I wonder how many of the children who roast chestnuts or duck for apples
on All-hallow-eve have any idea how venerable are the games they play,
or how, all the world over, young people are amusing themselves in
pretty much the same fashion? In England, girls are strewing the ashes
that are expected, though vainly, I fear, to spell the names of whoever
loves them best. In Scotland, they are slyly sowing the hemp that their
future husbands must come and gather. In Germany, they are making merry
efforts to learn their fate with the help of the looking-glass that
hangs by their bed. And many of these sports have been played for
centuries, and were old even at the time of my story.
More than eighty years ago three little English children were solemnly
arranging their mystic games for All-hallow-eve. They were alone in a
tiny cottage, nearly half a mile from any neighbor, for father and
mother had gone to the town of Ware, taking the baby with them, and
would not be back before the next night; so Rupert, Margery, and little
Nance, left to each other's company, were preparing without a shadow of
fear to amuse themselves in their own fashion. Two big lumps of lead
were ready to be melted, and then poured into water, there to assume
hundreds of quaint little shapes; the chestnuts, carefully matched and
named, were hopping gayly about on the fire-place; and half a dozen
rosy-cheeked apples floated tantalizingly in a tub of water, waiting for
a courageous diver.
Rupert, a strong and active boy of twelve, captured his apple at every
plunge, thrusting his curly head fairly into the tub, and never bringing
it out until his teeth were firmly fixed in its glossy sides; Margery,
who did not fancy getting wet, only nibbled at hers, and sent it bobbing
about the surface of the water; while poor little Nance would dive
boldly down, and come up gasping and choking, her blue eyes tight shut,
the water streaming from her fair hair, and looking more like a
half-drowned kitten than a little girl who had not succeeded in catching
a slippery apple.
"It's no use, Nance," said her sister; "you will never get one, if you
keep on soaking yourself all night. Let us see now who will be married
and who will die. Rupert, you go into the garden, and bring me in some
earth on a plate, while I get the ashes and water."
The boy took a dish of yellow stone-ware, and went out to dig up the
mould. It was a clear night, but blowing hard, and wild scraps of cloud
came flying before the face of the moon, while to his left he saw the
white banks of the river Lea, and could hear the rush of the waters as
they swept angrily by. How high the river looked! thought Rupert,
watching it, trowel in hand, and how loudly it sounded. He had never
seen or heard it like that before, and for a moment he stood wondering
what had caused this sudden rise. Then Margery's voice calling for the
earth made him forget all about it, and in another minute he was back in
the warm, bright kitchen, without a thought of the foaming torrent
outside.
The little girl placed side by side on the table the three dishes; one
of which held the mould, the other ashes, and the third clear water.
Then she bound a handkerchief tightly over Nance's eyes, and after
turning her around a couple of times to bewilder her, bade her go and
put her hand in one of the plates. If she touched the water, she would
be married; if her fingers wandered into the ashes, she was doomed to be
an old maid; but if she reached the earth first, then she would surely
die before the next All-hallow-eve.
Fully impressed with the solemnity of this awful rite, Nance slowly
groped her way to the table, and after a moment's indecision put her
little fat fingers softly down, when plump they went right into the
water. Margery gave a shout of pleasure, and with a sigh of profound
relief that her future was so securely settled, Nance unbound the
handkerchief and handed it over to her sister. But with her matters were
not so promising, for advancing with a great show of confidence, her
evil genius led her straight to the ashes, greatly to her own disgust
and Rupert's undisguised delight. It was his turn now; but just as his
eyes were being bandaged, little Nance called out, "Look! Margery, look!
the floor is all wet!"
With a bound the boy sprang to the door and opened it. Nothing but water
met his eyes--water as yet but a couple of inches deep, but which was
softly, steadily rising in the moonlight, while the rush of the river
sounded now as if it were close by his side. In an instant he realized
what had happened. The Lea, swollen by heavy rains, had overflowed its
banks, and the water was gaining on them fast. Already it had entered
the room where the frightened children stood, only half understanding
their great danger.
"Go up stairs," shouted Rupert to his sisters; "and if the flood rises
that high, we will climb out on the roof. Go quick!"
But Margery stood still, her brown eyes filling with tears. "Oh,
Rupert," she cried, "the poor little baby ducks and chickens! They will
all be drowned; and what ever will mother say when she comes back?"
Rupert never heeded her. The water by this time reached to their ankles,
and to close the door was impossible. Thoroughly alarmed, he drew the
little girls up the ladder-like staircase into their low attic. It would
not take long for the waves to mount that high, and their only hope of
safety lay in climbing on to the steep sloping roof. Opening the window,
he crawled cautiously out, and then helped Nance and Margery to follow
him. Side by side stood the three children, and saw the sullen waters,
white and foaming in the moonlight, surge and sway around them. Where
could they look for help? Their father gone, their neighbors ignorant
that they were alone in the house, and perhaps in the general terror
forgetting all about them. Abandoned in their great peril, with only a
boy of twelve to aid and save them!
Poor little Nance sobbed and shivered as she crept closer to her
brother's side; Margery, bewildered with fright, stood as if frozen into
stone; but Rupert, with fast-beating heart and a despairing light in his
blue eyes, watched the cruel waters as they rose, and tried to think how
best to act for his sisters' sake and for his own. He could hear in the
distance cries and shouts, and could see bonfires blazing on many
roofs--signals of the common danger. He knew that along the outskirts of
the town, and through the scattered parish of Ware, relief boats were
even now rowing from house to house to save those who lived in cottages
too low to shelter them. He called until he was exhausted, but the only
answer was the sullen roar of the Lea and the beating of the waves
around him. Already they were lapping against the attic windows.
Something must be done, and quickly, if he would save his sisters from
perishing.
"Margery," he said at last, "would you be very much afraid to stay here
alone with Nance, while I try and get some help?"
"Oh, Rupert!" shrieked the child, throwing her arms around him, "you
would surely be drowned, and so would we. What can you do in such an
awful flood?"
"I could try and swim to the manor farm," said the boy. "It is not more
than half a mile off at furthest, and there are plenty of floating
boughs and fences in the water to rest me if I tire out. Margery, I must
go, or we shall all drown together; and you know," he added, with a sob,
"I promised father that I would take care of you."
"But to leave us here alone! Oh, Rupert, I should die!"
But Rupert's mind was made up. "It must be done at once," he said, "or
it will be too late. Margery, try and be a little brave, and keep tight
hold of Nance if the waves reach you before I can come back. Please God,
I will save you yet." Then throwing off his shoes and jacket, he said
once more, "Remember to keep tight hold of Nance," and plunged into the
seething waters, in which no man could hope to live.
Margery's shriek died into silence, and clutching her little sister, she
watched the slight figure tossed on the cruel billows as the boy swam
bravely on. How long could his young strength avail against their mighty
power?
In a minute he was swept out of sight, and with an awful feeling of
loneliness, she crouched on the roof, holding Nance in her arms. Each
moment passed slowly as an hour, while the waves crept ever higher and
higher, until they washed against the children's feet as they clung
closely together. What had become of Rupert? What would become of them?
Nance's sobs were hushed from sheer exhaustion, and she only moaned and
shivered slightly when the crawling water gained on them inch by inch.
Some of her brother's courage had entered Margery's breast in this
extremity of peril, and mingling with her broken prayers for aid were
words of comfort to her little sister.
But every minute it became plainer to her that they could not keep their
hold much longer. Chilled to the heart, their stiffened arms were
gradually relaxing. The morning was beginning to break, and its dull
gray light showed her nothing but the angry waves on every side.
Familiar landmarks were all gone, and the child's lonely heart grew
despairing in the midst of so much desolation. All hope was dying fast,
when far in the distance came a dark speck, moving steadily over the
solid waters, and growing larger and clearer every moment. It was a boat
rowed by strong arms that shot forward to help them.
"Nance! Nance!" she sobbed, "they are coming! they are coming! Rupert
has sent them, after all. He has saved us, as he said he would."
Another minute, and the two cramped and wearied little figures were
lifted down from their perilous resting-place, and laid gently in the
boat, Nance hardly conscious, but Margery trembling with the question
she scarcely dared to ask.
"Where is Rupert?" she cried. "He sent you, I know; but where is he
now?"
The men, two laborers from the manor farm, looked at each other with
troubled eyes, but made no answer. Margery's pitiful glance wandered
from one down-cast face to the other, as she strove to understand what
this silence meant.
"He must have sent you to us," she said, slowly, and as if talking to
herself; "else how would you have thought to come?"
"Ay, that he did," answered one of the rowers. "He sent us truly, but he
spoke no words to tell his tale. If we had not been a parcel of
frightened fools, we would have remembered you before."
He stopped, and Margery looked at him with dazed and startled eyes. As
gently as he could he told her how, two hours before, the drowned body
of a little fair-haired boy had been swept by the torrent past the
windows of the manor farm. Every effort had been made to bring back some
spark of life, but it was too late. Struggling alone through the night
in the great waters, the child's slight strength had long since given
out, and the waves tossed their light burden hither and thither in cruel
sport. He had striven with all his might, for his sisters' sake, and he
had rescued them; for when the little dead body was recognized, all
remembered the helpless family in the cottage cut off from any
assistance, and a boat was sent out instantly for those who might still
be alive. Here they were, just in time, and Margery and her little
sister were that day restored safe and well to their mother's arms.
And long years after, when children of her own gathered around her knee,
Margery would tell them on each All-hallow-eve the story of that
dreadful night, and of their brave little uncle Rupert, who with boyish
courage had risked and lost his life to save the sisters committed to
his care.