WHAT LAY UNDER THE WALKING FERN.
For once Gerald was neglected, and for once he was glad of it. Mrs.
Stillwell and Jim had both come in, on the afternoon before, in a high
state of excitement. They had demanded of him if he had seen Saint
Augustine, the mischievous child with the peculiar name. He had
retorted, angrily, that of course he had seen nobody, neither child
nor grown-up. He might lie there and die for all anybody would bother!
He'd get up, he declared he would, dress and go away at once. Never
before had he stayed in such a wretched place as this, and yes, he
surely would get up and leave. If he could find his own clothes. Did
anybody know where his clothes were?
Even in the midst of her terrible anxiety, his faithful nurse and
hostess had smiled, encouragingly, saying:
"You couldn't do better. When a sick person gets to your state of mind
and nerves, he's usually well enough to go out. All you brought with
you is in that parcel under the bed. You can leave Corny's
shirt--anywhere."
She caught her breath with a sob and went swiftly out of the cabin. He
heard her calling her children and directing them:
"Wesley and Saint Anne, little brother has run away. He's done that
before, so don't be frightened. He's always been found--he will be
now. But mamma may not be back by sundown and you, Wesley, must do the
milking and lay the fire ready for lighting in the morning. Saint
Anne, my precious little care-taker, see well after the others and
give the sick boy his supper of cream and oatmeal which was sent.
Don't feel lonely because both papa and mamma are away. The dear God
is right here with you, you know, in your little bedroom and close
outside the window. No harm can happen where God is, you know, and now
good-bye."
She had kissed them all around and only Saint Anne noticed her lips
trembled. Then she had gone swiftly away in one direction which they
knew well. It was toward the little whirlpool in the woods, caused by
the sudden meeting of two small streams and named Tony's Eddy, because
a man named Tony had been drowned there.
It was a spot all the cabin children, except Saint Augustine, greatly
feared. He liked it because "papa does," and was never happier than
when Corny took him on a ramble thither. Lucetta had protested against
these visits to the dangerous place, but her fear had been laughed
down by her light-hearted husband.
"Fall into the Eddy? Why, woman dear, he will scarcely look into it
when I try to make him. Just shivers in a silly way, and makes up all
sorts of queer yarns about it. The Eddy fascinates him but scares him,
too. He believes that bad fairies live in it and if he should go too
near they'd come out and drag him down with them to destruction. Oh!
you needn't worry about Tony's Eddy."
Alas! for her peace of mind, now that Saint Augustine had disappeared,
"The Eddy!" was her first and only thought.
Jim searched in an opposite direction.
"I believe he's gone to find the monkeys. He was talking of them
almost the last thing. Horrid things! I wish they'd never been heard
of. They've made more trouble than human beings could, try their best!
Or, maybe, child like, he's gone to dig that wonderful 'treasure' out
of the ground and to buy you the silk dress he'd heard about. Dear
little kid! He was as earnest as a man, almost!" said Jim, trying to
comfort the mother-heart that suffered so.
"You look. I'll look. He must be found. I can't meet Corny's eyes and
tell him that our boy is lost," she had answered quietly enough, but
with agony in her expression.
When they had gone Gerald got up and dressed. He was rather shaky in
the knees but felt far better than when lying on the hard bed which
had been given up to his use. How his hostess had managed he had not
even thought, until that moment Jim had lain on the bench across the
room, upon a bag of fern leaves he had gathered for himself in the
woods near-by, with his rag-carpet blanket to cover him. He hadn't
complained and Gerald had given no thought to his comfort, his own
being his first concern as it had always been.
Now the house seemed desolate. Saint Anne came timidly in with his
light supper and started back in affright. He looked like a stranger
to her in his own clothes, having seen him only as "the sick one" in
bed. But he called her and she dared not disobey her mother's command
to give him his supper. Somehow, for the first time, the child's face
appealed to him and he thanked her for her attention. This was more
astonishing than to see him fully dressed in his white duck suit, that
had been laundered by Lucetta on the day after his arrival.
In a flutter of excitement, Saint Anne retreated to the inner room and
the safe presence of her family; and when, after a moment she regained
courage enough to open the door between--the lad was gone.
"He was here and he isn't here. He was all in white, like mamma says
the angels wear, and Dr. Jabb's little Eunice. She had on clothes all
flyey-about and thin--looked like moonlight. She had a hump in her
shoulders where mamma thinks maybe her wings are starting to grow.
Mamma knows her mamma a right smart while, and she says Eunice is a
perfectly angelic child. Mamma wouldn't say that if she didn't know.
Maybe the sick boy's turned into a angel, too, or is turning! Just
supposing! Maybe God sent him to stay with us, because papa and mamma
had to go away. Maybe!"
There was no radiance from the moonlight now upon the eager little
face, and indoors was dark; but it was delightful to think of angels
being about, until Wesley remarked, in his matter-of-fact way:
"If he was _sent_ he ought to have _stayed_. I don't believe he was a
truly angel. I guess he was just one them changelings, papa tells
stories about, that the fairies over in the Ireland-country carries
'round with 'em. If a baby or a boy is terrible cross--like the sick
one was, yesterday, the fairy just snatches him up and whisks him off
somewhere and puts a good new one in his place. Peek and see, Saint
Anne!"
"Peek yourself, Wesley. I'm--I'd rather have an angel than a
changeling. Anyhow, I'm going to sleep. God's here, taking care, so it
don't matter."
Happy in the faith that had been instilled into their minds from their
earliest consciousness the deserted ones fell fast asleep, though not
till Dorcas had slipped into Saint Augustine's place in the boys' bed
a little willow whistle Jim had made for her and which she had refused
to give her brother.
As for the angelic Gerald he was weakly trudging on his way toward the
cross-cut lane, which he had seen from the cabin window and had been
told led outward to the main road, running past Deer-Copse. How often
he had wished to be upon it, and now he wondered why he hadn't started
long before. Though it grew steadily dark, he kept as steadily on,
though his strength was sorely tried and he wished he dared stop and
rest. He was afraid to do this. He knew if he lay down on the ground,
that looked so tempting a bed, he wouldn't have the energy to go on
again. After a time his steps grew automatic. His feet lifted and fell
with no volition of his own, it seemed, and a curious drowsiness came
over him.
"I believe I'm going to sleep, walking!" he thought, and wearily
closed his eyes. But he opened them again with a start.
"What's that? What is it? Sounds like--I must be out of my head--I
don't know where I am. I can't see. Ah! the lane! I'm there at last.
Now I can lie right down and rest and somebody'll find me--sometime."
Yet once more into his drowsing ear fell a peculiar sound.
"Ah--umph! A-ah--oomph--ph--h----h!"
That prolonged bray so electrified him that he got up, to his knees,
then to his swaying feet, a ghostly figure in his white suit, and with
a last spurt of breath, cried:
"Billy! It's--_Billy_!"
Billy it was. Why then and there his mulish brain couldn't understand.
He had come a tiresome way, through woods and along country roads and
found it a painfully new experience. Of course, he had rested often
and long. He had been bidden, innumerable times: "Billy, lie down!"
and after an interval: "Billy, get up." Now, as he was wearily
trudging through the night came this apparition in white, right in his
path.
Billy had heard the stumbling of human feet long before his rider had,
and had announced the fact by mild remarks about it. But, sidewise
upon Billy's broad back--his head pillowed on Billy's neck, the
Colonel had known nothing of this until the mule's abrupt stop shocked
him awake and to a sight of the ghostly apparition on the roadside.
"Hello, Spook!" exclaimed the Colonel, inclined to be friends with
anybody or anything which would relieve the loneliness of his night
ride.
"Hel--Hello, yourself! Ha, ha, ha!" returned Gerald, in great delight
yet half-confused by fatigue and the surprise of this meeting. They
were mutual "apparitions," arisen out of the earth to confront one
another. "Where you come from? Where you going? I'm--I'm awful tired."
"So 'm I. Always tired. Always expect to be. I come from going to and
fro upon the earth seekin' that I cayn't find. No, I cayn't. And of
all the bad luck I've had this is the worst. Ah! hum."
"I'm sorry," murmured Gerald, stumbling near enough Billy to lay his
head on the animal's shoulder, where he immediately went to sleep.
"Sho! That's odd! But everything is in this topsy-turvy world. I'll be
glad to be out of it. I never had no luck, Billy, an' you know it.
This yeah 's a piece with all the rest. To have this boy, or his
spook, rise up this-a-way, an' go to sleep, standin'. Well, Billy, it
cayn't be helped. The trouble is I was born with a heart, and it's
always gettin' us into trouble. It's that old heart o' mine makes me
feel I cayn't just shove this creatur' off an' leave him to his own
deserts. Ah! hum."
In his mournful tones the Colonel thus addressed the intelligent
beast, who responded with a sympathetic bray; but he stood rigidly
still while his master loosened and slipped from his back the blanket
strapped there and spread it on the grassy bank beside the road. Then,
as if Gerald had been a little child, the Colonel carried him to the
blanket, laid and covered him in it. He even took off his own coat and
made a pillow of it for Gerald's head. Next, he ordered: "Billy, lie
down!" and having been obeyed, calmly composed himself for another nap
upon the back of "his only friend."
The night passed. Gerald slept as he had never done in all his life.
The healthful fatigue of his tramp across lots and the pure outdoor
air did more for him than all the medicine he'd swallowed. When he
awoke the sun was shining in his eyes and Billy was braying an
injunction to get up, while the Colonel sat on the roadside pensively
reading out of his little brown book.
"My! You're an early student!" cried Gerald, who had lain still for a
moment after waking, trying to understand the situation. "Must be an
interesting story, that!"
"Story? Life's too short--or too long--to waste on stories, young man.
This is Marcus Aurelius, the sage of all the ages. Now, talk, tell,
how come, et cetery. For me, I'm seekin' a lost wallet, and I don't
expect to find it. I shan't. Course. But I'm on the road to that
pickaninny and if I cayn't squeeze the wallet out of his clo'es I'll
squeeze the truth out of his insides, what he done with it. The idee!
'T one measly little nigger could force me to break the vow of years
an' come here, where I never meant to set foot 's long as I lived. Ah!
hum."
"Eh, what? Lost wallet? Why, I know something about that. Jim Barlow
had it. He picked it up."
"Where is he? Quick, young man! That wallet's mighty precious and it's
mine--mine, I tell you! Mine by the right of findin' and preservin'.
Where's he at, quick?"
The Colonel had never shown such excitement, nor such depths of
depression as when Gerald answered:
"I don't know. I haven't the least idea."
"Ah! hum. Course you haven't. I didn't suppose you had. They couldn't
be any such good luck in this world. 'Don't know'! Course not. Don't
reckon you know anything."
"Ah! yes I do! I know that I'm so hungry I could almost eat this
grass. Where can we get a breakfast?"
The Colonel scanned the surrounding country. Had there been even a
melon-patch in sight he wouldn't have troubled himself to answer. He
was hungry himself, but he often was that and food always came his way
sometime and of some kind. Why worry or hurry?
Fortunately, the rumble of approaching wheels was heard just then, and
presently there came into sight around the bend in the road a
mule-team, driven by a man in a blue smock. Gerald recognized him at a
glance--the same teamster who had brought him and his mates through
the "gust" from the Landing. He had a sadly confused remembrance of
how that ride had ended, and this was a good thing; for he was now
able to hail the man in real pleasure and no anger.
"Hello, there, driver! Do you want a job?"
A startled expression came to the teamster's face as his own mind
returned to the hour when these two had last met. However, he braced
himself for whatever was to come, and answered:
"That depends. What job?"
"To carry us two and lead the mule to wherever the Water Lily is now.
That's my boat--I mean, it was--and they're my friends aboard. Do you
know her and where she lies?"
The man knew perfectly well. On the morning after his ugly treatment
of his four passengers, he had repaired to Deer-Copse on the Ottawotta
and collected from Mrs. Calvert the sum of five dollars. This was more
than double the price asked of the lads but none of them happened to
be in sight, and he made a great matter of delivering the row-boat
uninjured. Knowing no better she promptly paid him. Though he was
sober now, he was just as greedy as ever for money and cautiously
answered:
"I might guess. But I'm off for the Landing and some hauling there. It
would be with a couple dollars for me to turn about an' hunt her up
now."
"All right, I'll pay it. I mean, if I can't my sister will. She's on
the Water Lily and would about give her head to see me back again.
I've been sick. I've been--"
But the teamster had no sympathy for Gerald's past ailments. He was
busy getting his wagon turned about and in another moment Gerald was
on the seat beside him, the Colonel riding at the back of the wagon,
feet dangling, leading Billy. This last task was needless, for the
mule would have followed his master anywhere and unguided.
The teamster "guessed" so accurately that he drove straight and swift
along the road bordering the Ottawotta and to the beautiful spot where
the Water Lily shone in all the glory of white paint and gilt, her
brasses polished to the last degree by Ephraim, and all her little
company pressing to the front at the rumble of wheels.
Not many vehicles passed that way and the coming of each was an event
in the quiet life of the house-boat. It was Dorothy who first
recognized the newcomers and her cry of delight which brought Aurora
around from the nook where she was busily embroidering a cushion for
the Lily.
"Gerald! Oh! Gerald, my brother!"
The lad had never felt her so dear nor thought her so pretty as when
her arms closed about him and her happy face looked into his. But the
face clouded when he asked:
"Got any money, Sis?"
"Huh! Can't you be glad to get home without begging for money? Popper
gave you just as much as he did me when he started and----"
The stumping of crutches interrupted them. It was the old captain who
had caught sight of the teamster, waiting for his money, and was
hurrying forward in anger.
"Step aside, younkers! Lemme deal with him! _Lemme!_ Oh! you old
villain, here again be ye? Tryin' to cheat widders an' orphans outen
their livin' substance! Oh! I know. I've heered. I've been told. Two
dollars was the price agreed--a quarter a-piece for us folks an' fifty
a-piece for the monks! The boat was throwed in. That was the bargain
fixed an' fast, an' deny it, if ye can, with this here Melvin an' me
an' this poor sick Gerry for witnesses. You haul in your sails an'
put for shore! Don't ye come around here a-tryin' to cheat no more.
I've been layin' for ye ever sence that night. I've 'lowed I'd meet up
with ye an' get even. Pay? Not this side Davy Jones's locker! Be off
with ye an don't ye dare to show your face here again till you've
l'arnt common honesty, such as ary yuther Marylander knows. What would
these here women an' childern do if it wasn't for Cap'n Jack Hurry a
pertectin' of 'em? Tell me that, you ornery land-lubber, you!"
But the teamster was already gone. He had not tarried the completion
of the Captain's tirade. He saw that there was little prospect of
receiving pay for that morning's ride except after much discussion and
many hard words, and decided that if he were ever to secure further
patronage from these silly people who lived on a boat he would better
not quarrel with them now.
With his departure peace was restored and the welcomes bestowed upon
Gerald made him very happy and roused a wish in his heart to become as
good a fellow as they all seemed to imagine him to be. With some shame
he remembered his often ungrateful treatment of Mrs. Lucetta and her
children, and described the family so graphically that Dorothy clapped
her hands, exclaiming:
"I'm going right away to know them! I am! What darlings they must be,
those little 'Saints' and sinners, and what a charming woman the
mother must be. Melvin has told us how she served them with that poor
pudding and sour buttermilk, just as if they were the greatest
luxuries."
Mrs. Calvert nodded, smiling:
"Yes, dear, I shall be glad to have you know her. She is a born
gentlewoman and a good one--which is better. But now, has everybody
had all the breakfast wanted? If so, let's all go off to our arbor in
the woods. 'The Grotto,' the girls named it, Gerald, and it's
beautiful. But where is Jim? Why should he have gone away from the
Stillwell cottage before you, in that sudden way you mentioned?"
"I reckon he went to search for a runaway kid. The one they called
Saint Augustine. Fancy such a name as that for the wildest little
tacker ever trod shoe-leather--or went barefoot, I mean. That
youngster looked like an angel and acted like a little imp. I should
think his folks'd be glad to lose him."
"No, Gerry, you don't think that. You don't want anybody to be unhappy
now that we're all so glad you're well and back. I hope Jim will find
the little Saint right soon and be back, too; but don't you think
they'll be frightened about you? It just came to me--what can they
think, when they come back and find you gone, except that you were out
of your mind and wandered off? You that had been in bed till then!"
asked Dorothy.
"Oh! they won't bother about me. Jim's been as good as gold and I've
been pretty hateful, sometimes, I know. It'll be a relief to him and
Mrs. Stillwell that I'm off their hands. Why, folks, do you know? That
slender slip of a woman does almost all their farm work, herself? Her
husband--I fancied from what I had sense enough to understand--hates
work, that kind, anyway, and she adores him. I know Jim took a hand,
soon's I was well enough, or good-natured enough, to let him off
sticking inside with me. I never saw a fellow work so, I could
see through the window by my bed. They hadn't any horse and he
ploughed with a cow! Fact. He dug potatoes, hoed corn, cleared up
brush-wood--did that with his jack-knife--carried water--Couldn't tell
what he didn't do! Oh! Mrs. Stillwell will be glad enough to be rid
of me but she'll hate to miss Jim. Hello, Elsa! What in the world!"
Mabel laughed and clapped her hands.
"Isn't it the queerest thing? and isn't it just jolly?
"She fell in love with them that morning when they came. Elsa, timid
Elsa, is the only one of us not afraid of the monkeys! She's
captivated them, some way, and is actually training them to do
whatever she wants. She's taught them to walk, arm in arm, and to bow
'Thank you' for bits of Chloe's cake. She punishes them when they
catch the birds and--lots of things. Are you taking them for their
'constitutional' now, Elsa dear?"
The shy girl, whose poverty and ungraceful manners had made Aurora and
Mabel look down upon her at the beginning of the trip, had now become
the very "heart of things," as Dolly said. Elsa was always ready to
mend a rent, to hunt up lost articles, to sit quietly in the cabin
when anybody had a headache and soothe the pain and loneliness, and to
do the many little things needed and which none of the others noticed.
It had come to be "Elsa, here!" or "Elsa, there!" almost continually;
and the best of it was that the more she was called upon for service
the happier and rosier she grew.
"Indeed, Papa Carruthers will see a fine change in his little girl,
when he gets her home again!" Aunt Betty had said, that very morning,
drawing the slender little figure to her side. "We have all learned to
love you dearly, Elsa. You are a daily blessing to us."
"_That's_ because you love me--and let me love you. Love is the most
beautiful thing in all the world, isn't it? It's your love has made me
grow strong and oh! so happy!"
Indeed, it was love, even for such humble creatures as the monkeys,
that had given her power over them. She had been the first, save
Dorothy, to pity them for being caged; and she hadn't been afraid, as
Dorothy was, to let them out to freedom. They had been very wild at
first, springing into the trees and leaping about so far and fast that
all except Elsa believed they were lost.
Then she would beg everyone to go away and putting the opened cage
upon the ground would sit quietly beside it, with their favorite food
near, for a long, long time. The first time her patience was rewarded
by their return to the cage, she still sat quiet and let them settle
themselves to rest. After that the training was easier, and by common
consent the little animals were left to her charge till they were soon
called "Elsa's monks!" Hardest part of their training was the
punishment they daily needed.
"Elsa, your monks have torn Mabel's hat to ribbons!" "Elsa, the
monkeys have ripped all the buttons off my uniform." "Elsa, Metty's
heart is broken! They've chewed his 'libery' to bits!"
"They didn't mean it for _badness_. I'll fix the hat, Mrs. Bruce. I'll
hunt up the buttons and sew them on, Cap'n Jack. I'll mend Metty's
finery;" and the pleasure she seemed to get from doing all these
things amazed the others.
Now, since all the others were engaged with Gerald and the Colonel,
she slipped away into the woods which she had learned to visit alone
and without fear. Melvin had found some small brass chains in a locker
of the tender and the Captain had made some collars for the animals,
so that she was able to lead them with her wherever she wished. Jocko,
the larger of the pair, had developed a limp so like Elsa's own that
it was ludicrous and Dorothy declared that he had done so "on
purpose." He now hobbled after her while Joan, his mate ran ahead,
pulled backward at her chain, and cut up so many "monkey shines" in
general as kept her young mistress laughing so that she scarcely saw
where she walked nor how far.
But, at length, she looked up, surprised that she had taken a new
direction from that she commonly followed. Here the trees were larger,
and the undergrowth closer. Ferns which reached to her shoulder hid
the ground from her sight and she stumbled over fallen limbs and
unseen vines, but constantly urged onward by the discovery of some
rare flower or shrub, which she might take home to Dorothy.
These two flower-lovers had daily studied the simple botany which Aunt
Betty had brought on the trip, and the science opened to bookish Elsa
a wonder-world of delight.
"Ah! there's a creeping fern! I mean a walking one. We read how rare
they are and Dorothy will just be wild to come and see it for herself.
Let me see. It was yesterday we studied about ferns. Be still, Joan.
No, Jocko, I'll go no further, on account of your poor, lame foot.
You may jump to my shoulder if you like. I think it was this way.
Listen, dears! 'Order, Filices, Genera, Asplenium. Asplenium
Rhizophyllum--Walking Fern!' There I said it, but the little common
name suits me best. Heigho, beasties! What you jabbering about now?
and what are you peering at with your bright eyes? Come on. There's
nothing to be afraid of in the woods, though I was once so scared of
them myself. Come on, do. I must get--My heart! What--_what_--_is
this_?"