SAFE AGAIN
Time passes slowly when one has nothing to do, and although the fact
that their situation was equally disagreeable to both should have drawn
Martine and Priscilla closely together, they now found even less than
usual to talk about. Yet strangely enough, without blaming the other
each was heaping mental reproaches on herself,--Martine saw her own
folly in running away from the others, and Priscilla was conscious that
she had been too easily led.
"We might help time pass by reciting poetry," said Martine.
"Or discussing history," rejoined Priscilla.
"This might be a good time to settle the respective merits of the
Loyalists and the Acadians."
"With the tide coming in so fast I should hardly dare get into a
discussion; there'd be no one to help pull us in if we fell out. But
listen, isn't that some one calling?"
"I believe it is, although the sound doesn't come from above. Don't you
hear it?"
"Yes, I do; it's some one calling 'halloo, halloo.' Perhaps--"
"Yes, it may be some one searching for us."
Any doubts that Martine may have had were soon removed by the sight of a
small dory gliding into their field of vision some distance below them.
There were two men in the dory, both hatless and in their shirt-sleeves.
In an instant both girls were on their feet, waving their handkerchiefs.
In the same instant the men in the boat caught sight of them, and one of
them lifted his oar and flourished it two or three times in the air.
"How will they get here?" asked Martine.
"Oh, probably the water isn't very deep; they can push up part way, and
then wade."
"If they can wade, we might have ventured."
"It would not have been safe for us. See, they are pushing the boat up
all the way."
The water, indeed, was deep enough to let the boat come up into the
hollow--now filled with water--between the two arms of rock, whereby the
two girls had climbed to their present position. While the boat was
still some distance away Priscilla and Martine had recognized the
immaculate Mr. Knight as the man who was steering. Mr. Knight, however,
was immaculate no longer; he was hatless and coatless, his hair somewhat
tumbled, and his face very red from the unwonted exertion.
From the moment of recognizing him until the moment when the side of the
boat grazed the ledge was a very short time indeed.
"We thought we'd find you somewhere near here; at least, we hoped so,"
said Mr. Knight, looking from one girl to the other as if to decide
which was the real culprit. "But how in the world did you get here?"
"Walked," replied Martine, laconically; "hadn't time to swim."
"But if you walked why didn't I see you when I looked an hour or two
ago? I remember standing above this particular place and calling.
Perhaps you weren't here then."
Martine said nothing. If it should be necessary to confess she could
attend to this later. At present she had enough to think about.
"Is Mrs. Redmond worried?" asked Priscilla, anxiously.
"Yes and no," replied Mr. Knight, "though she'll be glad enough to see
you."
"Must we go in the boat?" Priscilla spoke as if she dreaded the
experiment, and she added, "It looks so very wobbly."
"Oh, that boat, she's as steady as a setting hen," exclaimed Mr.
Knight's companion. "Just you look out, though, and don't wet your
feet."
"I'll go first, Priscilla, and if I survive, why, then you can follow."
But before Martine had attempted to take her place Mr. Knight turned to
Priscilla, "Of course, if you would rather not go in the dory we could
wait here until the tide ebbs. I could stay with you while Mr. Sands
rows back to report to Mrs. Redmond. But the boat is perfectly safe, I
can assure you."
"Of course it is perfectly safe," exclaimed Martine, angrily; "I never
heard such a silly idea." But whether she meant to apply "silly" to
Priscilla's timidity or to Mr. Knight's suggestion she did not deign to
explain, and the young man, after one curious glance in her direction,
did not address her again.
It was but the work of a minute or two to get the girls aboard the dory,
and soon they were at a landing-place from which they could reach Mrs.
Redmond and Amy.
"You ain't the first people that's got caught in that way on the rocks,"
said Mr. Sands as they rowed along, "only generally it's some romantic
couple that rather likes to stay there till the tide goes out. But your
ma was afraid that if you was there you might try to wade, and so catch
your death of cold, and besides, she wasn't sure you were anywhere, as
long as Mr. Knight couldn't find you; so when they all seemed so
concerned the only thing was to haul out the dory, though it wouldn't
have hurt you a mite if you'd had to stay."
"I would as soon have stayed," said Martine, coldly; "it was a good
view, and I rather enjoyed sitting there in that little grotto."
"Grotto," Mr. Sands laughed loudly, and Martine fancied that a smile
flickered at the corners of Mr. Knight's lips. "Grotto," repeated Mr.
Sands. "Well, I never heard that name used before in these parts. I
thought a grotto was foreign, but you've said something now that I won't
forget. Here, Mr. Knight, you help the young ladies out, while I steady
the boat," and in a second the two girls were running up the beach,
where Mrs. Redmond and Amy greeted them with open arms.
It was now after sunset, and all were hungry and cold. In aspect they
were wholly unlike the party that had set out from Wolfville that
afternoon. All seemed quiet and subdued,--Martine and Priscilla, because
they had really been more fatigued by their little adventure than at the
time they had realized; Mrs. Redmond and Amy, because they had been most
anxious at the prolonged absence of the girls, and Mr. Knight--well,
perhaps inwardly he was blaming "those Americans" for giving him much
more trouble than was his due. Whatever his thoughts, however, he made
no criticism, and any perturbation that he may have felt was shown only
by his silence.
What was most to the point, however, the horses and the driver were in
good spirits, and set out for Wolfville at a fine rate. While the others
had been looking and waiting, man and beast had had food and drink, and
this accounted for their energy.
"Grotto," cried Mr. Sands, as the party drove away, "well, that does
beat all."
Once on the way back to Wolfville they stopped before a house, after Mr.
Knight had had a word with the driver. Then the young man, excusing
himself, went within, returning soon with a small package. This he
opened after he had resumed his seat, and distributed to each of the
party a bread and butter sandwich and two or three cookies. "I might
have brought more," he explained, "but it would be a pity to take away
all your appetite for your supper at Wolfville."
The sandwiches and the cakes seemed to promote conversation, and in the
remaining half hour the party was as bright and cheerful as a party of
young persons ought to be after a summer excursion. When they reached
the house Mr. Knight declined the invitation that Mrs. Redmond gave him
to stay to tea, though he promised to call on her the next day.
"While we are in Wolfville," said Mrs. Redmond, as he turned away, "we
may not be able to show you how thoroughly we enjoyed the delightful
afternoon you have given us, but if you come to Boston we will do our
best to make a return."
"I can assure you that the pleasure has been altogether on my side,"
responded Mr. Knight.
"And I can assure you," added Martine, who had now fully recovered her
spirits, "that Priscilla was an unwilling accomplice of mine this
afternoon, and that you were very good to rescue me as well as
her--everything considered."
"Oh, but I can assure you," began Mr. Knight, "that I didn't mean--that
is, I--" and here realizing that the more he tried to say the more he
might blunder, the poor young man backed down the steps with a polite
bow and a single "good-night."
"Priscilla," said Amy, that evening, as she handed the former her mail,
"here's a funny little package for you, half open at one end, and a
letter directed in the same handwriting. Excuse my noticing that the
letter is post-marked 'Meteghan.'"
"Why shouldn't you?" responded Priscilla. "We all have acquired the
habit of looking at one another's post-marks."
"Open the parcel," cried Amy; "I'm curious to see what it is." Priscilla
glanced at Martine, who was deep in a letter from one of her
boarding-school friends. Then she cut the string, and, loosening the
paper, handed the package to Amy while she glanced over the Meteghan
letter.
"Why, it looks like Yvonne's lace," cried Amy, and at the word "Yvonne"
Martine joined the group.
"Why, it is Yvonne's lace," she exclaimed. "How did you get it?"
"I sent for some," replied Priscilla. "I thought that it might help her
if I should buy it. I could not buy much, but it has pleased her to sell
it. Read her letter."
Tears came into Martine's eyes as she read the simple letter of thanks
that seemed to come straight from the heart of the little French girl.
"She remembers us all, though she doesn't spell the names just right,
and she sends the best love of Uncle Alexandre, Uncle Placide, and aunts
Mathilde and Marie. Well, we must have made an impression." Then, after
glancing at the letter a second time, Martine continued: "But you are a
brick, Priscilla. How did you happen to think of sending for the lace? I
had forgotten all about it, though I was anxious to help Yvonne."
"She writes a good letter, considering that she sees so dimly;" and Amy
called Martine's attention to the clear, round hand. "The convent
sisters have certainly done a great deal for the child."
When all had admired the strip of lace, Priscilla folded it up neatly
and laid it with her letters. She was relieved that Martine had not
taken offence at her writing for it. Though Priscilla had not intended
this to be a silent reproof to Martine, it had somewhat this effect, for
too frequently in Martine's life "out of sight" meant "out of mind," and
though she had no desire to break the promises that she had made so
freely when in Meteghan, still, but for Priscilla's reminder she might
have been long in keeping them. At the same time it is but fair to say
that already without Priscilla's knowledge she had taken steps toward
carrying out the larger plan that she had conceived regarding Yvonne's
future.
"Mamma," said Amy, after she had shown Mrs. Redmond Yvonne's letter, "I
have just had a letter from Julia."
"Ah, that is delightful," said Mrs. Redmond. "I am always so pleased to
hear from Julia."
Julia Bourne, the cousin of Amy's friend Brenda,--Mrs. Weston--was
little older than Amy or the other girls in Brenda's group. Julia, on
being graduated from Radcliffe, had decided to spend most of her time
and a fair share of her income on a Domestic Science School for girls.
The experiment carried on in the Mansion, a stately West End house
belonging to her former teacher, Miss South, during its two years of
existence, had proved most successful. The work at the Mansion had been
in the nature of social settlement work, and Amy, with little money to
give, had been glad to enroll herself as a voluntary teacher.
But for the Nova Scotia trip Amy would have been one of Julia's
assistants this very summer at Happy Hill. Often, indeed, in the course
of her travels she had thought of the work going on there, and had
indulged in a little self-reproach that she should be spending her own
holidays in idleness. Most persons, even those inclined to be critical,
would have said that Amy had really enough work on her hands in the five
or six hours of tutoring that she tried to give Priscilla every week.
Yet even granting that her time was not sufficiently occupied, there is
a kind of idleness that in the end is more beneficial to the individual
than any amount of work. Although Amy had not been in danger, perhaps,
of breaking down during the past season, still, Mrs. Redmond realized
that she had been working up to the limit of her strength, and she had
planned the Nova Scotia trip in such a way that Amy should be unable to
withstand going. That Amy would need all her strength for her senior
year at Wellesley had been Mrs. Redmond's strongest plea. Every day of
this summer had been a proof to Amy of her mother's wisdom.
"Of course we miss you [wrote Julia], and I am glad to say
that no one else can exactly take your place. But I honestly
believe that in a certain way you can do almost as much good
in Acadia as here; for it will be a great thing to inspire
Priscilla with more confidence in herself, and tone down
Martine a little.
"Here at Happy Hill we have two or three of the girls who
were at the Mansion its first year. We have been able, I am
glad to say, to imbue them with some sense of
responsibility. Each of them in turn is called housekeeper
for a week, and although things are not really altogether in
her hands, the effect on her is really the same, and we
older people merely act as a check to prevent matters from
going too far out of line.
"It is very amusing to see these older girls take charge of
the younger, and instruct them in all the details of country
life. They have some gardening to do, and they make butter
and cheese, and each one is shown how to drive, and is
permitted at intervals to drive down to the village. Then
they have open-air gymnastics in addition to the very
considerable amount of exercise that goes with their
housework, and they have just enough study from books every
day to prevent their growing altogether rusty.
"Mr. and Mrs. Elton--it doesn't seem quite natural yet to
speak of Miss South as Mrs. Elton--are now, I suppose, in
Norway. They sent the girls a box of unmounted photographs
last week, showing the most picturesque scenery in Greece
and Italy, where they were in the early spring. Nora is to
be with me part of the summer, and Anstiss Rowe, as perhaps
you know, is giving all her time to Happy Hill. Brenda
undoubtedly keeps you informed about affairs at Rockley. She
is perfectly happy, and altogether different from the Brenda
of a year ago.
"When your Acadia days are over, I hope that you will have a
week to spare for Happy Hill before Wellesley opens again.
With my best regards to your mother and the girls,
"JULIA."
When Amy had finished this letter Mrs. Redmond glanced through it.
"I should like to go up to Happy Hill for at least a week," said Amy.
"It is altogether probable that you can. We shall be at home by the
first of September. Why, what has become of Martine?"
Amy looked toward the chair where Martine had been sitting a few minutes
before. It was certainly empty.
"I'll run up to her room;" and, suiting her action to her word, in a
moment Amy was knocking at Martine's door.
In answer to a feeble "Come in" she entered, only to find Martine lying
face downward on the bed.
"Why, what is the matter, child?" she asked, affectionately stroking
Martine's hair.
"Oh, nothing," came in muffled tones from the prostrate Martine, "only
this has been such a long day."
"You are tired," responded Amy, "and probably you were more excited than
you realized when you and Priscilla were lost."
"We weren't lost"--Martine threw considerable spirit into her voice,--"I
knew just where we were."
"But we did not--" Amy, though amused, tried not to show her
amusement--"we were rather alarmed, so really my mother and I ought to
be the persons to collapse. Come, Martine, even if you are tired, you
must cheer up, and go to bed."
[Illustration: "'Why, what is the matter, child?' she asked
affectionately."]
"It isn't because I'm tired," and Martine's tears flowed afresh, "but I
thought that to-night there would be a letter from my mother. There must
be a mail in, and I have counted up the time from New York. There ought
to be a letter to-night. I am sure that she's worse."
"Nonsense, child. Probably she does not feel quite well enough to write,
and your father has overlooked the mail. You know how apt men are to
forget."
So Amy tried to pacify Martine, and at last succeeded in getting her to
look at things more cheerfully. She had never before seen Martine in low
spirits, and she felt quite sure that fatigue, even more than
disappointment, had caused the tears.
"I will admit," she said, "that this has been a trying day, beginning
with--"
"Beginning with Mr. Knight,"--and now Martine was smiling. "Wasn't he
funny, with his 'you Americans,' as if we were some strange species?"
"But in the end don't you think that Mr. Knight did pretty well? I think
that he more than redeemed himself by his kindness."
"Well, as he is a friend of Balfour Airton's I suppose that I ought not
to criticise him. There, don't shake your head, Amy. Yes, I do think
that he was very kind--in the end. But the day has been fearfully long.
We ought not to have taken that walk this morning."
When at last Martine went to bed Amy sat beside her until she fell
asleep. There was a strange mingling of childishness and womanliness in
this little Chicagoan to which Amy could not accustom herself. Her
worldly wisdom and grown-up air of womanliness were quite as hard to
understand as the extreme childishness in which she sometimes indulged.
The more equable Priscilla was much easier to comprehend, and yet Amy
was not altogether sure that Priscilla, under stress of circumstances,
would be the easier to manage.