We are in love's land to-day;
Where shall we go?
Love, shall we start or stay,
Or sail or row?
There's many a wind and way,
And never a May but May;
We are in love's hand to-day;
Where shall we go?
—Swinburne.
The white clouds of the later afternoon cruised dreamily between green wood and blue sky. I brought the launch to St. Agatha's landing and embarked the two exiles without incident. We set forth in good spirits, Ijima at the engine and I at the wheel. The launch was comfortably large, and the bright cushions, with Miss Pat's white parasol and Helen's red one, marked us with the accent of Venice. I drove the boat toward the open to guard against unfortunate encounters, and the course once established I had little care but to give a wide berth to all the other craft afloat. Helen exclaimed repeatedly upon the beauty of the lake, which the west wind rippled into many variations of color. I was flattered by her friendliness; and yielded myself to the joy of the day, agreeably thrilled—I confess as much—by her dark loveliness as she turned from time to time to speak to me.
Snowy sails stood forth upon the water like listless clouds; paddles flashed as they rose dripping and caught the sun; and the lake's wooded margins gave green horizons, cool and soothing to the eye, on every hand. One of the lake steamers on its incessant journeys created a little sea for us, but without disturbing my passengers.
"Aunt Pat is a famous sailor!" observed Helen as the launch rocked. "The last time we crossed the captain had personally to take her below during a hurricane."
"Helen always likes to make a heroine of me," said Miss Pat with her adorable smile. "But I am not in the least afraid on the water. I think there must have been sailors among my ancestors."
She was as tranquil as the day. Her attitude toward her niece had not changed; and I pleased myself with the reflection that mere ancestry—the vigor and courage of indomitable old sea lords—did not sufficiently account for her, but that she testified to an ampler background of race and was a fine flower that had been centuries in making.
We cruised the shore of Port Annandale at a discreet distance and then bore off again.
"Let us not go too near shore anywhere," said Helen; and Miss Pat murmured acquiescence.
"No; we don't care to meet people," she remarked, a trifle anxiously.
"I'm afraid I don't know any to introduce you to," I replied, and turned away into the broadest part of the lake. The launch was capable of a lively clip and the engine worked capitally. I had no fear of being caught, even if we should be pursued, and this, in the broad light of the peaceful Sabbath afternoon, seemed the remotest possibility.
It had been understood that we were to remain out until the sun dropped into the western wood, and I loitered on toward the upper lake where the shores were rougher.
"That's a real island over there—they call it Battle Orchard—you must have a glimpse of it."
"Oh, nothing is so delightful as an island!" exclaimed Helen; and she quoted William Sharp's lines:
"There is an Isle beyond our ken,
Haunted by Dreams of weary men.
Gray Hopes enshadow it with wings
Weary with burdens of old things:
There the insatiate water-springs
Rise with the tears of all who weep:
And deep within it,—deep, oh, deep!—
The furtive voice of Sorrow sings.
There evermore,
Till Time be o'er,
Sad, oh, so sad! the Dreams of men
Drift through the Isle beyond our ken."
Ijima had scanned the lake constantly since we started, as was his habit. Miss Pat turned to speak to Helen of the shore that now swept away from us in broader curves as we passed out of the connecting channel into the farther lake. Ijima remarked to me quietly, as though speaking of the engine:
"There's a man following in a rowboat.",
And as I replied to some remark by Miss Pat, I saw, half a mile distant, its sails hanging idly, a sloop that answered Gillespie's description of the Stiletto. Its snowy canvas shone white against the green verdure of Battle Orchard.
"Shut off the power a moment. We will turn here, Ijima,"—and I called Miss Pat's attention to a hoary old sycamore on the western shore.
"Oh, I'm disappointed not to cruise nearer the island with the romantic name," cried Helen. "And there's a yacht over there, too!"
I already had the boat swung round, and in reversing the course I lost the Stiletto, which clung to the island shore; but I saw now quite plainly the rowboat Ijima had reported as following us. It hung off about a quarter of a mile and its single occupant had ceased rowing and shipped his oars as though waiting. He was between us and the strait that connected the upper and lower lakes. Though not alarmed I was irritated by my carelessness in venturing through the strait and anxious to return to the less wild part of the lake. I did not dare look over my shoulder, but kept talking to my passengers, while Ijima, with the rare intuition of his race, understood the situation and indicated by gestures the course.
"There's a boat sailing through the green, green wood," exclaimed Helen; and true enough, as we crept in close to the shore, we could still see, across a wooded point of the island, the sails of the Stiletto, as of a boat of dreams, drifting through the trees. And as I looked I saw something more. A tiny signal flag was run quickly to the topmast head, withdrawn once and flashed back; and as I faced the bow again, the boatman dropped his oars into the water.
"What a strange-looking man," remarked Miss Pat.
"He doesn't look like a native," I replied carelessly. The launch swung slowly around, cutting a half-circle, of which the Italian's boat was the center. He dallied idly with his oars and seemed to pay no heed to us, though he glanced several times toward the yacht, which had now crept into full view, and under a freshening breeze was bearing southward.
"Full speed, Ijima."
The engine responded instantly, and we cut through the water smartly. There was a space of about twenty-five yards between the boatman and the nearer shore. I did not believe that he would do more than try to annoy us by forcing us on the swampy shore; for it was still broad daylight, and we were likely at any moment to meet other craft. I was confident that with any sort of luck I could slip past him and gain the strait, or dodge and run round him before he could change the course of his heavy skiff.
I kicked the end of an oar which the launch carried for emergencies and Ijima, on this hint, drew it toward him.
"You can see some of the roofs of Port Annandale across the neck here," I remarked, seeing that the women had begun to watch the approaching boat uneasily.
I kept up a rapid fire of talk, but listened only to the engine's regular beat. The launch was now close to the Italian's boat, and having nearly completed the semi-circle I was obliged to turn a little to watch him. Suddenly he sat up straight and lay to with the oars, pulling hard toward a point we must pass in order to clear the strait and reach the upper lake again. The fellow's hostile intentions were clear to all of us now and we all silently awaited the outcome. His skiff rose high in air under the impulsion of his strong arms, and if he struck our lighter craft amidships, as seemed inevitable, he would undoubtedly swamp us.
Ijima half rose, glanced toward the yacht, which was heading for the strait, and then at me, but I shook my head.
"Mind the engine, Ijima," I said with as much coolness as I could muster.
The margin between us and the skiff rapidly diminished, and the Italian turned to take his bearings with every lift of his oars. He had thrown off his cap, and as he looked over his shoulder I saw his evil face sharply outlined. I counted slowly to myself the number of strokes that would be necessary to bring him in collision if he persisted, charging against his progress our own swift, arrow-like flight over the water. The shore was close, and I had counted on a full depth of water, but Ijima now called out warningly in his shrill pipe and our bottom scraped as I veered off. This manoeuver cost me the equivalent of ten of the Italian's deep strokes, and the shallow water added a new element of danger.
"Stand by with the oar, Ijima," I called in a low tone; and I saw in a flash Miss Pat's face, quite calm, but with her lips set tight.
Ten yards remained, I judged, between the skiff and the strait, and there was nothing for us now but to let speed and space work out their problem.
Ijima stood up and seized the oar. I threw the wheel hard aport in a last hope of dodging, and the launch listed badly as it swung round. Then the bow of the skiff rose high, and Helen shrank away with a little cry; there was a scratching and grinding for an instant, as Ijima, bending forward, dug the oar into the skiff's bow and checked it with the full weight of his body. As we fended off the oar snapped and splintered and he tumbled into the water with a great splash, while we swerved and rocked for a moment and then sped on through the little strait.
Looking back, I saw Ijima swimming for the shore. He rose in the water and called "All right!" and I knew he would take excellent care of himself. The Italian had shipped his oars and lay where we had left him, and I heard him, above the beat of our engine, laugh derisively as we glided out of sight. The water rippled pleasantly beneath us; the swallows brushed the quiet blue with fleet wings, and in the west the sun was spreading a thousand glories upon the up-piling clouds. Out in the upper lake the wind freshened and we heard the low rumble of thunder.
"Miss Holbrook, will you please steer for me?"—and in effecting the necessary changes of position that I might get to the engine we were all able to regain our composure. I saw Miss Pat touch her forehead with her handkerchief; but she said nothing. Even after St. Agatha's pier hove in sight silence held us all. The wind, continuing to freshen, was whipping the lake with a sharp lash, and I made much of my trifling business with the engine, and of the necessity for occasional directions to the girl at the wheel.
My contrition at the danger to which I had stupidly brought them was strong in me; but there were other things to think of. Miss Pat could not be deceived as to the animus of our encounter, for the Italian's conduct could hardly be accounted for on the score of stupidity; and the natural peace and quiet of this region only emphasized the gravity of her plight. My first thought was that I must at once arrange for her removal to some other place. With Henry Holbrook established within a few miles of St. Agatha's the school was certainly no longer a tenable harborage.
As I tended the engine I saw, even when I tried to avoid her, the figure of Helen Holbrook in the stern, quite intent upon steering and calling now and then to ask the course when in my preoccupation I forgot to give it. The storm was drawing a dark hood across the lake, and the thunder boomed more loudly. Storms in this neighborhood break quickly and I ran full speed for St. Agatha's to avoid the rain that already blurred the west.
We landed with some difficulty, owing to the roughened water and the hard drive of the wind; but in a few minutes we had reached St. Agatha's where Sister Margaret flung open the door just as the storm let go with a roar.
When we reached the sitting-room we talked with unmistakable restraint of the storm and of our race with it across the lake—while Sister Margaret stood by murmuring her interest and sympathy. She withdrew immediately and we three sat in silence, no one wishing to speak the first word. I saw with deep pity that Miss Pat's eyes were bright with tears, and my heart burned hot with self-accusation. Sister Margaret's quick step died away in the hall, and still we waited while the rain drove against the house in sheets and the branches of a tossing maple scratched spitefully on one of the panes.
"We have been found out; my brother is here," said Miss Pat.
"I am afraid that is true," I replied. "But you must not distress yourself. This is not Sicily, where murder is a polite diversion. The Italian wished merely to frighten us; it's a case of sheerest blackmail. I am ashamed to have given him the opportunity. It was my fault—my grievous fault; and I am heartily sorry for my stupidity."
"Do not accuse yourself! It was inevitable from the beginning that Henry should find us. But this place seemed remote enough. I had really begun to feel quite secure—but now!"
"But now!" repeated Helen with a little sigh.
I marveled at the girl's composure—at her quiet acceptance of the situation, when I knew well enough her shameful duplicity. Then by one of those intuitions of grace that were so charming in her she bent forward and took Miss Pat's hand. The emerald rings flashed on both as though in assertion of kinship.
"Dear Aunt Pat! You must not take that boat affair too seriously. It may not have been—father—who did that."
She faltered, dropping her voice as she mentioned her father. I was aware that Miss Pat put away her niece's hand with a sudden gesture—I did not know whether of impatience, or whether some new resolution had taken hold of her. She rose and moved nearer to me.
"What have you to propose, Mr. Donovan?" she asked, and something in her tone, in the light of her dear eyes, told me that she meant to fight, that she knew more than she wished to say, and that she relied on my support; and realizing this my heart went out to her anew. A maid brought in a lamp and within the arc of its soft light I saw Helen's lovely head as she rested her arms on the table watching us. If there was to be a contest of wits or of arms on this peaceful lake shore under the high arches of summer, she and I were to be foes; and while we waited for the maid to withdraw I indulged in foolish speculations as to whether a man could love a girl and be her enemy at the same time.
"I think we ought to go away—at once," the girl broke out suddenly. "The place was ill-chosen; Father Stoddard should have known better than to send us here!"
"Father Stoddard did the best he could for us, Helen. It is unfair to blame him," said Miss Pat quietly. "And Mr. Donovan has been much more than kind in undertaking to care for us at all."
"I have blundered badly enough!" I confessed penitently.
"It might be better, Aunt Pat," began Helen slowly, "to yield. What can it matter! A quarrel over money—it is sordid—"
Miss Pat stood up abruptly and said quietly, without lifting her voice, and turning from one to the other of us:
"We have prided ourselves for a hundred years, we American Holbrooks, that we had good blood in us, and character and decency and morality; and now that the men of my house have thrown away their birthright, and made our name a plaything, I am going to see whether the general decadence has struck me, too; and with my brother Arthur, a fugitive because of his crimes, and my brother Henry ready to murder me in his greed, it is time for me to test whatever blood is left in my own poor old body, and I am going to begin now! I will not run away another step; I am not going to be blackguarded and hounded about this free country or driven across the sea; and I will not give Henry Holbrook more money to use in disgracing our name. I have got to die—I have got to die before he gets it,"—and she smiled at me so bravely that something clutched my throat suddenly—"and I have every intention, Mr. Donovan, of living a very long time!"
Helen had risen, and she stood staring at her aunt in frank astonishment. Not often, probably never before in her life, had anger held sway in the soul of this woman; and there was something splendid in its manifestation. She had spoken in almost her usual tone, though with a passionate tremor toward the close; but her very restraint was in itself ominous.
"It shall be as you say, Miss Pat," I said, as soon as I had got my breath.
"Certainly, Aunt Pat," murmured Helen tamely. "We can't be driven round the world. We may as well stay where we are."
The storm was abating and I threw open the windows to let in the air.
"If you haven't wholly lost faith in me, Miss Holbrook—"
"I have every faith in you, Mr. Donovan!" smiled Miss Pat.
"I shall hope to take better care of you in the future."
"I am not afraid. I think that if Henry finds out that he can not frighten me it will have a calming effect upon him."
"Yes; I suppose you are right, Aunt Pat," said Helen passively.
I went home feeling that my responsibilities had been greatly increased by Miss Pat's manifesto; on the whole I was relieved that she had not ordered a retreat, for it would have distressed me sorely to abandon the game at this juncture to seek a new hiding-place for my charges.
Long afterward Miss Pat's declaration of war rang in my ears. My heart leaps now as I remember it. And I should like to be a poet long enough to write A Ballade of All Old Ladies, or a lyric in their honor turned with the grace of Colonel Lovelace and blithe with the spirit of Friar Herrick. I should like to inform it with their beautiful tender sympathy that is quick with tears but readier with strength to help and to save; and it should reflect, too, the noble patience, undismayed by time and distance, that makes a virtue of waiting—waiting in the long twilight with folded hands for the ships that never come! Men old and battle-scarred are celebrated in song and story; but who are they to be preferred over this serene sisterhood? Let the worn mothers of the world be throned by the fireside or placed at comfortable ease in the shadow of hollyhocks and old-fashioned roses in familiar gardens; it matters little, for they are supreme in any company. Whoever would be gracious must serve them; whoever would be wise must sit at their feet and take counsel. Nor believe too readily that the increasing tide of years has quenched the fire in their souls; rather, it burns on with the steady flame of sanctuary lights. Lucky were he who could imprison in song those qualities that crown a woman's years—voicing what is in the hearts of all of us as we watch those gracious angels going their quiet ways, tending their secret altars of memory with flowers and blessing them with tears.