SAVED BY THE CHAIN
There was a wild commotion on the shore. Following the example of
Dorothy, the Sixth dropped their skirts as they ran, and kicking off
their shoes at the edge of the water, plunged in. But they were all
under control and acting in concert—no one girl made any attempt to
branch out on her own. They were acting now under the orders of Miss
Groome, who, also skirtless and shoeless, was standing in the shallow of
the water, directing the work of the chain.
“Keep to the left, Hazel,” she called—“more to the left; keep within
touch of the Fourth’s chain, but don’t foul them—don’t foul them,
whatever you do.”
Hazel was the first of the chain; clinging to her was Joan Fletcher, a
powerful swimmer, and calm in moments of crisis—an invaluable helper at
a time like this. Following her came Daisy Goatby, blubbering aloud
because of the peril of those out there, a girl who turned pale and ran
away when a dog yelped with pain at being trodden upon. She hated to be
obliged to look on suffering—the thought of any one in extremity made a
coward of her—but she could obey orders. Miss Groome had ordered her
into the chain, and she would cling to the girl who was in front of her
even though she felt her life was being battered out of her. Dora Selwyn
was behind her. Rhoda was also somewhere at the back of that wriggling
procession, with Margaret and Jessie Wayne. They had reached the chain
of plucky Fourths; they were encouraging the kids to hold on, and
bidding them not come farther, but rest, treading water until the time
for action came. The Sixth pushed ahead with all their strength. They
could not swim so fast, hampered by each other; but it was safety first,
and they had to obey orders if their work was to succeed.
Miss Mordaunt struggled towards them, holding the unconscious Miss Ball
in a tense grip.
“Can you get her ashore, girls? I must go to Dorothy,” she panted; and
thrusting Miss Ball within the grabbing clutch of the two first girls,
she struck out again to reach Dorothy, who was dropping low in the
water, dragged down by the grip of poor Cissie.
Hazel, with a dexterous twist of her arm, passed Miss Ball to Joan, who
did not release her grip of the unconscious mistress until Daisy had
hold of her and was passing her to Dora. This passing was the extreme
test of the power of the chain. It would have been a comparatively easy
thing to have towed her ashore. In that case, however, they would not
have been on hand to help Miss Mordaunt with Dorothy and Cissie. So they
had to pass their burden, and to do it as quickly as they could.
Hazel never looked behind her—she did not speak even; but, lightly
treading water, she waited until Miss Mordaunt could reach her. Even
then she would have to hold her place, for Cissie would have to be
passed before they could tow Dorothy ashore. And it took time—oh, what
an awful time it took!
Miss Mordaunt was coming towards them. She was holding Dorothy, to whom
Cissie clung with the fierce clutch of despair.
“We cannot pass Cissie along—she is too frightened,” panted Miss
Mordaunt, as she reached Hazel with her burden, and clung to the chain
for a minute to get back her breath. “Dorothy is so frightfully done,
too; but she will bear that clutch until we can get her ashore.”
“We can pass Dorothy along, with Cissie clinging to her,” said Hazel,
raising herself a little in the water, and reaching out her hand to get
a grip of Dorothy. “Can you swim alongside, Miss Mordaunt, to see that
Cissie does not slip away?”
“That will be best,” agreed Miss Mordaunt, and striking out, she swam
slowly along the chain of girls as they one after the other accepted and
thrust forward the helpless two. When Dora, fourth from the end, laid
hold of Dorothy, Hazel swung slowly round in the water, and swimming up
behind Dorothy seized her on the other side, holding on to her, and
helping to push her from girl to girl as the chain accepted and passed
her on.
Cissie was not struggling at all now, though the tightness of her clutch
never relaxed; she was realizing that she was being rescued, and her
panic was dropping from her. She was acutely conscious, and her black
eyes looked so frightened and mournful that no one had the heart to
reproach her for all the peril into which her wild panic had brought the
others.
The Fourth had managed to hold the chain without a break, and mightily
proud they were of their prowess. They even raised a cheer when the last
of the Sixth came out of the water; but it died away as they saw Dorothy
lying helpless on the beach, while Miss Ball, at a little distance, was
being wrapped in blankets by the woman from the lock-house.
Dorothy was not unconscious; she was only so battered and beaten by the
struggle in the water that just at the first she could not lift a finger
to help herself.
Miss Ball was coming round, so the woman from the lock-house said, and
she offered her own bed for the use of the two who had suffered most.
Miss Groome felt that, having borne so much, it was better for them to
bear a little more, and be carried to where they could have more
comfort. She issued a few crisp orders. The girls, still in their wet
clothes, ran to obey. Then, while the Fourth dived into their tents to
dress with all the speed of which they were capable, the Sixth in their
wet garments loaded Miss Ball, Dorothy, and Cissie on to three trucks
which were standing under the wall of the lifeboat house, and harnessing
themselves to them, started at a brisk pace for the school. They had no
dry clothes on the shore to change into, and so it was wisdom to
move—and to move as quickly as they could. The woman from the
lock-house had lent them blankets to cover the half-drowned ones; on to
these blankets they spread skirts; then each girl wrapping her own skirt
round her, they set off from the shore at the best pace they could make.
Dorothy was bumped along on that fearful hand-truck. She felt she could
not bear much of such transport, and yet knew very well that she had no
strength to walk. She was so tired—so fearfully weary—that she simply
could not bear anything more.
When she had been in such danger of drowning, dragged down by Cissie’s
frenzied clasp of her shoulders, it had seemed such deep peace and rest,
she had not even wanted to struggle. Then had come the confusion of Miss
Mordaunt’s rough grip, and the girls dragging her here and pulling her
there as they passed her along. Then had come the moment when she was
hauled to safety up the steep shingly beach. How the stones had hurt her
as she lay! Yet even that was as nothing to this. At least she had been
able to lie still on the stones, but now the life was being bumped out
of her! She could certainly stand no more! She must shriek—she must do
something to show how intolerable it all was——
“Why, Dorothy, it looks as if you had been getting it rough. Have you
been competing for a medal from the Humane Society, or just doing a
swimming stunt off your own bat?”
Dorothy opened her eyes with a little cry of sheer rapture. “Oh, Daddy,
Daddy, I had forgotten you were here! I can’t bear this old truck one
minute longer—I can’t, oh, I can’t!” she wailed.
Dr. Sedgewick had been warned by the girl who had run on ahead of the
procession to tell matron of what was coming, and he had met the girls
and the hand-trucks down the lane a little beyond the school grounds. He
gave a rapid glance round to size up the possibilities of the situation.
Catching sight of the little gate into the grounds which would cut off a
big piece of the way, he called to them to open it, and stooping down,
he lifted Dorothy from the truck, swinging her over his shoulder.
“Guide me by the shortest way to the san,” he said to the nearest girl;
and while she ran on ahead of him, he followed after her, carrying
Dorothy.
“I am so heavy, you will never manage it,” she protested, yet
half-heartedly, for it was such a delightful change to be borne along
like this after that awful bumping on the truck.
“I think I shall be able to hold out,” he answered, laughing at her
distress, and then he passed in at the door of the san, where the matron
met him, and showed him where to carry Dorothy.
The hours after that were a confusion of pain and weariness, a
succession of deep sleeps and sudden, startled wakings. Then presently
Dorothy came out of a bad dream of being dragged down to the bottom of
the sea by Cissie, and awoke to find a light burning, and her father
sitting in an easy-chair near her bed, absorbed in a paper—or was it a
book?
Her senses were confused—she did not seem as if she could be sure of
anything; and there was something bothering her very badly, yet she
could not quite remember what it was.
“Daddy, is it really you?” she asked half-fearfully. It was in her mind
that she might be dreaming, and that it was not her father who was
sitting there, only a fancy her imagination had conjured up.
Dr. Sedgewick dropped the paper he had been reading, and came quite
close to the bed, stooping down over her, and slipping his fingers along
her wrist in his quiet, professional manner.
“Better, are you?” he asked cheerfully, and his eyes smiled down at her,
bringing a choking sob into her throat. The heavy sleep was clearing
from her now, and she was remembering the big trouble which lay behind.
“Oh, Daddy, I can’t bear it!” she wailed.
“What is the matter?” he asked in sudden concern. “Have you pain
anywhere?”
“Oh, I am all right; there is nothing the matter with me,” she burst out
wildly. “It would have been better if I had gone down with Cissie, when
I was so nearly done; it would have saved all the explaining that would
have to come after.”
“What explaining?” he asked quietly, and then he dragged his chair
closer to the bed, and leaning over her, gently stroked the hair back
from her forehead.
She lay quite still for a few seconds, revelling in the peace and
comfort that came from his touch. Then, wrenching her head from under
his hand, she asked anxiously, “Daddy, you have seen the Head—do you
think I shall win the Lamb Bursary?”
“I very much hope you will,” he answered. “The Head, of course, could
make no hard-and-fast pronouncement, but there seems not very much doubt
about the matter.”
Dorothy’s brows contracted—there was such a world of misery in her
heart that she felt as if she would sink under the weight of it. “Oh, I
wish I had not enrolled! I wish I had not come to Compton!” she burst
out distressfully.
“Why do you wish that?” he asked quietly. “I thought you had been so
happy here, and you have certainly done well—far, far better than Tom.”
“Ah, poor Tom! What have you done with him and with all the others?” she
asked, catching at anything which seemed as if it might put off for a
minute the necessity of explaining to her father her trouble about the
Lamb Bursary.
Dr. Sedgewick laughed, and to her great relief there was real amusement
in the sound. “We all agreed—and there were fifteen of us to agree,
mark you—that we had absolute confidence in Dr. Cameron’s methods in
dealing with boys. We felt the affair was a problem we would rather
leave him to solve free-handed, and we have left their punishment to
him. They are all to return next term, and he will decide on what course
to take with them.”
“Won’t they be punished in any way now?” she asked in surprise.
“Yes, in a way, I suppose,” he answered. “They will, of course, lose all
conduct marks, because they were acting in known defiance of
regulations—that goes without saying. The great majority of us were in
favour of flogging, but our suggestion met with no encouragement from
the Head. He told us there were some things for which flogging was a
real cure, but gambling was not one of them. The only real and lasting
cure for gambling was to lift the boy to a higher level of thought and
outlook—in short, to fill his life so full of worthier things that the
love of gambling should be fairly crowded out. He argued, too, that if
it were crowded out in youth, it would not have much chance to develop
later on in life.”
“It sounds like common sense,” said Dorothy, turning a little on her
pillow, and looking at the shaded night lamp as if the softened glow
might show her a clear way through her own problems. Then she asked,
with a timid note in her voice, “So you are not being anxious about Tom
any more?”
“I did not say that,” Dr. Sedgewick answered quickly. “You know,
Dorothy, a doctor never gives up hope while there is life in a patient;
so one should never give up hope of recovery of one suffering from—what
shall I call it?—spiritual disease. We will say that Tom has shown a
tendency to disease. But checked in its first stages—arrested in
development—he may be entirely cured before he reaches full manhood.
That is what I am hoping, and what those other fathers are hoping and
believing too. We feel that the discipline of school is the best
medicine for them at the present stage, and that is why we are so
content to leave the whole business in the hands of Dr. Cameron.”
Dorothy lay silent for a minute or two, and again her eyes sought the
soft glow from the lamp. Then making a desperate effort, she made her
plunge. “Daddy,” she whispered, catching at his hand and resting her
cheek upon it, “Daddy, I have got a trouble—a real, hefty-sized
trouble.”
“I know you have,” he answered gravely, and then he sat silent, waiting
for her to speak.
How hard it was! Why did he not help her? She held his hand tighter
still. Oh! if only she could make him understand how it hurt her to
speak of that old story to him! And yet it had to be done! She could not
in honour take the Bursary, knowing herself disqualified for it.
“Had you not better out with it, and get it over, Dorothy?” he asked
quietly.
She gasped, and suddenly burst out with a jerk, “Daddy, Mrs. Wilson told
me you had been sent to prison for a fortnight when you were a young
man, and the rules of enrolment for the Lamb Bursary candidates state
specially that girls cannot compete whose parents have been in prison.”
It was out now—out with a vengeance—and Dorothy hid her face so that
she might not have to see the pain she had caused. So strained was she
that it seemed a long, long time before her father spoke, and when he
did, his voice seemed to come from a great distance.
“Mrs. Wilson made a little mistake; it was not I who went to prison, but
my cousin Arthur,” he was saying. “It was Arthur who was driving home
from the dance that night, and I was sitting beside him trying to hold
him back from his mad progress. You would have spared yourself a lot of
suffering, Dorothy, if you had come to me with that old story when you
were home last vacation.”
“Then you have never been in prison?” cried Dorothy, her voice rising in
a shout of sheer joyfulness. “And I can have the Mutton Bone!”
“You have to win it first,” Dr. Sedgewick reminded her.