THE PEAT-BOG.
It was a great relief to Margaret to carry her perplexities to Aunt
Faith and talk them over. Mrs. Cheriton's mind and sympathies were as
quick and alert as if she were still a young woman, instead of being
near the rounding of the completed century. She listened with kindly
interest, and her wise and tender words cleared away many of the cobwebs
of anxiety that beset Margaret's sky.
"Let patience have her perfect work!" she was fond of saying. "Neither
of these children is to be led by precept, I think. Make your own ways,
ways of pleasantness as well as paths of peace, and soon or late they
will fall into them. You cannot expect to do much in a week, or two
weeks, or three weeks. Or it may be," she would add, "that you are not
to do it after all; it may be that other things and persons will be
called in. The ordering is wise, but we cannot often understand it, for
it is written in cipher. Do you only the best you can, my child, and
keep your own head steady, and you will find the others settling into
harness before long."
"It distresses me," Margaret said, "to have Rita so rude to the
servants. I cannot speak to her about that, I suppose; but it is really
too bad. Elizabeth is so sensible, I am sure she understands how it all
is; but--well, the gardener, Aunt Faith! John Strong! Why, any one can
see that he is an uncommon man; not the least an ordinary labouring man.
Do you know how much he knows?"
Mrs. Cheriton nodded. "John Strong is a very remarkable man," she said;
"you are right there, Margaret. And Rita is uncivil to him? Do you know,
I should not trouble myself about that if I were you. If Elizabeth can
understand that Rita has been brought up without learning any respect
for the dignity of labour, John Strong will understand it twice as well,
for he has more than twice the intelligence."
"Thank you, Aunt Faith! You are so comforting! He--he has been here a
long time, has he not? I should think my uncle must have great
confidence in him; and he has such beautiful manners!"
"His manners," said Mrs. Cheriton emphatically, "are perfect." Then she
said, changing the subject rather hastily, "And where are the two other
girls to-day, my dear? They do not incline to come to me often, I
perceive. It is not strange; many very young people dislike the sight of
extreme age; you have been taught differently, my dear,--Roger Montfort
was always a thoughtful, sensible lad, like John. No, I do not blame
them in the least for keeping away, but I like to know what they are
doing."
"I--I don't really know, just now," and Margaret hung her head a little;
"Peggy wanted me to go to walk with her an hour or so ago, but I was
just reading a book that Papa had always told me about,--'The Fool of
Quality,' you know it?--and I did not want to leave it. I ought to have
gone; I will go now, and see where they both are. Dear Aunt Faith, thank
you so much for letting me come and talk to you; you can't think what a
relief it is when I am puzzled."
The old lady's sweet smile lingered like a benediction with Margaret, as
she went back to the main house, carefully closing the door that shut
off the white rooms. Surely she had been selfish to stay indoors with a
book, instead of going out with her cousin; but oh, the book understood
her so much better, and was so much more companionable! Now, however,
she would be good, and would go and see what both the cousins were
doing. They were not together, of course; Rita was very likely asleep at
this hour; but Peggy, what had Peggy been doing?
What had Peggy been doing?
She had sauntered out rather disconsolately, on Margaret's refusing to
accompany her. She was so used to being one of a large, shouting,
struggling family, that she felt, perhaps more than any of the three
girls, the retirement and quiet of Fernley. She wanted to run and scream
and make a noise, but there was no fun in doing it alone. If Jean were
only here!
She went through the garden, and found some consolation in a talk with
John Strong, who, always the pink of courtesy, leaned on his hoe, and
told her many valuable things concerning the late planting. Her
questions were shrewd and intelligent, for Peggy had not lived on a farm
for nothing, and she already knew more about the possibilities of
Fernley than Margaret or Rita would learn in a year.
"Where shall I go for a walk?" she asked, when John Strong showed signs
of thinking about his work again. "I hate to go alone, but no one would
come with me. I have been over the hill and into the oak woods. What is
another nice way to go, where there will be strawberries?"
John Strong considered. "About two miles from here, miss, you'll find a
very pretty strawberry patch. Go through the oak woods and along beside
the bog; but be careful not to step into the bog itself, for it is a
treacherous bit."
"What kind of a bog? Why don't you drain it?" asked Peggy.
"It is a peat-bog," returned the gardener. "It would be a very costly
matter to drain it, but I believe Mr. Montfort is thinking of it, miss.
A short way beyond the woods you'll come upon the strawberry meadow; it
is the best I know of hereabouts. Good morning, miss."
Off went Peggy, swinging her hat by the ribbon, a loop of which was
coming off, and thinking of home and of Jean, her most intimate sister.
She loved Margaret dearly already, but one had always to be on one's
good behaviour with her, she was so good herself. Oh, how delightful it
would be to have Jean here, and to have a race through the woods, and
then a good, jolly romp, and perhaps a "spat," before they settled down
to the business of strawberry-picking! She could have spats enough with
that horrid, spiteful Cuban girl, but there was no fun in those; just
cold, sneering hatefulness. Thinking of her cousin Rita, Peggy gave her
hat a twist and a fling, and sent it flying across the green meadow on
which she was now entering.
"There!" she said, "I just wish that was you, Miss Rita,--I do! I
wouldn't help you up, either."
Then, rather ashamed of her outburst, she went to pick up the hat again;
but, setting foot on the edge of the green meadow, she drew it back
hastily.
"Aha!" said Peggy. "The peat-bog! _Now_ I've been and gone and done it!"
She whistled, a long, clear whistle that would have done credit to any
one of her brothers, and gazed ruefully at the hat, which lay out of
reach, resting quietly on the smooth emerald velvet of the quaking bog.
"Oh, bother! Now I suppose I shall have to fish the old thing out. It
will never look fit to be seen again, and Margaret retrimmed it only the
other day. Well, here goes!"
Looking about carefully, Peggy pulled a long bulrush from a clump that
grew at the side of the bog. Then she walked along the edge, skirting
with care the deceitful green that looked so fair and lovely, till she
came to where a slender birch hung its long drooping branches out over
the bog. Clinging to one of these branches, Peggy leaned forward as far
as she dared, and began to angle for her hat. "He rises well," she
muttered, "but he doesn't bite worth a cent."
Twice she succeeded in working the end of the bulrush through the loop
of ribbon that perked cheerfully on the top of the hat; twice the loop
slipped off as she raised it, and the hat dropped back. The third time,
however, was successful, and the skilful angler had the satisfaction of
drawing the hat toward her, and finally rescuing it from its perilous
position. Not all of it, however; the flower, the yellow rose, once
Peggy's pride and joy, had become loosened during the various
unaccustomed motions of its parent hat, and now lay, lonely and lovely,
a golden spot on the bright green grass. Peggy fished again, but this
time in vain; and finally she was obliged to give it up, and go off
flowerless in search of her strawberries.
Meanwhile, Margaret had been searching high and low for Peggy. John
Strong could have told her where she was, but he had gone to a distant
part of the farm, and no one had seen the two talking together.
"A search for Calibana?" said Rita, when her cousin inquired for the
wanderer. "My faith, why? If she can remain hidden for a time,
Marguerite, consider the boon it would be!"
[Illustration: PEGGY AT THE BOG.]
But Margaret turned from her impatiently, seeing which, Rita was
jealous, and said, "I had hoped you would take a walk with me, _ma
cousine_. I perish for air! I cannot go alone through these places,--I
might meet a dog."
Margaret could not help laughing.
"I think you might," she said. "And what then?"
"I should die!" said Rita simply. Then, linking her arm in her cousin's
with her most caressing gesture, she said, "Come with me, _alma mia_. We
walk,--very likely we find La Calibana on our way. She cannot have
strayed far, it is too near dinner-time; and she has a clock inside her;
you know it well, Marguerite."
Margaret could not refuse the offered company, and they set out in the
same direction that Peggy had taken. Margaret had been in the oak woods
several times with Peggy, and thought she might very likely find her
there; but no one answered her call; only the trees rustled, and the
hermit-thrush called in answer, deep in some thicket far away.
Presently, as they walked, there shot through the dark oak branches a
sunny gleam, a flash of green and gold. They pressed forward, and in
another moment stood on the edge of the quaking bog. But they had not
been warned; neither had they Peggy's practised eye, which would have
told her even without the warning that this was no safe place.
"Oh, what a lovely meadow!" cried Margaret. "I always wondered what lay
beyond these woods, but have never come so far before. Shall we cross
it, Rita? or does it look a little damp, do you think?"
"It may be damp," said Rita indifferently. "I care not for damp, _tres
chere_. Let us cross, by all means. And look! see the golden flower;
what can it be?"
"I don't know, I am sure!" said Margaret, gazing innocently at the
yellow muslin rose which had been under her hands only the day before.
"It looks--I don't know what it looks like, Rita. But I am afraid the
grass is very wet. Don't you see the wet shining through?"
"Pouf!" said Rita. "Wait thou here, faint heart, while I bring the
flower; that, at least, I must do, even if we go no further."
She stepped over the grass so lightly and quickly that she had gone some
steps before her feet began to sink in the black, oozy bog. Margaret
saw the water bubbling up behind her, and cried to her in alarm to come
back; and Rita, finding the earth plucking at her feet, turned willingly
toward the solid ground; but return was impossible. She tried to lift
her feet, but the bog held them fast, and with the effort, she felt
herself sinking, slowly but surely.
"Ah," she cried, "it is bad ground! It is a pit, Marguerite! Do not
move, do not come near me! Run and get help!" For Margaret was already
stepping forward with outstretched hands.
"Stop where you are!" cried Rita imperiously. "Do you not see that if
you come in, we are both lost? I tell you there is no ground here, no
bottom! I sink, I feel it sucking me down, down! Ah, _Madre_! go,
Marguerite, fly for help!"
Poor Margaret turned in distraction. Whither should she fly? They were
more than a mile from home. How could she leave her cousin in this
dreadful plight? Before help could come, she might be lost indeed, drawn
bodily under by the treacherous ooze. She turned away, but came running
back suddenly, for she heard a sound coming from the opposite direction,
a cheerful whistle.
"Oh, Rita!" she cried; "help is near. I hear some one whistling, a boy
or a man. Oh, help! help! Come this way, please!"
The whistle changed to a cry of surprise, uttered in a familiar voice.
The next minute, Peggy came running through the wood, her hands and face
red with strawberry juice.
Margaret could only gasp, and point to Rita, for her heart seemed to die
within her when she saw that the newcomer was only a girl like
herself,--only poor, awkward Peggy.
They were no better off than before, save that now one could go for
help, while the other could stay to cheer poor Rita. Rita was now deadly
white; she had ceased to call. The black ooze had crept to her knees,
and she no longer made any effort to extricate herself. Margaret was
turning to run again, but Peggy stopped her. "Stand still!" she said.
"I'll get her out."
Ah, poor, awkward, ill-dressed Peggy, your hour has come now! Not for
nothing were you brought up on a prairie, your eyes trained to
quickness, your arms strong as steel, your wits ever on the alert where
there is danger! Poor Peggy, this is your hour, and the haughty beauty
and the gentle student must own you their superior.
Peggy cast a keen glance around; she was looking for something. Spying a
stout stake that had been broken off and was lying on the ground, she
caught it up, and the next moment had thrown herself flat on her face.
Lying flat, she began slowly and cautiously to wriggle out across the
surface of the quaking bog. The black water seethed and bubbled under
her; but her weight, evenly distributed, did not bear on any one spot
heavily enough to press her down. Slowly, carefully, she worked her way
out, while the other girls held their breath and dared not speak. Once,
indeed, Rita moaned, and cried, "No, no, one is enough! Go back! I
cannot let you come!"
But Margaret had seen that in Peggy's eyes and mien which kept her
silent. She stood trembling, with clasped hands, praying for both. She
could do no more.
"Lie down now, Rita!" Peggy commanded. "Lie flat, just as I am! Stretch
out your arms,--so! Now, catch hold!"
Rita obeyed to the point. It was terrible to lie down in that awful
black slough that was to be her grave, perhaps, but she obeyed without a
word. Stretching her arms as far as they would go, she touched the end
of the stake,--touched, grasped, held fast; and now Peggy, still holding
fast to her end, began to wriggle back, slowly, cautiously, moving by
inches.
"Kneel down on the edge, Margaret!" she said; "don't come over, but
reach out and give us a haul in when you can touch. It's getting pretty
deep here!"
Margaret knelt and reached out her arms; could she touch them? Peggy was
sinking now, but she still moved backward, dragging Rita with her; they
were close by,--she had hold of Peggy's skirt. The stout gathers
held,--which was a miracle, Peggy said afterward,--and the next moment
all three girls were sitting on the safe, dry ground, crying and holding
each other tight.