HOW MOLLY CAME TO CAMP
"Yes, she was the daughter of one of the French squatters on that very
lake we've fished this day. Susette they called her, and she was days in
the woods. Out of this _Laque de la Mort_, they drew her body; but
still, on dark nights, her spirit wanders as it wandered then, before
she sought or found rest in the pool. 'Tis easy, sure. Take one of you
men, even, and set you away from all the guide-marks we've made, you
could not find your way save by some inherited instinct. We Indians,
descendants of the forest men, get that instinct with our birth; even we
who have lived among the white men all our days. That Anton yonder,
though he has been housed under a roof ever since he was born, I warrant
me he could be set in some unknown wilderness but would find a way out.
Is it not so, Anton?" asked the half-breed story-teller, shading his
eyes from the firelight to look at the boy.
An instant later he had risen and bent above Anton, who now cowered in
his corner his head bent upon his knees and his whole attitude one of
keen distress.
"Lad, what's amiss with you?"
Anton tossed off the kindly hand just laid upon his shoulder and raised
a face that had grown haggard, with wild terrified eyes staring into the
questioner's face.
"'Tis a lie, no? There is no girl wanders the forest nights! You are
fool, Merimee, with your words!"
"That's as a man judges. Ghost tales were asked and told, and one is
true. I know it. But fear not, lad. No spirit will molest to his harm
one who rides through the wood aright, in the fear of God and with
honesty in his heart. As for the ghost of poor Susette, hapless maid!
Would not one with a spark of manhood in him seek to help her if he
could? But alas! When one is dead, even living men with hearts of
courage can avail nought. But, up. You've rested and supped. 'Tis time
you were a-saddle and riding home to your duty. Up and away. Though the
wood looks dark from here, 'tis because of our fire so bright. The stars
are out and once away from this the road will seem light enough. As
light as many another when you're played truant to your master to wander
in it. Up, and away!"
This Merimee, guide, was mostly a man of few words. Yet when, as now,
his toil for the day was over and the campers gathered for an evening
chat it flattered his vanity to be asked for the legends and traditions
of the countryside. His tongue had been loosened and he used it thus
liberally for the benefit of Anton, the mischievous, who "shamed his
duty" as old Merimee always honored it. As he finished speaking he
walked to the tree where the gray mare was fastened, slipped on its
saddle, tightened its girth, and called:
"Ready, Anton!"
And, as if in echo, again floated through the air overhead a
night-bird's mournful cry and Anton shrieked, then sprang to his feet
shivering with terror.
The men stared at him, astonished, and Monty ran to him, shook him, and
demanded:
"Don't you know better than that? Scare a fellow's wits out of his head?
That's nothing but the same old bird that's kept me awake--"
Melvin shouted in laughter, and the others echoed him.
"Kept you awake! Well, I'd like to know when? You that always go to
sleep over your supper--if you're allowed!"
Monty laughed, also, and the mirth around him seemed to restore Anton's
composure in a measure. But happening to glance toward Judge
Breckenridge he saw that gentleman looking at him keenly and his guilty
conscience awoke. In fact, the Judge was merely interested in watching
the changes which fear wrought upon Anton's healthy face and was growing
impatient to have the lad start home. He knew how eagerly his sister
would wait to read the letters he was returning her and to comply with
his own brief instructions concerning them. He was a man who wished
always to do at once anything he had to do; and nothing annoyed him more
than others' shilly-shallying. To his amazement, Anton begged him:
"Don't! Don't, sir, look at me like that! I didn't go for to do it!
She--she done it herself!"
"Who did what? Have you lost your common sense?"
Then it all came out, the whole miserable story; in broken sentences,
with keenest regret now, unhappy Anton told of Molly's following, of the
trick he had played upon her, and of the fact that she was now wandering
somewhere in that wild forest alone, save for old Queenie.
But the story was not ended before every member of that startled group
was on his feet, ready for search and rescue. Though he could almost
have killed the lad where he cowered, so furious was his wrath and
terrible his fear, the Judge controlled himself and sternly ordered:
"With me you come, Anton. Close to me you keep and lead me to the last
spot where you left my child. If we find her not--"
He did not need to finish his sentence with a threat, nor did he wait
for the horse which Merimee made haste to catch and saddle. On foot he
started, Anton held by an iron grasp, and they two were out of sight
before the others had quite realized that they were even moving.
Old Merimee took charge without question; organizing his little company
into bands of two and directing each pair to take a separate route
through the woods, but all verging toward the east and the distant
farmhouse. He arranged that all, carrying guns, should agree upon
certain signals; one shot meant distress, two reports called for
reinforcement by the nearest searchers; and three--or a succession of
more--good news, that the work had happily ended and the word was: "Back
to the camp!"
The old college president took Montmorency as his aide, with the
clannish instinct of two New Englanders for one another's company.
Indeed, this odd pair had been almost constant companions since they
entered the woods, and the lad had found the alert old man the "jolliest
'boy' he had ever chummed with."
The surgeon called Melvin to share his own search and the merchant
strode sturdily forward in the wake of Merimee, the guide; who delayed
but long enough to cover the fire and to sling over his shoulder a
hunting-horn. He had often used this for four-footed game, and might now
as a call to the Judge's lost daughter. Seeing Merimee do this sent
Melvin also back to his tent, yet only for a moment. Then he ran after
his partner and disappeared in the gloom of the forest.
* * * * *
Back at Farmer Grimm's, when Molly rode out of the grounds, there had
been none to see her go except one of the maids, drooping with
sick-headache against the back porch. Even she had scarcely realized
the fact, so absorbed was she by her own physical misery. There her
mistress found her and promptly despatched her to her room and bed,
until she should recover, and it was not till some hours later that she
descended to find the house in a turmoil of search and anxiety. At
dinner-time, Mrs. Hungerford had bidden Dorothy to call Molly; adding a
warning word:
"Tell her, Dolly dear, that she must come at once. Too often she lingers
and keeps Mrs. Grimm waiting. That isn't right because this household is
managed as systematically as your own Academy in school time. Be sure
and tell her."
"Yes, Auntie Lu, when I find her," answered Dorothy, speeding out of
doors, while the lady looked after her with more than ordinary interest;
thinking: "What a dear, bonny creature that child is! And I am so glad,
I hope so much for her now. I'm sure Schuyler will bid me go ahead and
write, or will send a note to be forwarded. I can hardly wait for the
outcome of the matter, but Dorothy must know nothing--nothing--until
just the right moment. Then for the climax, and God grant it be a happy
one!"
She sat down on the broad sill by the open window to wait for the girls,
lost in her own happy thoughts, until Miss Greatorex came and asked:
"Did you know that dinner had been served some moments and is fast
getting cold? It's mutton to-day, and Mrs. Grimm is fretting that
'mutton must be eaten hot to be good.'"
"So late? I was musing over something--didn't notice. Have the girls
come in without my seeing them?"
"Neither of them."
"That's odd. By the way, when did you see Molly?"
"A few moments after breakfast, I think. I've been writing all morning
at that further window and have scarcely looked out. Why?"
"She hasn't been in and dearly as she loves riding I never knew her to
keep on with it so long, unless she was off with the farmer. I sent
Dolly to call her and now she delays, too."
"Very well, _I_ will find Dorothy!" said Miss Isobel, with an air of
authority. She considered Mrs. Hungerford quite too indulgent to her
niece and was all the more strict with her own especial charge for that
reason. She now left the room with a firm step and was still wearing an
air of discipline when she came upon Dorothy emerging from the stables.
The child looked perplexed and a trifle frightened. She didn't wait for
her governess to upbraid her but began at once:
"Oh, dear Miss Isobel! I can't find her anywhere! Nobody has seen her
and Queenie isn't in her stall. I've been to my corncrib, the garden,
the long orchard all through, and yet she isn't. Ah! There's Mr. Grimm!
He's finished his dinner already and is going back to the hay-fields.
Please excuse me, I'll run ask him if he's seen her."
"Best not delay longer yourself, Dorothy--" called Miss Greatorex, but
for once her charge did not pause at this tone of reproof; and a first,
faint feeling of alarm rose in her own breast.
"Molly, lassie? No, indeed! I haven't seen her to-day. I was off to work
before she came down stairs, but I've been wishing for her and you, too,
the livelong day. The wild-roses that you love are blooming wonderful.
All my far-away meadows are hedged with them as perfect as if they'd
been set out a-purpose. Miles of them, I fancy, are on this old farm;
but little golden-haired Molly's the sweetest wild-rose I've seen this
summer. For you're no wild rose, lassie. You're one of those
'cinnamons,' home-keepers, close by the old house and that the Missus
claims are the prettiest in all the world. So there's a compliment for
the pair of you! Wait till I whistle! Mistress Molly knows that it
means: 'Come! I'm waiting for your company!' 'Twill fetch her, sure, if
she's within the sound of it."
So he put his hands to his lips and whistled as only he could do, a
long, musical note of call that reached far and wide and that the
missing girl had often likened to the sound of Melvin's bugle.
[Illustration: "QUEENIE TOO, HAD HEARD."
_Dorothy's Travels._]
But there came no answer of Queenie's footfalls over the gravel nor
their soft thud-thud upon the grass, and the farmer felt he could delay
no longer. Yet, could he go? While his little "comrade" was missing?
Silly, to feel a moment's alarm at such a trivial thing. A thoughtless
lassie, sure she was, this little maid of the far-away southland; but
oh! so "winsie." No. Let the hay wait. He'd tarry a bit longer and be
on hand to scold Fair-Hair when she came galloping back with a string of
merry excuses tumbling off her nimble tongue, her ready "I forgots" or
"I didn't thinks"--the teasing, adorable witch that she was!
"Fetch me my pipe and my paper, Dorothy, girl. I'll wait under this
apple tree till she comes. But do you all get your dinners and not so
many go hungry because one wild child loiters. A whisper! The missus is
getting a trifle crisp, in the kitchen yon. She's missing the nap that
is due her as soon as her people are fed. Best make haste. It's
pleasanter for all on the Farm when Missus is left to go her gait
regular, without hindrance from any. Go, little maid, and a blessing on
you."
So she ran and brought him his pipe and his paper, received a kiss for
her pains, and left him on the bench under the apple-tree, idle because
little Molly was idle--no better reason than that--though this was his
busiest time and he a most busy man.
But Mrs. Hungerford could not eat, even though courtesy compelled her to
table and to taste the good fare provided. Her want of appetite banished
Miss Isobel's, and though Dorothy was healthily hungry, as why shouldn't
she be? even she sent away her plate untouched, and was the first of the
trio to put into words the dreadful fear that was in all their hearts:
"I can't, I can't eat! Something has happened to Molly! Something
terrible has come to our Molly!"
That ended waiting. After that the farmer promptly summoned his men, the
mistress her maids, and a thorough search of all the premises began.
Over the old-fashioned well with its long sweep poor Aunt Lu hovered
like a creature distraught.
That well had held a fascination for the novelty-loving Molly, in this
case its age being the to her new thing. She had tried her own strength
in lifting the great beam and lowering the bucket from its pole; and,
perhaps, she had done so now and had fallen over the curb into the
depths below!
In vain did the others tell her how almost impossible this would have
been; she could not be dissuaded, and most earnestly begged the farmer
to have someone search the well.
"No, no, dear madam. Not till we've tried other more likely spots first.
The last time Molly was seen was on Queenie's back. Well, then we have
only to find the sorrel and we'll find the child. Take comfort. That
up-and-a-coming little lass isn't down anybody's well. Not she."
There were many barns and outbuildings on that big farm; some new and
modern, some old and disused. Not one was left unsearched. All work
stopped. Haymakers and ploughmen left their fields to add their willing
feet and keen eyes to the business, and up-garret, down cellar, through
dairies, pantries, unused chambers, everywhere within doors the
troubled housemistress led her own corps of searchers, and always
without result. This had been a foregone conclusion yet she left nothing
undone that might lead to the discovery of the missing girl; while the
longer they sought the deeper the conviction grew in all those anxious
hearts: "Molly is lost."
It was the maid with the headache who furnished the first clue. Coming
below after her hours of rest, she found the kitchen deserted, and all
labor at a standstill. Hearing voices without she questioned the first
she met and was told in faltering tones:
"The bonny little maid is--lost!"
"_Lost?_ Where, then, is Anton?"
"Gone with a parcel to the far-away camp. The mistress sent him for Mrs.
Hungerford."
"Well, but, the maid was with him. That is she sought to be. I heard her
call after him as he rode away and I thought her cries would split my
aching head. He was galloping out of the far gate and she a-chase. They
need not seek her hereabouts."
Said the mistress, in vast relief:
"I might have known. I might have guessed. He a mischievous tease, she a
wild, impulsive child." Then she hurried to poor Auntie Lu, sitting
disconsolate beside the well with Dorothy clasping her hand in her own
small ones, trying to comfort as best she could, and exclaimed: "Fear no
more! We should have thought at once the prank that madcap would be at!
She saw Anton ride away to the camp and she has followed him. The maid
who was ill remembers. She is safe with her father long before this.
Come in by, now, come in and have a cup of tea. A cup of tea will set
you up again like anything."
Aunt Lu was greatly cheered but it took more than the other's panacea of
a "cup of tea" to banish all anxiety; yet in the hope that had been
raised she passed the remainder of that dreadful day as calmly as she
could and without burdening others with the fear which still lingered in
her heart.
Upon his wife's report the farmer left off prying into all the home
places and saddled his fleetest horse. He sent all the men back to the
fields to house the abandoned hay machines and rusting ploughs, and to
attend the many duties of so great a farm. But he took one man with him
and a "snack" of supper in their pockets. It would be a long ride there
and back and a detour might be necessary. Wherever he found sign of the
child's wandering, should she by chance have lost the trail of Anton,
whom she followed, he would keep to the signs and not the shortest
route. Many a place there was, of course, where even the surest-footed
horse could not travel, and only a foot passage be made with difficulty.
But he rode round to Auntie Lu, now coaxed within doors to an open
window, and cheerily bade her:
"Keep stout heart, my woman dear. When you see my grizzled face again
you shall see your Molly's bonny one beside it. I'm a Grimm. I mean it."
Then he bared his gray head, settled himself firmly in his saddle,
called to his man: "Come on!" and rode as gallantly to the rescue as if
his seventy winters had been no more than seventeen.
All this time where was Molly?
When she found that Anton had disappeared from that open spot in the
forest she was at first terrified then comforted.
"Why, I reckon this must be mighty near that camp, after all. It's 'most
clear of the little trees and bushes, like some of the farm-groves that
anybody can play in and not be scared or--or get their dresses torn.
Queenie, you and I can rest a few minutes. Somehow I'm dreadful tired. I
rode such a lot all morning and now away out here after that Anton. He's
mean. He surely is dreadful ornery. When I see him again I'll just hold
my head mighty high and take no notice. Indians aren't much better than
negroes, I reckon. Anyhow he isn't half so nice. Catch one of our black
'boys' treating 'little missy' so! You hungry, too, Queenie? Well,
you're luckier than I for you can get your dinner off the ground. Go
ahead and nibble it. I'll wait for you;" she said, talking to the sorrel
as if she were human and could understand, and slipping from her saddle
to the ground.
After a moment's contemplation of the lovely place, where a little
stream ran trickling and babbling over stones, and where the ferns were
high as her head, looking to her like miniature trees themselves, she
began to feel almost contented. Open places between the pines let the
sunlight through and, where it fell, the wild roses which creep
everywhere over that fair land had forced themselves into a home and
bloomed away most bravely. Then she espied a scarlet patch of color
underneath and found that they were the wild strawberries she loved so
well. She cried, scrambling after these:
"Ah! Queenie! You're not the only one can get something to eat away out
here in the woods. I suppose that's the kind of stream Papa fishes for
trout. If I had a line and a hook and--and whatever I needed I could
fish, too. But I wouldn't. I never would like to kill anything, though a
trout that somebody else had killed would make a mighty nice dinner
right now."
The berries were plenty, and "enough" of anything is "as good as a
feast." At least they satisfied her immediate hunger as the water from
the brook, caught in a little cup made of a big leaf, satisfied her
thirst. Queenie slaked her own thirst at the same pool and was so quiet
and content that she greatly helped to cheer her small companion.
Finally Molly remembered a maxim she had once taught Dorothy:
"When you're lost, stay right still in that spot till somebody comes and
finds you." Not always the safest judgment, it may be, but consoling
then to this small girl.
Then she continued to converse with the sorrel mare; assuring that calm
creature:
"That boy went away out of here, some place, and to go home again he'll
have to come away back. That's plain enough. Now, you and I are real
safe, Queenie, really perfectly safe; if some them mooses or caribous,
or deers, or--or things--Let's not think about them, Queenie. Let's just
wait. Let's--let's take a nap if we can, to make the time pass
till--till Anton comes."
She wished she hadn't happened to think of any "wild beasts" just then
and she was astonished to see Queenie take her advice so literally; for
down upon that mossy ground dropped the sorrel, did its utmost to work
the saddle off its back, and, failing in this, stretched itself on its
side and did go to sleep.
Then for a time Molly busied herself in gathering flowers, wherever she
caught sight of one, and, thrusting them into her blouse, told Queenie
that "these are for that terrible flowery girl, Dorothy C. Oh! I wonder
what she is doing now! If she isn't scraping away on that old fiddle
I'll bet she's missing me. 'Tisn't polite for girls to 'bet,' Auntie Lu
says. Oh! I wish I could see her now. Funny I should be so lonesome,
right in the daylight with Queenie here. If I don't look out I'll be
crying; for I'm getting that awful scared way I was when Anton first
went. I'll lie down too on that pile of ferns and go to sleep--if I
can. I hope there aren't any wigglers of any sort to get into my ears.
I'll put my handkerchief over them and my face on that. Let's play
pretend it's bedtime, Queenie. Good night."
There was no response from the weary old horse who had jogged about
nearly all that day and Molly waited for none. A merciful drowsiness
stole upon her and when she woke again the night was really there.
Through the scattered tree-tops she could see the stars shining; close
at her feet was the same gentle purring of the little stream, and
overhead the soft rustle of pine needles moving lightly in the breeze.
But what had wakened her? Something had, she knew. Some sound other than
that of the brook or the pines. Queenie too, had heard. She had got to
her feet and was listening, was whinnying, as in no fear of whatever
thing it was. Molly could dimly see the old horse against the background
of gloom but her presence was vast comfort.
Hark! HARK!!
Molly was on her feet now, wider awake than in all her life
before, hands clasped to her breast, head bent forward,
listening--listening--listening.
"Toot! Toot! Tooty-ti-tooty-ti-toot!"
"A bugle! A bugle! The 'Assembly!' First call to meals! Melvin's coming!
Melvin--MELVIN!"
Nearer and nearer it came. It was at hand. On the other side the
murmuring stream. On this side. In her very ears; and screaming
"Melvin!" with all the agony of fear that she had pent within her brave
heart, Molly fell sobbing in the "Bashful Bugler's" arms.
A few minutes later she was in her father's; and not long thereafter sat
upon his knee before the camp-fire with her head upon his breast and he
clasping her close, close in an embrace that held within it almost an
agony of joy, so fierce it was.