AFTER THE GALE.
It was perhaps half an hour after Lisa had carried Ruth to her room and
the storm had spent its fury that a new excitement was furnished by the
appearance of a flickering light near the bay shore, directly in front
of the house. It was Porter who discovered it and announced the fact in
tragic tones.
“A ship in distress! Mr. Dan, let’s go to the rescue.”
Mr. Danforth went to the window, and agreed that there did appear to be
something wrong with a small craft which they saw dimly outlined before
them. “You’re right, boy,” he exclaimed; “we’ll have to see what’s the
matter. Come, Basil.” And the three took their way to the shore.
The sky was full of scudding clouds; through the rifts a star peeped
once in a while, but it was evident that, although the tempest was
over, the occupants of the little yacht before them were unable to land.
A survey of the scene showed that the small rowboats usually lying in
the little cove had been broken from their moorings and were tossing
about, drifting farther and farther away.
“I’ll have to swim for it,” declared Mr. Danforth. “Boys, you stay
here, and I will swim out and capture one of those boats. Have you the
boat-house key, Basil? No? Then, Porter, run to the house and get it
and a lantern. Hurry back. And you two get the oars while I go for the
boat.”
“Oh, let me go too, Mr. Dan!” besought Porter. But this Mr. Danforth
forbade, and he was soon plunging through the surf toward the nearest
boat, which he presently reached and pulled ashore, finding there the
two boys ready to join him in rowing out to the larger vessel.
“Ship, ahoy!” shouted Porter, delighted to be able to hail the yacht in
true sailor fashion.
“Hallo!” came the answer borne toward them.
The trip was longer than at first predicted, but they finally reached
the little yacht and were able to lie alongside. “What’s wrong?”
inquired Mr. Danforth of the first one who appeared.
“Oh, we’re all broken up by the gale. We started for a place called
Bellingly, but we weren’t sure of our bearings, and put for this cove
when we saw the storm brewing; but we’re terribly battered to pieces
and have lost our mast, so we are, strictly speaking, all at sea.
Hallo! I’m blest if it isn’t Baz Phillips, by all that’s lucky!” as a
flash of the lantern disclosed the faces of the boys.
“Why, hallo, Walter! It’s my cousin, Walter Dixon, Mr. Dan. Who’s with
you, Walt?”
“Ned Carew and our skipper.”
“Well, I’ll come aboard and see what can be done,” said Mr. Danforth.
“Two of you pile in here, and the boys can take you up to the house.”
The boys, however, protested at being left out of such an experience as
boarding a possible derelict, and Walter insisted on remaining with the
others.
“We’re about as wet as we can be,” the latter said. “Everything is
drenched, and we are hungry as hunters. We counted on getting ashore in
time for supper.”
“What are you doing down this way, anyhow?” inquired Basil.
“Why, we were coming to see you.”
Basil laughed. “Well, that’s a joke, my storm-tossed mariner! However,
you’re all right now.” And not long after the visitors were taken in
under Mrs. Chamberlaine’s hospitable roof, their clothing dried, and a
hot supper provided for them.
“I’ll tell you it was a shaky business,” remarked Ned Carew, “when we
were being battered around by the wind, not knowing what minute we
might be dashed into another vessel or be sent out into the open bay.
The anchor didn’t seem of any use at all, although I suppose it was.”
“I can imagine you were pretty much used up, Ned,” answered Basil. “Not
quite so safe as leading a german, was it?”
Edwin flushed up. “I’m not such a molly-coddle as to be scared,” he
returned.
“I brought Ned down to make love to the mermaids,” put in Walter,
teasingly. “I knew he wouldn’t feel quite comfortable unless there were
some siren to listen to his pretty speeches; but I’m blest if he made
any. The only thing I heard him say was,—what was it, Ned? Oh, yes,—‘I
think this is real horrid!’” And Walter spoke mincingly, with a little
dab of his hand at Basil.
“Oh, come off; I didn’t,” replied Edwin, gruffly, all his effeminacy
gone in the face of his late experience.
“Yes, you did, Miss Nancy,” teased Walter. “I’ll bet a dollar you don’t
go back with me.”
“I don’t intend to while there is room for me and better company,”
retorted Edwin, with spirit.
“You’ll have to bunk in with us, then,” said Basil. “How are you going
to manage to stow us away, Mrs. Chamberlaine?” to that lady, who
entered the dining-room with a view to seeing if the appetites of the
guests were satisfied.
“I’m afraid I shall have to ask Mr. Danforth to take in one of the
gentlemen,” said Mrs. Chamberlaine, in reply, “and I can put up a
cot, in your room, Mr. Phillips, for the other one. There is quite a
comfortable little room over the wash-house for the man, Mr. Dixon.”
“That is a perfectly satisfactory arrangement so far as I am
concerned,” declared Mr. Danforth. “My room is a spacious apartment,
Ned, and the bed is as big as an ark. You can take your cousin in with
you, Basil, and we shall all be as snug as possible.”
All this time Lisa was quite unconscious of what was going on
below-stairs. She was comforting Ruth for the loss of Patience, telling
her that she was not dead, only very much hurt, and that she thought
it would be well to send her to a hospital, and when she returned she
would be lovelier than ever, determining that a new head should be
procured for Patience if such a thing were possible.
Persis had come up as soon as Mr. Danforth had related how he had found
Lisa and Ruth in the damaged attic, and a consultation with grandma and
Mrs. Chamberlaine resulted in the consent of the former to sharing her
bed with Persis that night in order that Lisa might keep Ruth with her.
“You see,” Lisa whispered to Mrs. Chamberlaine, “Ruth is so distressed
about Patience, and thinks that Callie is gone too, so I am going to
persuade her that Callie is in my bed.”
Mrs. Chamberlaine shook her head. “You should not encourage that fancy,
Miss Holmes.”
“Oh, I don’t think it will do her any harm,” Lisa contended. “She
will outgrow it when she is older and has school friends. Indeed,
Mrs. Chamberlaine, I am sure she will not be the worse for her little
imaginary friend.”
Therefore the make-believe Callie was supposed to be comfortably
settled on one side of the bed, Ruth in the middle, and Patience
tenderly established upon two chairs, covered with a fleecy shawl of
Lisa’s, while Persis hunted up Amber, and he lay purring contentedly
at Ruth’s feet. The little girl was therefore entirely at her ease
concerning her companions, and went to sleep with Lisa’s assurance
that she would not leave her.
Persis went down to report upon the proceedings and to say that Lisa
would not be down again that evening. “She hasn’t the least idea that
you all are here,” she said, turning to the new arrivals. “Won’t she
be amazed to see you in the morning?—What will she think,” she said to
herself, “to see the ‘off ass.’ I wonder if she really likes him. There
were certainly tears in her eyes that time.” And Persis determined to
keep a watch upon her sister.
“I am glad you are here, grandma,” she said, irrelevantly, as she
snuggled up to her grandmother that night after they had gone to bed.
“I never supposed for a moment there was a doubt of it,” returned Mrs.
Estabrook, giving her a hug. “Why do you think it necessary to assure
me?”
“Oh, because you are so _perspicuitous_!”
“Is that in the dictionary?”
“I don’t know; but it ought to be, anyhow. You know what it means.”
“And in what direction do you think my perspicuity is needed?”
“In Lisa’s and the off——I mean Ned Carew’s. You’ll see how he will bob
around her. Didn’t he look funny in Mr. Danforth’s clothes?”
“He did seem lost in them; yet Mr. Danforth is not much taller than he.”
“No; but he’s bigger every way, physically and intellectually. What
is it you say, grandma,—you can’t expect any one built upon pint-cup
proportions to fill a quart measure? I think Ned measures just about a
gill.”
“I’m afraid you don’t admire the young man.”
“He is such a popinjay,” returned Persis. “He is not a bit ‘wicious,’
but he’s—oh, I don’t know—just a sort of a tailor’s dummy. I believe if
an idea should suddenly strike him it would knock him flat.”
“We’ll try to find that out. Are you going to talk about this young man
all night? For if so, I’ll ask Mrs. Chamberlaine to let me share her
room.”
“Oh, no, grandma; that’s mean! I am not going to open my mouth again,
not even to snore.”
When Lisa saw Mr. Danforth the following morning at breakfast there was
something very like admiration in the first look he gave her; for when
Annis said, “Oh, Lisa, you were so brave! How could you go up there in
the dark when you didn’t know but what any moment something would come
crashing in on you? I couldn’t have done it. I should have been scared
to death,” Lisa only answered, simply, “I didn’t think of anything but
Ruth.” And then she felt her face flushing at the look she saw in Mr.
Danforth’s eyes.
However, she gave the young man food for further thought that
same evening. Naturally the appearance of two more guests at the
breakfast-table was a great surprise to Lisa, and she quite exulted
at the thought that here was at least one devoted cavalier who would
dance attendance upon her and thereby add to her pleasure. But,
although Ned Carew was acceptable enough as a companion at a dance or
a theatre-party, a whole morning passed in his society in the country
proved to be something very different. The rest of the masculine
element spent the day in getting the little yacht in better condition,
and Lisa herself could but feel a small scorn for the only one of the
party who declined to help.
She was sitting in a high-backed chair, with Ned in an attitude of
devotion at her feet, when the workers returned for their mid-day meal.
Lisa fancied there was a look of contempt in Maurice Danforth’s eyes as
he passed them on the porch, and she flushed angrily. “He shall know
what I think of him,” she said to herself. “The supercillious, didactic
pedagogue! He is not the only one who has an ideal.”
“Oh, Lisa, you look like a floating cloud in that pink gown!” exclaimed
Persis, in heartfelt admiration, as she noticed that Lisa had dressed
with unusual care that evening. “How lovely you look!”
“Don’t!” cried out Lisa, sharply.
Persis looked surprised. Why wasn’t Lisa pleased? She always liked to
be told that she looked lovely. And Persis followed her sister down the
stairs with a puzzled look on her face.
It was after an early tea that Lisa found an opportunity to “pay back
the pedagogue,” as she expressed it to herself. Most of the party had
gone to see the damage done by an enormous oak-tree which had fallen
some distance away, bringing down in its fall sundry other trees. Mr.
Danforth came out from the house and leaned against one of the pillars
of the porch, while he looked out upon the water, now blue and serene,
showing no sign of yesterday’s storm.
Lisa, with her satellite, Ned Carew, placed herself within hearing
distance, and skilfully brought the conversation around to the subject
she wished to discuss.
“You want to know what kind of a man I admire?” she said, in her soft,
clear tones. “Well, I can tell you the kind of a man I despise, and
then you can judge. There is nothing more insufferable to me than
a conceited man,—one who pretends to a mock humility, and yet sets
himself up as a mentor; who imagines there is nothing good save as
he approves of it; whose consummate egotism makes him lose sight of
his own faults; who looks upon all women as frivolous butterflies or
insipid nonentities.”
Poor Ned was looking at her in astonishment at this tirade. What had
he done to provoke it? “Now, Miss Lisa,” he protested, “you know we’re
not all that way. Now, I think a girl is a—a—perfect goddess. I just
worship—a—the right kind of a girl.”
“Oh, you!” And in the scorn of her accent Lisa hoped the subject of her
remarks might recognize that Ned was not the target.
“No,” she continued, “I wasn’t thinking of you just then. I was simply
telling you the kind of man I despise, you know. The man who thinks he
is walking on a mountain-top when he is really on a very small hummock,
and the mountains are hid by the clouds of his self-esteem.”
Ned thought Lisa was on a mountain-top herself at that moment, for
she was talking over his head and he was looking at her with a
dazed expression upon his rather stupid face. The sight of it so
roused Lisa’s sense of humor that she began to laugh, and Ned smiled
fatuously. The figure leaning against the pillar did not move until
the reconnoitring party returned, and then, in the midst of the slight
confusion their coming caused, he approached Lisa and said, “Will you
take a little walk with me?”
The color rose to the girl’s face as, with an assenting motion, she
made ready to go with him.
There was scarcely a word said until they reached the fallen tree; then
Lisa, taking a seat upon one of the leafy boughs, said, lightly, “As
this seems to be a silent session, I shall sit here until the spirit
moves me.”
Mr. Danforth stood looking down at the graceful figure in the cloudy
pink drapery framed by the green of the tree. “Miss Lisa,” he said,
“somehow I have offended you.”
“Oh, no,” she replied, indifferently. “I don’t see why you should say
that. We are simply casual acquaintances.”
“Then,” he said, with the shadow of a smile, “we will say that I do not
impress you favorably. That is no fault of yours; but I think it would
be more pleasant for us all if we could be more harmonious.”
Lisa was silent. She leaned over and pulled a little switch from the
tree and began to tap the toe of her slipper with it.
“I have a confession to make to you,” Mr. Danforth went on. “I will
tell you that I thought you a vain, frivolous girl, with little love
for anything but excitement and admiration, until yesterday.” Lisa
raised her eyes for a second, then began to pull the pointed leaves
from the switch she held. “And then I saw that in my ignorance, in my
warped, one-sided views of womankind, I had misjudged you, for I saw
a girl whose tenderness for a little child made manifest her capacity
for self-forgetfulness, and so I want to ask your pardon for my first
opinion of you.”
“It was my fault,” responded Lisa, now completely disarmed. “I gave you
reason to think as you did. I never knew a man before who—who cared—who
didn’t care for pretty girls and preferred ugly ones.”
A glimmer of amusement came into Mr. Danforth’s eyes. “I do admire
pretty girls,” he said; “but you know there are different opinions as
to that, too. We don’t all admire the same type, and perhaps what Ned
Carew considers beautiful I might not.”
Lisa bit her lip. She wasn’t going to forgive him, she told herself.
“You are very rude,” she said, petulantly, tearing the leaves to bits.
“And you will not forgive me because I will not say I prefer your looks
to your soul.”
“I can’t have you say such things,” cried Lisa, passionately, rising
and letting a shower of green fall from her lap. “What right have you
to talk so? No one ever did so but my mother.”
A gentle look came into the young man’s eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, “I do
it for the same reason: there is no friend like a mother.”
Lisa felt a strange sense of mingled fear and pleasure. Then she
turned and held out her hand. “I forgive you,” she acknowledged. “Will
you say the same?”
“There is no need,” replied Mr. Danforth; “you have done me a service,
for you have shown me a fault.”
Such magnanimity! Lisa felt ashamed at being outdone by this—this
pedagogue.
“Now,” continued Mr. Danforth, “let us talk of something else. I heard
you say that little Ruth was mourning the disaster which happened to
her doll, and you were wondering where you could find an old-fashioned
head to supply the place of the one which was smashed. I think maybe I
can help you out.”
“You?” And Lisa looked up. Was this man never to be done with his
surprises?
“Yes. My mother, I remember, had just such a doll when she was a little
girl, and, if I am not mistaken, she still has it.”
“But I would not rob her of it.”
“She would give it willingly if I were to state the case. You or I
would do it.”
Lisa inwardly thanked him for the implied suggestion of her generosity.
“And you can be very certain,” Mr. Danforth continued, “that my mother
will give me the doll to do with as I wish, since it would afford me a
very great pleasure.”
“You are very good,” returned Lisa. “We shall only need the head, you
know.”
“Yes; and when I go home next week I will send it to you.”
“Are you going next week?” asked Lisa, suddenly taken off her guard
and displaying more interest than she intended.
“Yes. I must be with my mother a little while. I have promised Walter
to go back with him, for Ned declines to return in anything less than a
steamboat. Basil will not require further coaching, and he has promised
to help Miss Persis with her Latin, so I can easily be spared.”
“Grandma will miss you,” said Lisa. But that night when the house was
silent she lay awake a long time. Life looked more serious to her
than ever before. Perhaps she would best go to college. No; she would
think of something else to do to rouse her best self. What did he—Mr.
Danforth—mean by saying that—that strange thing? Perhaps he talked
so to her for the same reason her mother did. “A mother is the best
friend one can have.” He said that too. Did he mean, then, it was for
friendship’s sake, or—or——? And Lisa buried her face in her pillow.
[Illustration: Decoration]