ANXIOUS HEARTS
When Betty and Jack didn’t come home in time for dinner, Mrs. Kinsey was
not much surprised. She knew the uncertainties that attend a
sailing-party, and she told Ellen to be prepared for the arrival of the
hungry young people at any hour.
“For,” she said, “they may come early or they may come late, but they
will certainly be hungry.”
So all the afternoon Ellen waited in readiness to minister to the wants
of two ravenous young savages, whom she momentarily expected to come
bounding in and demanding food.
But they didn’t come; and as supper-time drew near, she transferred her
attentions to the concocting of a hot supper that should include the
favorite dishes of both.
About five o’clock Mrs. Van Court and Miss Margaret drove over to
Denniston to see if Betty and Jack had come home yet. They frankly
acknowledged they were worried about the sailing-party, for it was the
first trip of the new boat, and she might prove unseaworthy.
Mrs. Kinsey discussed the matter with her visitors, and, affected by
their nervousness, she soon became frightened too.
Pete was sent for, and his opinion was asked.
“No, mum,” he said; “they ain’t capsized, mum; they’re beca’med, that’s
fwhat they are. I’ve been watchin’ the wind all the afthernoon, and
there ain’t none. That there boat is mosht likely settin’ shtill in the
wather an’ refusin’ to budge.”
“Oh, _do_ you think so?” said Mrs. Van Court, much relieved. “Do you
think so?”
“I do, indade, mum; an’ if a breeze comes up whin the sun goes down,
they’ll come shpinnin’ up the river in great shape, fur the tide is
comin’ in.”
Having cheered up the three ladies by his hopefulness, Pete departed;
but an hour or so later he went in search of Ellen, and to her he
confided his fears.
“Ellen,” he said, “if I’m not mishtook, there’s a howlin’ shtorm comin’
up, an’ I’m fearin’ fer thim childher. But, fwhativer happens, we musht
pertind we’re thinkin’ they’re all safe, fur Mis’ Kinsey is shcared
shtiff now, an’ if she gets woorse she’ll have high-strikes. She’d kape
cool enough if it wasn’t fur ould Mis’ Van Coort, who’s a-weepin’ an’
wailin’ an’ wringin’ her hands till Mis’ Kinsey is all worrited up. Miss
Margaret, now, she’s ca’m, but there’s no tellin’ how soon she’ll get
a-goin’ too.”
“Are they shtayin’ here fur supper?” asked Ellen.
[Illustration: “‘WHEN MR. VAN COORT SEES THE SHTORM COMIN’ HE’LL PUT
INTO PORT.’”]
“Belikes they’ll have to, unless they go home purty quick; fur the
clouds is a-getherin, an’ the shtorm is comin’ up mighty suddint. Look
over ferninst.”
Ellen looked, and sure enough masses of black clouds were rolling and
tumbling over one another, each apparently in frantic haste to get to
the zenith first.
Just then Norah came to the kitchen to say that the Van Court ladies
would stay to supper.
“They’re takin’ on awful,” she said. “Mis’ Kinsey an’ Mis’ Van Court is
a-cryin’ like anything; an’ Miss Margaret she jist walks up an’ down,
an’ her face is as white! An’, Pete, they want to see you.”
Pete went to the parlor prepared to invent wondrous tales for the good
of all concerned.
“A shtorm, is it?” he said, in answer to Mrs. Van Court’s query. “Well,
yes,’m—a capful of wind, jist. But thim folks is all right. Whin Mr.
Van Coort sees the shtorm comin’ he’ll put into port an’ wait till it’s
over, an’ they’ll go to some hotel an’ have a foine supper. On the
wather, ye know, mum, they can see the shtorm whin it’s moiles away, an’
they’ll have plinty av toime to reach shelter.”
Pete’s assured manner and general air of certainty carried conviction to
the hearts of the three frightened ladies, and they sat down to supper
feeling quite sure that the absentees were comfortably sheltered in some
one of the convenient hotels which they didn’t know existed only in
Pete’s imagination.
The voluble Irishman returned to Ellen to unburden himself of his true
fears.
“It’s a turrible shtorm comin’, Ellen, an’ that little tay-cup av a boat
c’u’d niver live through a shquall on the Sound. An’ on the Sound they
musht be, fur if they’d niver left the river they’d be home be now, fur
they c’u’d have poled thimselves up be the banks.”
“The saints protect them!” muttered Ellen, as she took a pan of
golden-brown biscuits from the oven; “an’ I can’t consaive why folks
wants to go maunderin’ around in a tipsy-topsy boat whin there’s dhry
ground to shtay on.”
Notwithstanding Pete’s comforting assurances, the three ladies couldn’t
help feeling that perhaps their loved ones were in danger, and they did
but scant justice to Ellen’s carefully prepared supper.
As they rose from the table, a low roll of thunder was heard; it was
followed by a flash of lightning, and then suddenly the storm burst in
all its fury. The wind blew a gale, and the rain came down in torrents.
As crash after crash boomed over their heads, Mrs. Van Court and Miss
Margaret became more and more frightened until finally they lost their
self-control and cried like children.
Mrs. Kinsey was calmer, partly because she was of a more reserved
nature, and partly because, although she was very fond of Betty and
Jack, they were not of her own kindred, and naturally she would not feel
the same poignant grief as Mrs. Van Court and her daughter did.
So she cheered up her guests all she could, and as the rain continued to
fall, she invited them to remain at Denniston overnight.
They accepted the invitation; but it was nearly midnight before the
three ladies persuaded one another to retire, each feeling sure that she
could not sleep a wink.
“Yez may rist in peace,” said Pete, who had been called to the parlor
for a final consultation. “I’m convincing sure that thim childher an’
the other lady an’ gintlemin is shlapin’ this minit on fither-bids, an’
all as is dishturbin’ av their moinds is bec’us’ they can’t telly-graft
yez from the hotel be rayson av the wires bein’ bruk be the shtorm.”
All this seemed reasonable, and Pete’s audience were greatly impressed
with his apparent wisdom and common sense, and they went to bed feeling
sure that morning would bring good news of some kind from the absent
ones.
Having done what he considered his duty to the hysterical ladies, Pete
returned to the kitchen.
“Ellen, me jool,” he said, “I’ve been oratin’ fairy-tales to the ladies
ferninst, but me heart is talkin’ another way. I’m sick wid the fear
that they’re all dhrowned, an’ I can’t shtay contint in the house. So
I’m puttin’ on me rubber coat, an’ I’m goin’ down to the dock where the
_Pixie_—bad cess to it!—sailed from. An’ I’ll take Sydney with me, an’
we’ll shtay there till marnin’. An’ do you shtay here an’ kape the fire
blazin’, an’ hot wather an’ things all ready, fur they may be brought in
anyway an’ anyhow.”
Ellen began to cry at this awful suggestion, and even sturdy Pete drew
his sleeve across his eyes once or twice.
Then he put on his great boots and storm-cap and -coat, and, whistling
for Sydney, he went out into the dark, wet night. He had no fixed plan,
and scarcely a hope of learning anything about the _Pixie’s_ fate, but
he felt there were more opportunities out of doors than in. If he could
but have seen the _Pixie_, tied to a skeleton dock, and bumping against
it until her paint was sadly scratched and marred, he would have felt
that, after all, there was some foundation for his fairy-stories, and
that the party had really found shelter in one of those fine hotels
which he had so vividly imagined.
* * * * *
But it was anything but a fine hotel in which the sailing-party found
the light that Jack had first noticed glimmering through the darkness.
After a long walk across the wet and marshy meadows they reached an old
and somewhat dismal-looking house. From one window came the flickering
lamplight which had seemed like a will-o’-the-wisp during their long
walk toward it.
“There must be somebody living there,” exclaimed Mr. Van Court, “and
we’ll make them take us in.”
He knocked loudly at the door, and a gruff voice inside the house
responded: “Who’s there?”
“Some shipwrecked people,” replied Mr. Dick; “please open your door.”
“Got any dorgs?”
“No; but we’re very wet and cold, and the ladies are suffering. Please
let us in.”
“All right, I will, ef ye ain’t got no dorgs. But my cat, ‘Purty,’ she’s
tar’ble ’fraid of dorgs, so I hev to make sure.”
And then the door opened, and they saw an old man with a shock of
grizzled gray hair and a skin like tanned leather. He peered at them
through his great iron-bowed spectacles.
“Wal, wal, ye are in a plight, ain’t ye? Come in—come right in. Oh, my!
oh, my! Huldy—I say, Huldy! Here’s some visitors. We’ll hev to look
arter ’em. Huldy!”
A pleasant-faced woman appeared from the next room.
“Well, ye be wet! I should say so. Es wet es drowned rats. Deary me!
come right out to the kitchen. Ye’ll spile this carpet—ye drip so.”
They followed her to the kitchen, and gladly felt the warmth from the
cook-stove there.
“It’s lucky I kep’ up that fire,” said their hostess, bustling about.
“Now, le’ me see; what kin I give you ladies fur clo’es? Mine wouldn’t
be no good to you. Say, father, shall we give ’em some out o’ the
trunk?”
“Yes,” said the old man; “let the ladies go right up in the kitchen
bedroom, and I’ll fetch the trunk there, and they can help themselves.”
Miss Grace and Betty, feeling that they were about to be made
comfortable at last, followed the old woman up-stairs and into a small
bedroom just over the kitchen, which was dry and warm.
In a few moments the old man came, dragging a fair-sized trunk, which he
pulled into the room and then threw open the lid.
“Thar,” he said; “look arter ’em, mother; do all ye kin fur ’em; and
I’ll go below and try and fit out the men with dry toggery. Wish we had
a trunkful o’ duds fur them too. But we ain’t. Make yerselves at home,
ladies; yer welcome to anything we kin give yer. Ross is my name,—Jim
Ross,—and I’m jist a plain or’nary man; but Huldy, my wife thar, she’s
an angel in disguise.”
The disguise was effectual, for no one could look less like an angel
than Mrs. Ross did. But her beaming smile of welcome and her truly kind
and hospitable manner made her much more attractive to her guests than a
be-winged and be-trumpeted angel would have been.
“Now,” she said, after she had provided them with all the comforts at
her command—“now jest pick out whatever clo’es ye like from that ’ere
trunk, and when yer fixed come on down-stairs, and I’ll hev somethin’
fur ye to eat.”
She shuffled away, and they soon heard her clattering around in the
kitchen below.
“Why, Miss Grace,” said Betty, presently, “just look at the clothes in
this trunk. What lovely dresses! How do you suppose these old people
would be having such pretty things?”
Sure enough, the trunk was filled with dainty and costly clothing of all
kinds.
“They are lovely,” said Miss Grace, examining them; “and see, Betty, all
of the dresses are white. How very odd! Here is a white cashmere; I
think I’ll put this on.”
“Do, Miss Grace, dear; it’ll become you most beautiful. I guess I’ll
wear this white China silk; but it’s too long for me.”
“Never mind, Betty; don’t try to shorten it. Wear it as it is, and I’ll
do up your hair, and you can masquerade as a young lady, for one night
only.”
Betty thought this great fun, and sat quite still while Miss Grace
bunched the black curls into a graceful knot on top of her head and
fastened them there with a high tortoise-shell comb which they found in
the wonderful trunk.
And then, when Betty had put on the white silk dress, which fitted
pretty well and was very becoming, she looked like a charming young lady
all ready for her first ball. Miss Grace looked like another snow-drift
in the white cashmere, which she somehow arranged to fit her; and then,
though they found plenty of fine white stockings in the trunk, there
were no shoes of any kind. Their own wet boots were out of the question,
so there was nothing to do but go down-stairs in their white-stockinged
feet, which they trusted the long dresses would hide from view. A shout
of admiration greeted them as they entered the room, and Jack exclaimed:
“My eye, Betty! you’re a stunner in grown-up clothes.”
Mr. Van Court, too, looked at Betty as if he had never seen her before,
and begged Grace for an introduction to her new friend.
But if the ladies looked well, the same could not be said of the men.
Mr. Ross had done his best for them, but his wardrobe was scantily
furnished.
He had given Mr. Brewster his best Sunday suit, and very odd that fine
gentleman looked in the country-cut clothes. An old fisherman’s suit did
very well for Jack; but this exhausted Mr. Ross’s stock entirely, save
for a pair of overalls and a brilliantly flowered dressing-gown.
However, Mr. Dick avowed himself well satisfied with these, and wore
them with a jaunty air that greatly pleased his host, who declared that
he “didn’t know that old gown did set so well.”
The room in which they were assembled was the one they had first
entered, and seemed to be dining-room, parlor, and general living-room
all in one.
Mrs. Ross came bustling in from the kitchen with a huge dish of poached
eggs and a platter of hot biscuit.
“There,” she said; “I ’lowed them was the best things I could cook quick
fur you; an’ now do all set down an’ eat, fur you must be holler. To
think of nothin’ to eat sence breakfast! Land, who’s that?” She looked
at Betty in blank amazement. “My, what a start you give me! I thought
you was Lallowet.”
[Illustration: “‘MY EYE, BETTY! YOU’RE A STUNNER IN GROWN-UP CLOTHES.’”]
“Lallowet!” shouted Mr. Ross. “That’s it. I’ve be’n tryin’ to think who
it was the little gal looked like, all fixed up in them clo’es. It’s
Lallowet fur sure.”
Betty felt a mild curiosity to know who or what Lallowet might be; but
hunger was a far stronger sensation just then, and as she sat down at
the table her only wonderment was whether there were any more eggs in
the kitchen or not.