THE CASTAWAYS
It really began to look as if Jerry were seriously offended. For several
days there had been no fresh fish at Dolittle Cottage. Peggy reproached
herself for having gone too fast. "I ought to have told him about
Audubon and David and let it soak in awhile. But when he started to talk
about going to school, there didn't seem any way out of saying what I
thought."
Jerry's prolonged absence was very annoying to Peggy. Five minutes face
to face, she felt sure, would straighten out the tangle. Peggy had a not
unreasonable confidence in the efficacy of kindly frankness. If Jerry
once understood the friendliness of her criticism, it was impossible
that he should cherish a grudge against her.
As a matter of fact, the mood which accounted for Jerry's aloofness was
no more puzzling to Peggy than to Jerry himself. His first resentment of
her criticism had burned itself out for lack of fuel, and had been
succeeded by a restlessness unappeased by hours of tramping and
climbing. For the first time since he could remember, Jerry found
himself looking ahead, questioning the future. In spite of his real
ability and his freedom from the more outbreaking faults, Jerry had been
progressing steadily toward utter worthlessness, by the simple but
effective method of always obeying the whim of the moment. The old
grandmother with whom he lived had long before given up all attempt to
control the boy, who was generally good-natured when allowed to do
exactly as he pleased. Jerry enjoyed himself, kept busy in his own way
and returned the disapproval of the community with interest.
Under the influence of the girls at Dolittle Cottage, and of Peggy in
particular, Jerry's attitude toward the world had been gradually
changing. He found to his surprise that he liked to be liked. The
courteous attitude of these strangers had raised him in his own
estimation. The frequent appearance of the hand-painted necktie and the
pointed shoes--both of which had belonged to Jerry's father--was
indicative of a change that went deep.
The part he had taken in Lucy Haines' benefit had also had its share in
his development. Strange to say, the extent of Jerry's musical
attainments had proved a surprise, even to the people who had known him
from babyhood, and he had received more compliments since that occasion
than had fallen to his lot in his previous sixteen years of existence.
Whereupon Jerry made the discovery that the praise and admiration of
one's fellows is pleasanter than their disapproval, and his youthful
cynicism had weakened accordingly.
The effect of Peggy's words on this new-born complacency was the havoc
of a hailstorm on premature buds. Just as he was beginning to enjoy the
flavor of approbation, his attention had been directed to his lacks and
shortcomings. He stayed away from Dolittle Cottage because his last
visit had been responsible for this present uneasy discomfort. He fished
and hunted, rose early, and wandered late, without succeeding in the
effort which older and wiser people have undertaken with equally poor
success, the attempt to escape from one's self.
One of the Snooks children was waiting for him when he came home late
one afternoon. Mrs. Snooks had hesitated when Peggy had asked to use one
of the boys as a messenger, not being sure that the loaning of her
offspring for such a purpose was not contrary to her newly acquired
principles. The casual mention on Peggy's part of a dime to be awarded
the messenger, had settled the question satisfactorily, and little Andy
Snooks, digging his bare toes into the yielding earth, at last found the
chance to do his errand.
"They's going to Snake River, them city girls. And She says--" Jerry did
not find the pronoun ambiguous--"She says will you drive 'em?"
"I'm going to be busy."
Little Andy stared unbelievingly.
"They's baking turnovers and things. She gave me a cooky with a crinkled
edge. 'Twas good, too, you bet."
"You tell 'em I'll be busy." Jerry pushed past Andy and entered the
house. He was astonished at the turmoil of his spirit. "Wish she'd let
me alone," he said fiercely. "I'm not bothering her none. I don't see
why she can't leave me be."
Peggy received the concise report of her messenger with a little grimace
which hid a real disappointment.
"The silly boy!" she mused. "Next time I'll go myself. I simply won't
stand his sulking. It's too absurd." Then she gave her attention to the
more immediate problem.
"Well, girls, Jerry won't drive us and Lucy can't." Lucy Haines was
devoting herself to making her meagre wardrobe ready for the opening of
school, and for her a holiday was out of the question. "Now, what are we
going to do? Give it up?"
An indignant chorus negatived that suggestion. "I used to know something
about driving," said Elaine, who seemed to have developed a remarkable
faculty for filling vacancies of almost any description. "But I
shouldn't like to try to manage spirited horses. Now what are you all
laughing at?"
"You could hardly call Nat and Bess spirited," Peggy replied, when she
could make herself heard. "Not if you keep them away from hornets'
nests, anyway." She explained her qualification by telling the story of
the other memorable picnic, and the description of the two old horses
which Farmer Cole had placed at the disposal of the cottagers entirely
relieved Elaine's uncertainty.
"I'll do it, then. I seem to be a regular Jack-at-a-pinch," she laughed.
"You're an emergency girl, and I'm proud of you," Peggy declared. "The
wonder of it is that we've been able to get along without you this
summer. Now that you're here, you seem indispensable."
Accordingly it happened that Jerry Morton, from a point of concealment
in the underbrush, watched a farm-wagon rattle past the following
morning, the faces of the occupants indicating high spirits, their
voices blending jubilantly, in spite of his rejection of the chance to
share the day's pleasure. "The new one's driving," Jerry said to
himself. "But then, they could tie the lines to the whip stock and them
two old plugs would take 'em there all right, just so they didn't fall
down on the way." It was a relief to him to know that his refusal had
not detracted from the pleasure of the company, and yet he was
inconsistent enough to resent the gay chatter and the unclouded
cheeriness of the smiling faces. He plunged back into the woods, well
aware that his surreptitious glimpse had not helped to ease that inner
disquiet.
The drive scheduled for the morning was longer than that to Day's Woods,
but the charm of their destination was worth the extra effort. The spot
to which they had been directed was a knoll on the river's edge, crowned
by tall pine-trees, whose needles formed a fragrant carpet. Snake River
was an erratic stream, which, to judge from appearances, lived up to the
principle of always following the line of the least resistance. It
turned and twisted in fantastic curves, suggesting that the name Snake
River might have been applied because of its serpentine windings.
Charming little islands dotted its course, like green beads strung
irregularly upon a silver cord. To add to its attractions, there was a
dwelling near the knoll, with a barn where their horses could be cared
for, and the white-haired, rheumatic old man who led Nat and Bess away
to their well-earned oats, pointed out two canoes, fastened to a silver
birch at the river's edge, which could be rented for the moderate sum of
ten cents apiece for the entire day.
As on all well-conducted picnics, luncheon came early, and then followed
the diversions which invariably contribute to the pleasure of such
festive occasions. The girls strolled in the woods, picked the showy,
scentless flowers, which had replaced the small, fragrant blossoms of
springtime, and took little excursions on the river, two to a canoe. The
strength of the current was something of a surprise. Ruth and Amy
floating down the stream, and barely dipping their paddles into the
water, had exclaimed over the ease of propelling the little bark. But
the attempt to return to their starting-point had proved that the
smoothly flowing water had a will of its own. The paddles were plied
vigorously, and the girls reached the birch-tree with little beads of
moisture showing at their temples, and an unusual color in their cheeks.
"Another time I'd paddle up stream and float down," exclaimed Amy,
stepping ashore, and fanning herself with her hat. "I want my hard times
at the start. But who would have supposed that there was such a current
in this lazy old river?"
Characteristically Peggy defended the reputation of the stream. "It's
not lazy a bit. Up here it winds around a good deal, but that's only its
playtime. Just a mile or two below are the falls, and I think the power
is carried quite a long way to some town for electric lights and that
sort of thing. So Snake River's really a worker."
The drowsy hour of the afternoon had arrived. The breeze which had been
so fresh in the early morning had died down. The pine-trees on the knoll
rustled softly, and the sound was as soothing as a lullaby. "I believe
I'll feel better for a nap," said Aunt Abigail, and forthwith settled
herself on a steamer rug, spread out invitingly. The suggestion proved
popular, and the younger members of the party followed her example,
except that most of them stretched out luxuriously on the pine needles,
sun-warmed and fragrant.
Dorothy looked about on the somnolent gathering with dismay. "Aunt
Peggy, I don't like sleepy picnics. I want to play tag."
"Oh, it's too hot for tag, and, besides, you always squeal so when
you're caught that it would wake everybody up. Don't you want a tiny bit
of a nap?" Either because of the force of example, or because the
languor of the summer day was too much even for her energy, Peggy
herself was frankly sleepy.
"But I can have naps to my house." Dorothy's chin quivered in her
disappointment, and Peggy surrendered with a laugh.
"Naps are a kind of fun you can have almost anywhere, can't you, dear?
Well, we mustn't play tag, but we'll take one of the canoes and go on a
nice little expedition all by ourselves."
Dorothy's face was radiant over the prospect of stealing a march on the
sleepers. She was on her feet in a moment, tiptoeing her way with
exaggerated caution. Amy opening one eye, saw the buoyant little figure
trip past, and wondered vaguely what was up, though in her state of
comfortable lethargy it seemed altogether too much trouble to inquire.
"Now, you must sit as quiet as a mouse," warned Peggy, lifting Dorothy
into the canoe. "For these boats are the tippy kind. And this time we'll
go up stream instead of down."
The twisting, winding river was unexpectedly alluring. Every bend Peggy
paddled past, the point just above beckoned her onward. Her temporary
drowsiness had disappeared, and she enjoyed her sense of discovery and
the exercise which was vigorous without being exhausting. Knowing that
the return would be both swift and easy, she did not hesitate to yield
to her new-born zeal for exploration, especially as Dorothy's face was
expressive of unalloyed satisfaction.
"How pretty the river is here," Peggy exclaimed at last, breaking a
long, happy silence. "Prettier than below, if anything. Dorothy, aren't
you glad we're not sleeping away our chance to see all this?"
"My mamma puts me to bed when I'm _naughty_," replied Dorothy,
thereby explaining her inability to regard sleep as a diversion. "And
I've been a good girl to-day."
"We've both been good girls," boasted Peggy. "Too good to be sent to
bed. And oh, Dorothy, see that darling little island! What do you say to
landing and exploring?"
Dorothy was ready to agree to anything which promised novelty and
excitement. Accordingly, Peggy paddled into the welcoming arms of a
miniature harbor, tied her craft to a convenient willow, and helped her
small niece ashore.
Islands had always possessed for Peggy a peculiar fascination. The
smaller they were the better, from her standpoint, since with the larger
it was always necessary to remind one's self that they were not a part
of the mainland. On this particular island it was quite impossible to
forget for a moment that you were entirely surrounded by water.
Peggy pursued her discoveries with zest. Considering its detached and
lonely state, the little island had conformed surprisingly to the ways
of the mainland. Peggy found flowers of the same varieties that she had
picked in the woods back of the knoll a little earlier. A blackberry
vine was heavily hung with fruit, though some of the berries were dry
and withered. Peggy noticed a bird's nest in a more exposed location
than the little builder would have chosen elsewhere, she was sure, and
she thought of the deductions Jerry would have drawn from this fact, and
smiled while she sighed. Poor Jerry! She must take him in hand, and
settle this absurd misunderstanding.
"Aunt Peggy," piped Dorothy, trotting at her heels, "let's not 'splore
any longer. I don't like 'sploring."
"Oh, I don't want to stop till I've seen everything, Dorothy. Be a good
girl and don't fret."
But Dorothy did not feel like being a good girl. One of her rare wilful
moods had taken possession of her. She stood motionless, scowling at
Peggy's unconscious back, and then her little face overcast and
rebellious, she turned and made her way down to the willow and the
waiting canoe. The latter moved gently as the water rippled past. It
seemed to Dorothy to be tugging at its fastenings with an impatience
that matched her own.
"You don't like 'sploring either, do you?" she said, addressing the
canoe in a confidential undertone. "And--and it's very naughty of Aunt
Peggy to want her own way all the time. I guess she'd be s'prised if we
went off and left her."
The canoe repeated its wordless invitation. Dorothy drew closer, cast a
defiant glance behind her, and then set one small foot firmly on the
bottom of the uncertain craft. The responsive lurch was so unexpected
that she went over in a heap, luckily landing in the bottom of the
canoe, instead of in Snake River. She sat up, feeling a little
frightened, and under the necessity of excusing herself.
"There, I didn't disobey Aunt Peggy, 'cept with one foot. I guess that
old canoe pulled me in its own self."
Her complacency vanished with a startling discovery. The canoe had been
carelessly tied and the jar of her tumble had loosened it altogether.
Yielding to the current it began to move down the stream, and Dorothy's
alarm found vent in an ear-splitting shriek.
"Aunt Peggy! Aunt Peggy!"
Peggy came crashing through the bushes, startled by the summons, and yet
scarcely prepared for the sight which met her eyes. And then so rapidly
did things happen, that there seemed to be no time to be frightened.
For, at the first glimpse of her rescuer, foolish little Dorothy sprang
to her feet. As a matter of course the canoe overturned, throwing her
into the water.
Peggy's instinctive leap took no account of the depth of the stream. She
could have drowned with Dorothy. It was quite impossible for her to
stand by and look on while Dorothy drowned. Luckily the water, though
deep at this point, was not over her head. She floundered to her feet
choking and blowing, and clutched desperately at a small, damp object
the current was sweeping past her. Instantly two arms went about her
neck in a frantic embrace.
"Dorothy, don't hold so tight. I can't breathe."
The appeal was useless. Dorothy was beyond heeding any admonition but
that of the blind instinct of self-preservation. Peggy would not have
believed that there was such strength in the slender little arms.
Gasping, and with reeling senses, she edged step by step nearer the
shore, groping with her disengaged hand for the sloping bit of beach
where she could deposit her burden. When at length her fingers came in
contact with the pebbly edge the bright summer world was a black mist
before her unseeing eyes.
Luckily the contact with mother earth suggested to Dorothy that here was
something more stable than the swaying support to which she had been
clinging so desperately. Her hold relaxed, and a minute later she was
scrambling up the slope into the grass and bushes, caring for nothing
except to get as far as possible from the terrible water. Peggy caught
her breath, waited an instant for brain and vision to clear, and then,
with the aid of the obliging willow, climbed dripping from the stream.
For a minute or two she gave herself up to the luxury of being
frightened. Shuddering and sick, she gazed over her shoulder at the
rippling water, while one monotonous thought repeated itself over and
over in her brain like a chant. "She might have been drowned. I might
have been drowned. We might both have been drowned." Peggy was conscious
of an overwhelming, panic-stricken longing for her mother.
Dorothy was sitting back in the bushes, crying with a lustiness which
suggested that no serious consequences were to be apprehended from her
plunge bath, beyond the possibility of taking cold. "I don't like
'sploring islands," she sobbed. "Let's go back, Aunt Peggy."
Peggy turned sharply. Down the stream floated the overturned canoe,
already at a distance which made its recapture hopeless. A little in
advance was a white straw hat, a pert bow acting as a sail. Not till
that moment had it occurred to Peggy that her troubles were not yet
over. Her gratitude for her escape from death was tempered by irritated
dismay.
"Why, Dorothy, we can't go back! We've got to wait till they come for
us. How provoking!"
Nothing was to be gained by fretting, however, and luckily other matters
were soon absorbing Peggy's attention. She wrung the water from
Dorothy's drenched hair and clothing, and set her in the sun to dry, a
forlorn little figure of a mermaid. And then she performed a like
service for herself, stopping at intervals to lift her voice in a
ringing "Hal-loo!"
"Oh, dear! We're going to be so late getting home," scolded Peggy.
"It'll be dark, and none of us know the roads very well." She looked
longingly at the point around which at any moment a canoe might appear.
"It's going to take some time to land us," she reflected, "as long as
these canoes can't carry any more than two. Oh, dear, Dorothy! How much
trouble you've made." And the pensive mermaid wept again, with the
submissive penitence which disarms censure.
Over in the west above the treetops, the sky grew pink, deepened to
crimson, paled to ashes-of-roses. The sparkling lights on the water were
snuffed out one by one. The air was full of sounds, shrill-voiced
insects cheeping, the pipe of frogs, the twittering of birds seeking
their nests.
The downward droop of the corners of Dorothy's mouth became more
pronounced.
"I don't like that noise," she protested. "It sounds as if things were
all crying."
Peggy hugged the little penitent close. She did not like the sound
herself. "You're pretty near dry, aren't you?" she said, trying to speak
lightly.
Dorothy's answer was a grieved whimper, "Aunt Peggy, when are they
coming for us?"
"I don't know, dear." The resolute cheerfulness of Peggy's tone gave no
hint of her inward perturbation. What did it mean, she asked herself.
What were the girls thinking of? It was growing dark. She tightened her
clasp about Dorothy and the disconsolate little maid snuggled her damp
head against Peggy's shoulder, and forgot her troubles in sleep.
Little flickering lights began to play about the island, as the
fire-flies lit their fairy lamps. Overhead the stars came out. The warm
wind of the summer night sighed through the treetops, and the sad chorus
of humble earthly pipers answered from below. It seemed to Peggy as if
the dear familiar world with its cheery homes and friendly faces, had
been blotted out, and Dorothy and herself were alone on an unfamiliar
earth. Yet with all the strange, terrifying loneliness, the stars had
never seemed so bright nor the heavenly Father so near.