inferiors, servility was something that Rosalind expected—and detested. She took it as her due; yes, even demanded it. But she despised the thing itself.
The boatman had offered her none. This was presumptuous, of course; yet secretly she set it down to his credit. He never groveled; he was rarely deferential. More often, in fact, he was rude and given to mocking. But he inspired in her a sort of wondering and unaccountable respect.
He stared lazily into the fire, as if oblivious of her presence. Without, the storm still ruled, although it had palpably slackened in fury. Sam seemed to be concerned about nothing save his cigarette.
Abruptly Rosalind rallied from her musings concerning him. She had completely forgotten the reason for her presence on Davidson’s Island—that she was being kidnaped into matrimony! Her lips tightened, and she glanced at him sharply.
Had he really meant it? He appeared to have forgotten it completely. And if he had meant it, was it a sign of madness?
Try as she would, she could not reconcile the boatman with presumptive insanity. For that matter, she could not reconcile him with much of anything. She never realized until this moment how little she actually knew about him.
He looked up; their eyes met. Rosalind colored faintly. Something shot her thoughts back to the last instant aboard the launch when his wet beard brushed her cheek. She wondered if he really had—there was so much confusion.
“Sam!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please don’t say ‘ma’am’ to me.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a word you are not accustomed to employing,” she answered.
His study of her face was brief yet comprehensive.
“You think so?”
“I know it. It took you a long while to say it without hesitating. And it does not—well, harmonize with other things that you say.”
“All right; I’ll quit it, Miss Chalmers.”
“You helped me out of a rather bad situation a little while ago,” she said slowly.
She wanted to thank him, yet felt instinctively that he did not wish to be thanked.
“Well, I got you into it; that was why.”
“Yet if I had left your island alone I would undoubtedly have been caught in the same storm.”
“Oh, perhaps!”
“I think it was—splendid!”
“Why, thanks, ma—I mean, Miss Chalmers. Only you did the same for me after you were up on the rock. So that makes it a stand-off.”
Something in his manner and his speech perplexed her. Always before there was raillery, derision; now he seemed to cloak himself in a grave reserve.
“Sam!”
He waited for her to continue:
“You are not really a—common boatman,” she said very positively.
“Sure of that?”
“Quite. But who are you?”
“You know enough, I guess.”
“I’m afraid you are a burglar.”
“It looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“Are you a spy?”
“I’m not on the witness-stand.”
“Or a smuggler? And before you answer that I don’t mind saying that all smuggling is not—wicked.”
He laughed outright.
“You certainly want me to confess something, so you made that one easy. Well, if I’m a smuggler I’m not a very good one, I’m afraid. I haven’t been able to smuggle you to the American side yet.”
Rosalind stiffened in her chair. Automatically she drew her stockinged feet beneath her skirt. If there was to be another battle she felt that there was a lack of militancy about her feet. A lady without her shoes is scarcely girded for combat.
“That of course was an utterly absurd idea,” she said firmly. “But I am willing to consider it as a joke, in view—of all that has happened.”
“Much obliged. But it wasn’t a joke.”
“You couldn’t have meant it seriously?”
“Absolutely, Miss Chalmers.”
“But why? Whatever put such a wild idea into your head?”
“I told you at the time. No use to go all over it again.”
“But you must have had some reason.”
“Sure. I wanted to marry you. I should say—‘want.’”
“You still—”
“Want to? Oh, yes!”
“And you expect to go on with this impossible—affair?”
This time he merely made a gesture. It might have meant anything.
“Would you marry a woman who hated you?”
He considered this for some time, then looked her evenly in the eyes and answered:
“You don’t hate me.”
Rosalind flushed, and did some considering on her own account.
“Possibly not,” she admitted. “They say it is wicked to hate, so I try not to. But, even if I do not hate you, why should you have the least reason to think I would marry you?”
“Oh, what’s the use of speculating?” he said wearily. “Maybe it was because I wanted to put over a stunt nobody else had been able to do—like finding the north pole.”
Rosalind rose suddenly and walked toward a window. Her first impulse was to fly into a temper.
A stunt! The task of winning her had become a—stunt! And he had supplemented the insult of comparing her to the north pole!
Yet even in her anger she felt the urging of a desire to smile. Rosalind was a severe and conscientious self-analyst; she harbored few illusions. There was something in the frigid comparison that struck her as rather clever—possibly true.
Perhaps, after all, she mused, it was a rough compliment. To be classed among things practically unattainable implies a certain distinction.
“And you know,” drawled a voice from the fireplace, “the north pole was discovered.”
She bit her lip and stared out of the window.
The rain had stopped and the wind was flattening. Overhead the racing clouds were being sundered into groups and patches. She could see intervals of blue.
“A boat!” she called sharply. “Mr. Davidson’s yacht!”
Sam sprang from his chair and joined her at the window. The yacht was making the wharf.
“Well, I guess this polar expedition has failed,” he observed whimsically. “Better luck next time.”
Rosalind was thinking rapidly. The arrival of the yacht meant safety—for her. But what of the boatman?
As they watched together a small procession of persons filed out upon the dock and began to march to the house.
“Mr. Davidson!” she exclaimed. “He’s back!”
The boatman nodded.
“Mr. Witherbee, Mr. Morton, Mr. Williams—oh, everybody! And they have got—Billy Kellogg!”
She could easily discern the short, stout figure of the young man who had admitted to Polly that he was an impostor. He was walking between Mr. Davidson and one of the men servants, his head bent, his attitude that of complete dejection.
The boatman inspected the group with interest, particularly the stout young man.
“Run!” exclaimed Rosalind, turning swiftly upon him.
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’m all right; I can stay. I’ll explain—somehow. But you must go. Take the back door, quick!”
“But why should I go?”
“A thousand reasons!”
“So as not to embarrass you,” he suggested, watching the oncoming procession.
“I—I didn’t mean that. Go, while there’s a chance.”
“So you don’t want me caught?”
“No!”
Still he hesitated. Rosalind gripped him by the arm and pushed him back from the window.
“Hurry!” she commanded. “You have time to get out the back way. Sam—please!”
The boatman smiled.
“All right; I’ll disappear,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you again, Miss—No; I’m going to say it just once—Rosalind!”
“You said it back in the boat,” she reminded him briskly.
“Then I really got away with it—because you heard.”
“Yes; you really—‘got away with it,’ if that satisfies you. Now run! They’re on the porch.”
He stepped swiftly across the library and into the hall. The sound of Mr. Davidson’s key in the lock was heard. With a laughing nod at Rosalind, the boatman turned and ran—up-stairs!
“Sam!”
“S-sh!”
Rosalind faced the door desperately.
“Now I must manage to keep them down-stairs,” she muttered.