The tide bubbled and gurgled about him. Miniature whirlpools tugged at his legs, pulling him under. He fought nobly, setting his teeth and swearing inwardly that he would make it, he would not give up, he would not drown. But the edge of the tide rip was a long way off, and he was growing tired already. Another whirlpool sucked him down, and when he rose he shouted for help. It was an instinctive, unreasoning appeal, almost sure to be useless, for who could hear him?--but he shouted, nevertheless.
And the shout was answered. From somewhere behind him--a long, long distance, so it seemed to him--came the clear call in a woman's voice.
"All right! I'm coming. Keep on, just as you are."
He kept on, or tried to. He swam--and swam--and swam. He went under, rose, went under again, fought his way up, and kept on swimming. Through the gurgle and hiss of the water, sounding dully above the humming in his ears and the roar of the blood in his tired brain, came the clear voice again:
"Steady now! Just as you are! one more stroke! Now one more!
Quick! Quick! Now! Can you get aboard?"
The wet, red side of a dory's bow pushed past his laboring shoulder.
A hand clutched his shirt collar. He reached up and grasped the boat's gunwale, hung on with all his weight, threw one leg over the edge, and tumbled into the dory's bottom.
"Thanks," he panted, his eyes shut. "That--was--about the closest call I--ever had. Hey? Why! RUTH!"
She was panting, also, but she was not looking at him. She was rowing with all her might, and gazing fearfully over her shoulder.
"Are you strong enough to help me row?" she asked breathlessly. "We must head her away from here, out of this tide. And I'm afraid that I can't do it alone."
He raised his head and looked over the rail. The breakers were alarmingly close. He scrambled to the thwart, pushed her aside and seized the oars. She resisted.
"Only one," she gasped. "I can manage the other."
So, each with an oar, they fought the tide, and won--but by the narrowest of margins. The dory edged into stiller and shoaler water, crept out of the eddying channel over the flat where the depth was but a scant four feet, turned almost by inches, and, at last, slid up on the sandy beach below the bungalow. The girl sat bowed over the handle of her oar, her breast heaving. She said nothing. Her companion likewise said nothing. Staggering, he stepped over the side, walked a few feet up the beach, and then tumbled in an unconscious heap on the sand.
He was not unconscious long, being a healthy and robust young fellow. His first thought, upon opening his eyes, was that he must close them again as quickly as possible because he wanted the dream to continue. To lie with one's head in the lap of an angel, while that angel strokes your forehead and cries over you and begs you for her sake not to die, is too precious a delusion to lose. But the opening of one's eyes is a mistake under such circumstances, and he had made it. The angel's next remark was entirely unromantic and practical.
"Are you better?" she asked. "You're all right now, aren't you?"
Her patient's reply was also a question, and irrelevant.
"DO you care?" he asked faintly.
"Are you better?" she asked in return.
"Did you get my note? The note I put under the door?"
"Answer me. Are you all right again?"
"You answer ME. Did you get my note?"
"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 asserted 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. Partnership awaiting you. Come back; and marry anybody or nobody as you see fit.
"FATHER."