The Woman-Haters Part 44

"Yes. . . . Don't try to get up. You're not strong enough yet. You must wait here while I go and get you some--"

"Don't go!" He almost shouted it. "If--if you do I'll--I'll--I think I'm going to faint again."

"Oh, no, you're not. And I must go and get you some brandy or something.

Stay just where you are."

"Ruth Graham, if you go away now, I'll go with you, if I have to crawl.

Maybe I can't walk, but I swear I'll crawl after you on my hands and knees unless you answer my question. DO you care enough for me to wait?"

She looked out at the little bay, at the narrow, wicked tide race, at the breakers beyond. Then she looked down again at him.

"Yes," she said. . . . "OH, are you going to faint again? Don't! Please don't!"

Russell Agnew Brooks, the late "John Brown," opened his eyes. "I am not going to faint," he observed. "I was merely trying to realize that I was fully conscious."

Some time after this--hours and minutes do not count in paradise--he remembered the item in the paper.

"By George!" he exclaimed, "I had something to show you. I'm afraid I've lost it. Oh, no I here it is."

He extracted from his trousers pocket the water soaked lump that had been the New York newspaper. The page containing the sensational announcement of the engagement in high life was quite undecipherable.

Being on the outside of the folded paper, it had rubbed to a pulpy blur.

However, he told her about it, and she agreed that his judgment of the character of the future Baroness Hardacre had been absolutely correct.

"You were very wise," she said sagely.

"Not so wise as I've become since," he a.s.serted with decision. Then he added, with a rather rueful smile, "I'm afraid, dear, people won't say as much for you, when they know."

"I'm satisfied."

"You may have to wait all those years--and years--you spoke of."

"I will."

But she did not have to. For, at that moment, the miracle of wisdom beside her sat up and pointed to the wet newspaper lying on the sand at her feet.

"Has my happiness affected my wits?" he demanded. "Or does salt water bring on delusions? Aren't those my initials?"

He was pointing to a paragraph in the "Personals" column of the New York paper. This, being on one of the inner pages, had remained comparatively dry and could be read. The particular "Personal" to which he pointed was this:

"R. A. B." Wherever you are. This is to certify that I hereby acknowledge that you have been absolutely correct in the A. D. matter; witness news elsewhere. I was a fool, and I apologize publicly.

Incidentally I need a head like yours in my business. Come back.

Partners.h.i.+p awaiting you. Come back; and marry anybody or n.o.body as you see fit.

"FATHER."

CHAPTER XVII

WOMAN-HATERS

"But what," asked Ruth, as they entered the bungalow together, "has happened to Mr. Atkins, do you think? You say he went away yesterday noon and you haven't seen him or even heard from him since. I should think he would be afraid to leave the lights for so long a time. Has he ever done it before?"

"No. And I'm certain he would not have done it this time of his own accord. If he could have gotten back last night he would, storm or no storm."

"But last night was pretty bad. And," quite seriously, "of course he knew that you were here, and so everything would be all right."

"Oh, certainly," with sarcasm, "he would know that, of course. So long as I am on deck, why come back at all? I'm afraid Atkins doesn't share your faith in my transcendent ability, dear."

"Well," Miss Graham tossed her head, "I imagine he knew he could trust you to attend to his old lighthouses."

"Perhaps. If so, his faith has developed wonderfully. He never has trusted me even to light the lanterns. No, I'm afraid something has happened--some accident. If the telephone was in working order I could soon find out. As it is, I can only wait and try not to worry. By the way, is your housekeeper--Mrs. What's-her-name--all serene after her wet afternoon? When did she return?"

"She hasn't returned. I expected her last evening--she said she would be back before dark--but she didn't come. That didn't trouble me; the storm was so severe that I suppose she stayed in the village overnight."

"So you were alone all through the gale. I wondered if you were; I was tremendously anxious about you. And you weren't afraid? Did you sleep?"

"Not much. You see," she smiled oddly, "I received a letter before I retired, and it was such an important--and surprising--communication that I couldn't go to sleep at once."

"A letter? A letter last night? Who--What? You don't mean my letter? The one I put under your door? You didn't get THAT last night!"

"Oh, yes, I did."

"But how? The bungalow was as dark as a tomb. There wasn't a light anywhere. I made sure of that before I came over."

"I know. I put the light out, but I was sitting by the window in the dark, looking out at the storm. Then I saw some one coming up the hill, and it was you."

"Then you saw me push it under the door?"

"Yes. What made you stay on the step so long after you had pushed it under?"

"Me? . . . Oh," hastily, "I wanted to make sure it was--er--under. And you found it and read it--then?"

"Of course. I couldn't imagine what it could be, and I was curious, naturally."

"Ruth!"

"I was."

"Nonsense! You knew what it must be. Surely you did. Now, truly, didn't you? Didn't you, dear?"

"Why should I? . . . Oh, your sleeve is wet. You're soaking wet from head to foot."

"Well, I presume that was to be expected. This water out here is remarkably damp, you know, and I was in it for some time. I should have been in it yet if it hadn't been for you."