THE RESCUE
The picnickers had slept late. Elaine was the first to wake, and she lay
for a moment staring at the tranquil sky above her, unable to understand
why she was not viewing the ceiling of her bedroom on Friendly Terrace.
Then recollection came, and she raised herself on her elbow just as Amy
opened her eyes.
"Did Peggy call?" inquired Amy stretching lazily. "Is it time to wake
up?"
"I didn't hear Peggy," Elaine admitted. "But I should say that it was
high time for us to be stirring, unless we're going to spend the night
here."
At the sound of voices, one sleeper after another gave signs of
returning animation. Priscilla sat up languidly, glanced at the little
watch she wore on a leather strap about her wrist, and uttered a
surprised exclamation.
"Why, it's five o'clock! I thought Peggy said we were to start back at
five."
"We've slept away all the afternoon," Amy commented in some vexation, as
she jumped to her feet with an energy in striking contrast to her late
lassitude. "I don't see why Peggy didn't wake us."
"Perhaps she didn't know how late it was getting." Priscilla, too, was
on her feet. "Peggy!" she called. "Oh, Peggy!" and then stood listening
vainly for the reply.
"She took Dorothy and went somewhere," Amy explained. "That was the last
thing I saw. Oh, Peggy! Peggy Raymond!"
Repeated calls were fruitless. "Perhaps she went to the barn to see
about the horses," was Aunt Abigail's contribution to the jumble of
suggestions, and Priscilla and Ruth promptly volunteered to test its
accuracy. They found that the rheumatic old man had Nat and Bess already
harnessed.
"Somebody said you wanted 'em for five o'clock," he explained. "'Twasn't
neither of you two. A pretty girl in white."
"Oh, yes, Peggy! But we can't find her. We thought perhaps she'd been
down here."
As the rheumatic old man was unable to give them news of Peggy, the
girls returned to their companions at a pace which unconsciously grew
more and more rapid, as they discussed the situation. "Good joke on
Peggy," Ruth said with a little laugh. "Because she's always the one
that's on hand, no matter who's late."
"Yes, it's certainly a joke on Peggy." And Priscilla also laughed with a
determined heartiness. But with all her air of amusement, she was
conscious of a vague uneasiness.
Just as they reached the knoll they were met by Amy and Elaine. "She's
out in one of the canoes," Amy said quickly, before the others could
explain that their search had been without success.
"Oh!" Priscilla's sigh was expressive of relief. "Well, she'd better
come in now. The old man has harnessed, and it's quite a little after
five."
"We couldn't see her anywhere." Elaine took up the story as Amy was
silent. "But one of the canoes is gone, so, of course, she's taken
Dorothy for a little ride."
The girls were chattering like blackbirds as they went down the slope to
the river. Elaine recalled Peggy's fondness for the water, and Amy
remarked that it was almost a relief to have Peggy behindhand for once,
she had such a mania for looking out for everybody else. The other girls
contributed observations equally important, and each tried to hide from
the others, if not from herself, the fact that her persistent and
voluble cheerfulness was designed to silence the uneasy whisperings of
an anxiety that was waxing stronger, moment by moment.
Aunt Abigail was standing at the water's edge, straining her old eyes
this way and that. For the first time that summer she looked her full
age.
"Call again, girls!" she commanded peremptorily. "It isn't at all like
Peggy to be so late, and worry us this way. I don't like it."
It was really a relief to have some one voice an anxiety so that they
could all unite in demonstrating its utter unreasonableness. But to
relieve Aunt Abigail's mind, they shouted in chorus, "Peggy! Peg-gy
Raymond!" and heard as they listened, the echo repeating their summons
more and more faintly with each reiteration. That was all. No answering
cheery hail. No musical dip of the paddle in the stream.
It was during one of these tense moments of listening that Elaine
started violently, and in spite of the sunburn, which in her case had
not had time to deepen into tan, she turned pale. Instantly she was
bombarded by excited questions.
"What was it? What did you see, Elaine?"
"Why, I guess it's nothing. You look, girls, that dark thing on the
water way over. It isn't--it can't be--"
But it _was_ an overturned canoe. The rheumatic old man who had
come up with the team towed it ashore, in the wake of its sister bark.
As if in a dreadful dream, the girls heard the quavering tones of the
old voice, his gray head shaking the while.
"Two of 'em, you say. The pretty girl in white and the little one. And
me a-waiting on, for I don't know what. It don't seem fair, somehow."
It was ten o'clock that evening when Jerry Morton heard the news. Ill
tidings travel fast, even without the help of modern invention. One of
the Snooks boys, not Andy but Elisha, an older brother, brought the
word, and his manner was suggestive of a certain complacency as if he
felt that his own importance was increased by his momentous tidings. He
found Jerry sitting on the steps, though it was long past bedtime, his
chin on his hand, and his unblinking gaze fixed upon the stars, as if he
were trying to stare them out of countenance.
"I don't b'lieve you've heard about the drownding."
"What d'ye mean?" Jerry's head lifted, yet his response was less
dramatic than Elisha had hoped for.
"You know that Raymond girl, up to the Cottage. Well, she--"
With a cry, Jerry pounced upon his informer. The terrified Elisha
struggled to free himself, gasping disconnected protests. "'Twasn't
me--I didn't do it--Snake River--"
"If you're lying to me," warned Jerry, coming to his senses and
loosening his hold, "you'll be sorry. Mighty sorry."
Elisha crossed his heart in proof of his veracity. "And if you don't
b'lieve me, go over to Cole's and ask them."
The advice seemed good. Jerry took to his heels. It was a mistake, of
course, either one of 'Lish Snooks' lies, or else a mistake. Yet a
horrible doubt rose in the midst of his assertions of confidence, like
the head of a snake lifted amid a bed of flowers.
At the Cole farmhouse every one was astir. Mrs. Cole who had just
returned from Dolittle Cottage, and was going back to spend the night,
after attending to some necessary household tasks, was crying softly as
she worked and talked.
"Those poor children! Seems as if they couldn't take in what had
happened. They're dazed like. The one that looks delicate, Ruth, had a
bad fainting spell, and the plump little one, she breaks down and cries
every now and then, but the other two, they sit around white and still,
not saying a word or shedding a tear. 'Tain't natural. The Lord meant
tears to ease our hearts, when the load's too heavy to bear. It worries
me when I see folks taking their trouble dry-eyed."
"How are they going to let their folks know, ma?" asked Rosetta Muriel,
her voice strangely subdued. The sudden tragedy had stirred her shallow
nature to its depths. Though a small mirror hung against the wall at a
convenient distance, she did not glance in its direction. For an hour
she had not smoothed her hair, nor pulled her ribbon bow into jaunty
erectness, nor indicated by any other of the familiar forms of
self-betrayal the all-absorbing importance of her personal appearance.
Her hands lay idle in her lap, and her face was pale, under her
dishevelled hair.
"Joe'll drive over to the station with a telegram the first thing in the
morning," Mrs. Cole replied. "We could telephone by going to Corney
Lee's, but I don't know why the poor souls shouldn't have one more night
of quiet sleep, for they can't take anything earlier than the morning
train anyway. And, besides, a telegram kind of brings its own warning,
but to go to the 'phone when the bell rings, and hear news like this,
must be 'most more than flesh and blood can bear."
Her gaze wandered to the boy standing by the door. "You'll go over with
the rest of the men in the morning, won't you, Jerry?" she asked. "I
guess there won't be many sleeping late to-morrow."
Jerry had refused a chair, but had stayed on, listening to such meagre
information as was to be had, the discovery of the overturned canoe, and
later of Peggy's hat, stained and water-soaked. As to the cause of the
catastrophe no one could be sure, though Mrs. Cole hazarded a guess.
"That little Dorothy was as full of caper as a colt, and anything as
ticklish as a canoe ain't safe for a child of that sort."
Looking at Jerry, the good woman was almost startled by the drawn misery
of the boy's white face. She had not credited him with such keen
sensibilities.
"You'd better go home and get to bed, Jerry," she said kindly. "The men
are going to start as soon as it's light enough, and you'd ought to get
a good sleep first."
Jerry slipped through the door without replying. Indeed he had hardly
spoken since he had uttered his threat against 'Lish Snooks. As he
stepped out into the night, he began to run, though his face was not set
toward home, and his confused thoughts recognized no especial
destination. But fast as he ran, the realization of what had happened
kept pace with him, and when at last he tripped over a tangle of vines,
and went sprawling, he made no effort to rise, but lay motionless, his
hot tears falling on the grass.
He could never tell her. That was the bitterest drop in his cup of
grief. The words he might have said yesterday could not be spoken now.
It had been in his power to make her glad, to bring a sparkle into her
eyes. He had had his chance and refused it. Alas! the sorrowful wisdom
that one day had brought, a wisdom that had come too late for him to
profit by it.
He did not know how long he lay there, his tears mingling with the
falling dew. He struggled to his feet at last, limping a little, for the
fall had been severe, and went on his way, still without conscious
purpose. And when long after a silvery expanse shone ahead of him, he
did not realize for the moment that his aimless wanderings had brought
him to Snake River. He stumbled on till he reached the edge of the
stream and saw in the black shadow of the trees a dugout half filled
with water. For the first time in his night of wandering, a vague
purpose took shape in his throbbing brain.
This was Snake River. And here was his boat awaiting him. He would take
it and drift down the stream, meeting the men in the morning. There was
no moon, but the night was clear and starlit, and except for the shadows
cast by the trees on the bank, the river looked a luminous highway.
Though he did not know the hour, he felt sure that it could not be long
before the east began to grow light with the first promise of the
sunrise. It would not be worth while to go home.
He fell to bailing the awkward craft, and found a certain relief in the
necessity for methodical work. The water trickled in again, to be sure,
but less rapidly than he could empty it out. He plugged the largest
crevice with his handkerchief, untied the rotting rope, and pushed out
from under the shadows into the centre of the stream. Then he let the
current have its way, using an oar now and then to keep the dugout from
floating ashore, or going aground on one of the numerous islands which
started out of the water as if to bar his progress. Except as he roused
himself for this purpose, he sat huddled on his seat without moving, his
head resting on his folded arms.
The birds discovered that the morning was coming before Jerry found it
out. Jubilant notes of welcome to the new day sounded above his head. He
straightened himself, and made an effort to throw off the lethargy which
had succeeded his paroxysms of grief. The horizon in the east was banded
with yellow, and overhead the sky blushed rosily. He looked about him
and tried to locate himself.
"Guess I must be just back of Denbeigh's farm. Yes, that's their
windmill. I'd better row awhile. I'm a good way from Pine Knoll yet."
Again he bailed out the boat and took up the oars. The dugout moved
ahead like a plodding farm-horse that feels the spur and responds
reluctantly.
Morning was coming as radiantly as if there were no sorrow in the world.
With dull incredulity Jerry watched the sky kindle and the earth flash
awake. It hurt him, all this glow and sparkle, this sweetness in the
air, and the sound of the birds singing. He thought how Peggy would have
loved it all and his throat ached, and he lifted his hand to his eyes to
clear his vision. Then he pulled hard on his left oar, for the current
was swinging him around toward a little island that rose suddenly out of
the mist like an apparition.
All at once a figure stood out against the tangled green, a slender
figure in white. Jerry dropped both oars, and put his hands before his
eyes. When he looked again the vision had not vanished. Its hand moved
in an appealing gesture.
Jerry found himself rowing frantically, a hope in his heart so like
madness that he dared not let himself think what it was that he hoped
for. The dugout crashed against the willow where Peggy had tied her
canoe the afternoon before. And in the unreal light of the dawn, a pale,
tremulous Peggy stretched out her arms with a cry. "Oh, it's Jerry! Oh,
Jerry, how came it to be you?" It had been a night of weeping for many,
but Peggy's tears had waited till now.
"Oh, such a time, Jerry! The canoe tipped over, and spilled Dorothy into
the river, and I don't know how I ever got her out. And then we couldn't
get away, and I screamed till I was hoarse, but nobody came. Oh, Jerry!
I'm so glad!"
Jerry's answer seemed a trifle irrelevant. But he said the things he was
certain could not be postponed another instant.
"Look here! I'm going back to school. I've been a coward, just like you
said, but now I'm going to start out same as David did, and stick to it
like that other fellow--I forget his name--and say! I'm--I'm sorry." He
was out of breath when he finished, as if he had been straining every
muscle to raise the weight, crushing, overwhelming, that had been lifted
from his heart.
They picked up Dorothy without awaking her, and Jerry pulled hard for
the bank. "We'll go straight up through the woods. There's a house not
quarter of a mile back. Prob'ly they'll all be up and around. You see,
the men were going to start early this morning, so's to--so's to--"
Jerry floundered, his pale face suddenly flushing scarlet, and Peggy
understood.
"Oh, Jerry!" Her voice dropped to a shocked whisper. "Oh, Jerry, they
thought we were drowned." Then she uttered a little pained cry. "And at
home, too? Do they know?"
"Joe's going to telegraph first thing this morning."
"He mustn't," Peggy cried fiercely. "I can't bear it. I won't bear it to
have mother hurt so." Unconsciously her arm tightened about Dorothy,
till the child roused with a little cry.
Jerry looked at the sun. "I guess we'll be in time to stop him," he
reassured her. "Don't you fret." And then, as the boat bumped against
the bank, "Here, I'll take the baby."
Jerry's conjecture proved correct. There was a light in the kitchen of
the farmhouse, where the farmer's wife was preparing breakfast for the
men hurrying through their morning tasks to be ready for the sombre
duties awaiting them. At the sight of Jerry, with Dorothy in his arms,
Peggy dragging wearily behind, the men guessed the truth, and the trio
was welcomed with such shouts that Dorothy woke up in earnest. As for
Peggy, she could hardly keep back the tears at the rejoicing of these
total strangers over the safety of Dorothy and herself.
Jerry had thought this problem out in the toilsome climb from the river.
"Say, I want the fastest horse you've got. They're going to telegraph
this morning to her folks and I've got to stop 'em."
The farmer nodded comprehendingly. "I've got a three-year-old that's a
pretty speedy proposition. Ain't really broken, though. Think you can
manage him, son?"
"'Course I can." In his new-born zeal for atonement, Jerry felt himself
equal to the management of an airship. The three-year-old was
accordingly interrupted in her breakfast, expressing her dissatisfaction
by laying her ears close to her head. And as she was hurriedly saddled,
Jerry added, "You'll get 'em home as soon as you can, won't you? I guess
by their looks they're pretty near beat out."
"We sure will." The farmer cleared his throat, for his deep voice had
suddenly grown husky. "Driving the two of 'em home alive and well is a
good deal pleasanter job than I'd bargained for this morning. Now look
out for this here vixen," he continued, dropping suddenly from the plane
of sentiment to the prosaic levels, "for she'll throw you if she can."
And while Peggy was making an effort to eat the breakfast the farmer's
wife insisted on her sharing, a clatter of hoofs under the window told
of Jerry's departure.