THE REDEMPTION OF A PROMISE.
Maybe the Colonel was more pleased to meet his Water Lily friends
again than they were to see him. But Aunt Betty hid her disappointment
under her usual courteous demeanor and was glad that the angry mood in
which he had left them had not remained. Upon her, she knew would fall
the task of entertaining him; and after breakfast was over and Billy
been led to the deepest pasture available, she invited him to sit with
her on the little deck that ran around the cabin, or saloon, and
opened conversation with the remark:
"We've been very happy here in the Copse. Except, of course, we were
worried about our sick guest, Gerald, till Dr. Jabb informed us he was
out of danger. He seems a fine man, the doctor, and I'm thankful to
have a physician so near. Why--what--are you ill, Colonel?"
At the mention of the practitioner her visitor had risen, his eyes
ablaze with anger, his gaunt frame trembling with excitement.
"Madam! MADAM! Do you mention that hated name to me? Don't you
know--Ah! hum. I suppose you don't but, if he--HE--poisons this
atmosphere--I will bid you good morning."
He was turning away in a far more furious mood than had seemed
possible to so easy-going a man, and his hostess hastily laid a
detaining hand upon his arm.
"My dear sir, what have I said? Do you know this doctor and dislike
him? I'm sorry. Forget him, then, please and just enjoy this wonderful
air which nobody could possibly 'poison.' It's perfect to-day, with
just enough crispness in it to remind us it is really autumn and our
picnicking days are numbered. The young folks have felt it dull,
sometimes, lingering so long in the Copse, but it's been a restful,
happy time to me. One has to get away from home worries once in a
while to keep things in their right proportion. And, after all, what
does it matter where we live or what we have so long as there is peace
and good will in one's heart? Not much, do you think?"
Aunt Betty was herself in happy mood and had talked on more to prevent
the guest's departure than to "preach," as she called such little
dissertations. She had gained her point. The Colonel settled back
again in the familiar chair he had appropriated on his first visit and
gradually the lines of anger left his face. An expression of intense
sadness took their place, and after a moment he sighed:
"Ah! hum. I hadn't a right to get huffy. I reckon you don't know--some
facts. You couldn't. Nobody could, without explainin' an' I cayn't
explain. This much I'll say. I haven't set foot in this yeah region
sence--in a right smart while. I never meant to again. But--I lost my
wallet an' I came to seek it. I've cause to think, Madam, 't one your
folks has it. If so, they must deliver real soon. To me it's vallyble.
Also, it might concern Miss Dorothy. She an' me--an' you, of course,
Mrs. Calvert, bein' a Calvert--Well, it's an old story an' I'll wait
till after dinner, thank ye, ma'am. And if you don't mind, I'll just
lean back an' take my 'forty winks.' I hain't rested none too well,
lately. I've been _thinkin'_. Ah! hum. A man's no right to think. He
cayn't an' be real comf'table. Beg pahdon."
Aunt Betty watched him, smiling. He was a bore who, at times, was
amusing. She knew that he had been well educated and had still a
fondness for books, as was proved by his habitual use of "Marcus
Aurelius;" but like many other cultured southern people he lapsed into
the speech of the colored folks, with whom his life had been passed.
His "yeah," and "cayn't," "right smart," and "soon" for early, were
musical as he uttered them; and under all his laziness and
carelessness he had the instincts of a gentleman.
"Poor old fellow! I wish I could do something for him, before we
finally part company. I'm glad he didn't go away again in anger,
though he doesn't 'stay mad,' as Dolly says. And I wonder what that
scrip of paper in that old wallet does mean! My young folks are
greatly excited over it, and Dolly told me some ridiculous story about
her great-great-grandfather and his great-great-grandmother that seems
to be the beginning of things. Anyway, though they found it, or Metty
did, the Colonel claims it and I must see that it is returned."
So reflected Mrs. Calvert, watching her guest's peaceful slumber;
then, resuming her own book, forgot him and his affairs, at least for
the time being.
"Where did Elsa take those monks? It's all well enough for her to
train 'em, but they aren't hers and she needn't think so. I'd like to
take a hand in that business, myself. Wouldn't you, Melvin? They
belong to you and me, you know. And I say isn't this the beastliest
slow-poke of a hole you ever saw? How on earth do you put in your
time? All these days what have you done?" demanded Gerald, moving
restlessly from tender to shore, and already heartily sick of the
quiet Copse.
"Well, we fish, the Captain and I. We search the woods for berries and
grapes. We go to the farmhouses nearest for supplies; and right here,
Gerald Blank, let me warn you. Don't you go expecting fine living on
the Lily. You see there wasn't much capital to start on, not for so
many folks; and the other day what was left was lost."
"Lost? Lost! How could a fellow lose anything in this hole, even if he
tried? What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. Mrs. Bruce has held the purse of the company and
the other day she and Dorothy were counting up their money and--that's
the last anybody has seen of it. They kept it in a little empty tin
box, that marsh-mallows came in; and Chloe called Mrs. Bruce over to
the galley to see about some cooking, and Mrs. Calvert called Dorothy
for something else, don't you know? Well, sir, when they came back to
finish their counting there wasn't a thing left but the tin box--empty
as your hat."
"Somebody stole it, course. Who do they suspect?"
"Look here, Gerry, that's a question comes pretty near home, I know
that Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy suspect nobody. I can't say as much for
Mrs. Bruce and the rest. The money was there--the money is gone. We're
all in the same boat--literally, you know. There wasn't a peddler here
that day, nobody around but just ourselves. You and Jim are out of it,
course, because you were away; but--it might be me, it might be Mabel,
it might be Metty--Ephraim--Chloe--no not her, for she wasn't out of
Mrs. Bruce's sight--and it might be your own sister Aurora."
"What's that? How dare you?" angrily demanded Gerald.
But Melvin smiled, a little sadly, indeed, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Not so fast, Gerry. I'm not accusing her, nobody is accusing anybody.
But the money's gone, and maybe it's just as well so much of it went
for you."
"For me? What do you mean by that?"
"Cap'n Jack reckoned you'd cost the exchequer about fifty dollars.
Dorothy had the very choicest things, poultry, cream, fruit and
things, besides the doctor's bills. And the farmers down here aren't
so low in their charges as nearer Jimpson's. Mrs. Bruce got furious
against them, they took advantage so. But the doctor said you were a
very sick boy, for only measles, and must be built up, so good-hearted
little Dolly dipped into the marsh-mallow box for you. You----"
"Hush! Don't say another word! I'm so mad I can't breathe. I wish I'd
never come on this cruise. Cruise? It's nothing better 'n being buried
alive. Thought we might get some fun out of it, hunting for that
'buried treasure' and now, up pops that old stick-in-the-mud and
claims the whole business. Pshaw! I'll go home if I have to walk
there."
"How? You couldn't. But I'll tell you what you could do. Hunt up Elsa
and the monks. I want to see if this harness I've made out of a
fur-rug they destroyed will fit either. Dolly proposes to make them
some clothes and get up a little 'show.' Thinks she and Elsa could
exhibit them for pennies, when the people come to sell stuff, and that
would help pay for it."
Gerald considered. Many troubled thoughts passed through his mind, but
the strongest feeling was anger. He had been so self-sufficient until
this "beastly trip." Now he was learning the sometimes bitter lesson
that nobody in the world can be actually independent. He had begun by
lording it over his mates, and even his hostesses, and now here he
was dependent upon them for the very food he ate and the medicine he
had taken. He ceased to feel himself an invited guest but rather a
burden and a debtor.
"Of course, Popper'll pay everything back if we ever get home.
But--Oh! dear! How I hate it all!"
For down in his heart he realized that no amount of money could cover
his obligation to these friends, and he started off in a most unhappy
frame of mind.
"I'll find that girl and teach her to mind her own business. The idea
of her training those monkeys--my monkeys! Course, she's done it all
wrong, and it's harder to unlearn a thing than learn it right first
off. When they're trained they ought to be worth ten times as much as
we paid for them. I might sell 'em to an organ-grinder, if Popper'd
buy out Melvin's share."
But at this stage of thought it occurred to him that he couldn't
picture his dandyish father dealing with organ-grinders. Indeed, the
idea was so absurd that it made him laugh, and in that laughter his
ill-temper vanished, or nearly so. After all, it was good to be alive!
Even the freedom of the woods, after the stuffy cabin he had left, was
delightful. He'd rather have had it the freedom of the city streets,
but this was better than nothing.
He began to whistle, imitating the call of a bird in the tree
overhead, and with such fair success that he was proud of himself. The
bird ceased, startled, then flew onward. Gerald followed, still
practicing that wild, sweet note, till suddenly his music was
interrupted by another cry, which was neither bird nor joyous, but one
of keen anxiety; then, as if it had come out of the ground, a girl
begged:
"Oh! whoever you are, come quick!"
"Why, Elsa! I was looking--Hello! Of all things!"
Almost hidden by the great ferns amid which she sat Elsa held, lying
across her lap, a little figure in faded gingham.
"Saint Augustine! The boy I heard 'em say was lost! How did he get
here? It must be a long way from his house."
Elsa pointed pityingly to the bare little feet and legs, cruelly
scratched and with dark bruises.
"I don't know. I found him just this way."
"Sainty! Wake up! My! How sound he sleeps! And how red his face is!"
"He's sick. I'm sure. I found him all curled up, his little arms under
his head. He moans, sometimes, but he doesn't know anything that I
say."
At that moment a hoarse yell made Gerald look away from the boy and a
leap of something to his shoulder made him yell in response.
"Jocko! Down! Behave! Oh! he'll hurt you. They've both been asleep in
that spot where the sun shines through. Oh! Stop--stop!"
The monkey was attacking Gerald's face, snapping at his ears, pulling
his hair, and almost frightening him into a fit. But Elsa laid Saint
Augustine gently on the ground and went to the rescue. With sharp
slaps of her thin hands she soon reduced Jocko to submission and, as
if fearing punishment herself, Joan crouched behind a bush and peered
cautiously out.
"Pshaw! How'd you do it? I was coming after the monkeys, they're mine
you know--or half mine, but--do they act that way often?"
"Yes, rather too often. That's what makes everybody afraid to handle
them. They'll get better natured after a time, I hope. But no matter
about them. They're nothing but animals while this darling little
boy--I don't know as I can carry him. You've been sick and so can't
either, I suppose. Yet we can't leave him here. Will you go back to
the Lily and get more help? If you brought a hammock we might put him
in that. He's awfully sick. I'm afraid--he'll die--and his mother--"
Gerald had stood looking upon the little lad while she said this,
wondering what would best be done, and annoyed that he should be put
to the bother of the matter. His decision was made rather suddenly as
again Jocko leaped upon his back and resumed his angry chattering.
"Call him off! I'll carry the child. Which is the way home?"
"I don't--know. It all looks alike--but not like--I mean, I haven't
the least idea where we are, except that it must be a good ways from
the boat. Don't you really know, either?"
For a moment Gerald looked about. Then answered frankly:
"No. I was pretty cross when I came out, for Melvin had just told me
about that lost money and about Dorothy's paying for me--So horrid,
that! I heard a bird whistle and whistling's my gift, some folks
think. I've whistled for entertainments at school and I like to learn
new notes. Following that wretched bird I didn't notice."
"And looking for a walking-fern I didn't either. But we can't stop
here. We must go on--some way."
"Let's try the children's way: 'My--mother--told--me--this!'"
Elsa laughed. She had known so little of childish things that each new
one delighted her. Gerald had uttered the few words, turning from
point to point with each, and now finishing with an outstretched
forefinger in a direction where the trees were less thick and crowding
than elsewhere.
Fortunately, "his--mother--had--told--him" the right one. This was
almost the end of the forest behind Corny Stillwell's cabin; a
short-cut to the long way around by which Gerald had gone to
Deer-Copse. He didn't know that when he lifted Saint Augustine in his
arms and started forward. The child was small and thin, else Gerald
would have had to pause oftener than he did for rest; but even so it
was a severe task he had set himself.
But somehow the burden in his arms seemed to lift the burden from his
heart, as is always the case when one unselfishly helps another.
Also, he feared that the illness of Saint Augustine was the result of
his own; so that when Elsa once limped up to where he had paused to
rest and asked:
"What do you suppose it is that ails him?" he had promptly answered:
"Measles. Caught 'em from me. Ain't that the limit?"
But Elsa who knew no slang understood him literally, and said:
"No, it isn't, I had them once and the doctor scared my father
dreadfully, telling him that folks could have them _four times_! Think
of that! He said most people had them only once and the younger the
lighter. So I guess Saint Augustine won't be very ill. But--my heart!
Do you suppose the monkeys can catch it? Wouldn't that be awful!"
"I hope they will and die of them! Nasty little brutes! They keep my
nerves on the jump all the time, hearing them chatter and yell right
behind me so. You keep real far back, won't you? I don't know how you
can stand them; but don't--please don't let them hop on me again. I
know they're too heavy for you but I'm too nervous for words. I wish
I'd never heard of 'em, the little gibbering idiots!"
Again Elsa laughed, this time so merrily that Gerald got angry.
"I don't see anything so very funny in this predicament! Not so very
amusing! My arms ache fit to break and all a girl cares about a
fellow is to giggle at him."
And now, indeed, was the "giggle" so prolonged that its victim had to
join in it, and had Mrs. Calvert been there to hear she would have
rejoiced to see shy Elsa behaving just like any other happy girl. Yet,
after a moment, she sobered and begged:
"Don't mind my doing that, but I couldn't help it. It seems so funny
for a boy to have 'nerves' or to be afraid of monkeys. Papa has a
song:
"'The elephant now goes round and round,
The band begins to play;
The little boys under the monkeys' cage,
Had better get out of the way--the way--
Would better get out of the way!'"
Elsa had so far forgotten her self-consciousness that she sang her
quotation in a sweet, clear treble which made Gerald turn around and
stare at her in surprise.
"Why, I didn't know you could sing."
"I can't--much, only for Papa, sometimes. He's a fine singer. He
belongs to the Oratorio Society. He's one of its best tenors, takes
solos, you know. I'm very proud of Papa's voice. His being poor
doesn't keep him out of _that_ Society."
"Then he ought to get yours cultivated. You might make money that
way."
"Maybe, but money isn't much. Anyway, he hasn't the money to pay for
lessons."
"Look here. You're so smart with those detestable monks, suppose you
go on training 'em and exhibit when you get back to town? I'd let you
have 'em on trust till you could pay for them. What do you say?"
Was this the poor, timid Elsa who now faced him with flashing eyes?
Had this down-trodden "worm" actually "turned"?
"Say? What do I say? That you're the horridest boy in this whole world
and I've a mind to fling your old monkeys straight at you! I--I--"
then she sobbed, fatigue overcoming her and her wrath dying as swiftly
as it had arisen. "I--I see a house over there. We better go to it and
ask."
She was trembling now and her lame foot dragged painfully. She had
made no complaint of the long distance and the troublesome little
animals she sometimes led and sometimes carried, though Gerald had
grumbled incessantly.
Now all the best of his nature came to the front, and he had never
felt more bitterly ashamed of himself than when he realized that his
thoughtless proposition had been an insult to the afflicted, shrinking
girl. Warmed by the love and appreciation of her Water Lily friends
she "had come out of her shell" of reserve and been most happy. Now
this boy had forced her back again; to remembering that after all she
was but a very poor girl, deformed, despised, and considered simply
fit to make a mountebank of herself, going about the city streets with
apes! Oh! it was very dimly that Elsa could see the outlines of a
whitewashed cabin in the fields, because of the tears which filled her
eyes.
"Hold on, Elsa! Forgive me if you can. I'm ashamed of myself. I don't
know what makes me such a cad, I don't! You know. Except I've been
brought up to think I was a rich boy and that a rich boy can do no
harm. I could kick myself from here to Halifax. Please don't mind.
Why, you're the cleverest girl of the lot, you are, you know. Nobody
else dared tackle--"
He caught himself up sharply. Not for his life would he again utter
that hateful word "monkey" to her. But he added with real sincerity,
"I'm so sorry I'll do anything in the world to prove it, that you ask
me to do. I will, upon honor."
Elsa couldn't hold malice against anybody and in her heart had already
forgiven him his hurt of her, with her habitual thought: "He didn't
mean it." So she smiled again and accepted his statement as truth.
"Well I don't know as I shall ever want you to do anything to 'prove
it', but if I do I'll tell you. Sure."
Little did Gerald dream how rash a promise he had made. The cabin in
the fields was the one in which he had lain so helpless. As he
recognized it he exclaimed:
"Good! I'll try that childish 'charm' every time!
'My--mother--told--me--right'. That's home to this little shaver and
I'm mighty glad we're there."
But it seemed a very different home from that which had sheltered him
so well. The children were grouped about the door, only Wesley and
Saint Anne daring to enter the room where poor Lucetta lay prone on
the floor, looking so white and motionless that, for a moment, the
newcomers believed that she was dead.
Saint Anne lifted a quivering face toward them but could not speak,
Wesley hid his face in his arm and blubbered audibly.
Then did all the little woman in Elsa's nature respond to this sudden
need.
"Lay Saint Augustine on that bench, where somebody must have slept.
Help me to lift the lady to the bed. Don't cry, little girl. She'll
soon be all right. It's just a faint, I'm sure. I've fainted myself,
often and often. I guess she's overdone. Isn't there a man here?"
"No, ma'am. Papa he comed home an' Mamma she tol' him how Sa--Saint
Augustine had run away and he frew down his gun an' all them games,
an'--an'--just hollered out loud! 'Oh! my God'! an' run off, too.
Mamma was gone all night, lookin' after little brother an' when she
heard papa say that she fell right down there and she don't speak when
we call her. Where'd you find him, our little brother? Was he down in
Tony's Eddy?"
Well, Gerald felt in that state when "anybody could knock him down
with a feather." He was obeying Elsa implicitly, already "proving" he
had meant his promise. He felt such an access of manly strength that
it was almost unaided he lifted Lucetta and laid her on the bed. In
reality, she was already regaining consciousness, and slightly aided
him herself. Then he ran to the spring and brought the "cold
water--coldest you can find" which Elsa ordered, and lifted Mrs.
Stillwell's shoulders while the girl held the tin cup to her lips; and
indeed did so many little things so deftly that he didn't recognize
himself.
Even in her half-stupor Lucetta was her own sweet self, for when she
had swallowed the water she smiled upon her nurse and tried to speak.
Elsa anticipated what she knew would be the one great longing of that
mother's heart, and said with an answering smile:
"We've brought your little son safe home. If you can turn your head
you'll see. Right yonder on that bench. He's tired out and, maybe, a
little sick but he's safe. Do you mean you want him right beside you?"
Lucetta made an effort to sit up and opened her arms.
"Lie right still. Don't you fret for one moment. Here's your baby. Now
I'm going home and we'll get a doctor some way and quick. But you
won't be alone. Gerald, whom you took care of when he was ill, is
here. He'll stay and take care of you in turn now. Good-bye. Don't
worry."
She was gone before Gerald could even protest, calling the monkeys to
follow her and limping away faster than anybody else, with two sound
feet, could run. She had taken him at his word, indeed!