The Limberlost
Everybody agreed that Marlowe Grange was an ideal spot for a school.
The picturesque old orchard and grounds provided an almost unlimited
field of amusement. Those girls who were interested in horticulture
might have their own little plots at the end of the potato patch, and
a delightful series of experiments had been started down by the moat,
where a real, genuine water-garden was in process of construction.
Here, duly shod in rubber waders, a few enthusiasts toiled almost
daily, planting iris and arrow-head and flowering rush, and sinking
water-lily roots in old wicker baskets weighted with stones. There was
even a scheme on hand to subscribe to buy a punt, but Miss Beasley had
frowned upon the idea as containing too great an element of danger,
and of consequent anxiety for teachers.
"I don't want a set of Ophelias drowning themselves among the willows
and the long purples!" she remarked firmly. "If we bought a punt, we
should need a drag and a life-belt as well. You shall go for a row on
the river sometimes during the summer, and that must content you.
There are plenty of occupations on dry land to amuse yourselves
with."
The Grange certainly contained ample space for interests of every
description. The old farm buildings made sheds for carpentry and
wood-carving, or any other work that was too messy for the
schoolrooms. Under the direction of Miss Gibbs, some of the elder
girls were turning the contents of a wood pile into a set of rustic
garden seats, and other industrious spirits had begun to plait
osierwithes into baskets that were destined for blackberry picking in
the autumn. The house itself was roomy enough to allow hobbies to
overflow. Miss Beasley, who dabbled rather successfully in
photography, had a conveniently equipped dark-room, which she lent by
special favour to seniors only, on the understanding that they left it
as they found it. Miss Gibbs had taken possession of an empty attic,
and had made it into a scientific sanctum. So far none of the girls
had been allowed to peep inside, and the wildest rumours were afloat
as to what the room contained. Batteries and other apparatus had been
seen to be carried upstairs, and those scouts who had ventured along
the forbidden upper landing reported that through the closed door they
could hear weird noises as of turning wheels or bubbling crucibles. It
was surmised in the school that Miss Gibbs, having found a congenial
mediaeval atmosphere for her researches, was working on the lines of
the ancient alchemists, and attempting to discover the elixir of life
or the philosopher's stone. One fact was certain. Miss Gibbs had set
up a telescope in her solitary attic. She had bought it second-hand,
during the holidays, from the widow of a coastguardsman, and with its
aid she studied the landscape by day and the stars by night. The
girls considered she kept a wary eye on watch for escaped Germans or
Zeppelins, and regarded the instrument in the light of a safeguard for
the establishment.
"Besides which, anything's a blessing that takes Gibbie upstairs and
keeps her from buzzing round us all the time," averred Raymonde.
"She's welcome to keep anything she likes in her room, from a stuffed
crocodile to a snake in a bottle!" yawned Fauvette. "All I ask is that
she doesn't take me up and improve my mind. I'm getting fed up with
hobbies. I can't show an intelligent interest in all. My poor little
brains won't hold them. What with repousse work and stencilling and
chip carving, I hardly ever get half an hour to enjoy a book. My idea
of a jinky time is to sit by the moat and read, and eat chocolates. By
the by, has that copy of _The Harvester_ come yet? Hermie promised to
get it for the library."
The girls at the Grange had fashions in books, and at present they
were all raving over the works of Gene Stratton Porter. Even Raymonde,
not generally much of a reader, had succumbed to the charms of
_Freckles_ and _A Girl of the Limberlost_. The accounts of the
American swamp forest fascinated her. It was a veritable "call of the
wild."
"I'd give anything--just anything--to get into such a place!" she
confided to Fauvette. "I'd chance even the snakes and mosquitoes. Just
think of the trees and the flowers and the birds and the butterflies!
Why don't we have things like that in England?"
"I expect we do, only one never gets to see them. There's a wood over
there on the hill that looks absolutely top-hole if one could go into
it. Hermie said the other day that the Bumble Bee had buzzed out
something about taking us all for a picnic there some day. It would be
rather precious."
Raymonde shook her head reflectively.
"Picnics are all very well in their way, but when you turn about
thirty people together into a wood, I fancy the birds and butterflies
will give us a wide berth. Freckles found his specimens when he was
alone. You can't go naturalizing in a crowd! Look here! Suppose you
and I go and explore. I'll be the Bird Woman, and you can be the Swamp
Angel."
"Oh, what a blossomy idea! But what about Gibbie? Can we dodge her?"
"We'll wait till she's shut herself up in her attic, and then we'll
scoot. Between tea and prep.'s the best time, especially now prep.'s
been put later."
"You really have the most chubby inspirations, Ray," burbled Fauvette.
"You're an absolute mascot!"
The idea of posing as the Swamp Angel appealed to Fauvette. She was
conscious that she looked the part. She fingered her fluffy flaxen
curls caressingly, and resolved to wear a blue cotton dress for the
next day or two, in case there was a chance of the expedition. In
imagination she was already photographing rare birds and shooting
villains with revolvers, and looking her best through it all.
"I wish I knew how to mix iced drinks," she sighed regretfully. "One
can't get even the ice over here, not to speak of the bits of cherry
and lemon and grape and pineapple that the Angel used for Freckles.
Girls in America have a far better time than we have."
"Cheero! We'll get a little fun, you'll see, if we can only circumvent
the Wasp."
It was not a remarkably easy matter to leave the premises unobserved.
Monitresses had a tiresome habit of hanging about in places where they
were not wanted; Mademoiselle made herself far too conspicuous, and
Miss Gibbs seemed everywhere. The chums decided that a too great
attention to duty can degenerate into a fault.
"It's what Miss Beasley said in the Scripture lesson," declared
Raymonde. "Economy over-done turns into parsimony, liberality into
extravagance, self-respect into pride. Gibbie's over-stepping the
mark, and letting responsibility run to fussiness."
It is hardly possible to tackle a mistress and convince her of her
faults, so Miss Gibbs's pharisaical tendencies went unchecked.
Evidently the only possible method was to dodge her. Whether her
suspicions were aroused it is impossible to say, but for several days
she neglected her attic sanctum and pervaded the garden during
recreation hours.
Raymonde and Fauvette lay low, and toiled with an amazing spurt of
industry at osier-weaving.
"You've each nearly finished a basket," said Miss Gibbs approvingly.
"Yes, if we go on working hard this afternoon I think we shall finish
them," replied Raymonde craftily.
"It's nice to have a thing done. I'm glad you've taken to such a
sensible employment," commented Miss Gibbs.
"We like to have our fingers occupied, and then our minds haven't time
to wander," said Raymonde, quoting so shamelessly from Miss Beasley
that Fauvette kicked her surreptitiously in alarm.
Miss Gibbs regarded her for a moment with suspicion, but her eyes were
bent demurely over her basket, and her expression was innocence
personified.
"It's as well you have something to do under cover, for I think it's
going to rain," observed the mistress as she turned to leave the
barn.
The girls watched her cross the courtyard and enter the house; then
Fauvette, scooting in by the back way, had the further satisfaction of
seeing the tail of her skirt whisking up the attic stairs. She ran
back to report to Raymonde.
"Gibbie's safe in her sanctum. She thinks we're happily employed here
for the next hour. Let's bolt for the Limberlost! There's nobody in
the courtyard."
"Right-o!" echoed Raymonde. "It's the opportunity of a lifetime."
They did not wait to fetch hats, but, strolling down the flagged path
as if for exercise, reached the great gate. Then, glancing cautiously
round to see that the coast was absolutely clear, they unlatched the
little postern door, slipped through, and shut it after them. A moment
later they were running at top speed down the road that led to the
wood. It was not a very great distance away, and they had often passed
near it in their walks. To scramble over the palings and enter its
cool, mysterious shade had been their dream. They were resolved now
to make it a reality.
They had been prepared for something delightful, but not for the
little terrestrial paradise that spread itself at the farther side of
the fence. The wood had been thinned comparatively recently, so that
it admitted an unusual amount of light and air. The trees, just
bursting into the tender green of early May, spread delicate lacy
boughs overhead, like tender fingers held out to guard the treasures
underneath. The ground below, still moist and boggy from the spring
rains, was clothed with a carpet of dog violets, growing in such
profusion that they seemed to stretch in a vista of palest mauve into
the distance. At close intervals among these grew glorious clumps of
golden cowslips and purple meadow orchis, taller and finer by far than
those in the meadows, and deliciously fragrant. In the swampy hollows
were yellow marsh marigolds and blue forget-me-nots; on the drier soil
of the rising bank the wild hyacinths were just shaking open their
bells, and heartsease here and there lifted coy heads to the
sunlight.
Raymonde and Fauvette wandered about in ecstasy, picking great bunches
of the flowers, and running from clump to clump with thrills of
delight. Surely even Freckles's "Limberlost" could not be more
beautiful than this. A persistent cuckoo was calling in the meadow
close by; a thrush with his brown throat all a-ruffle trilled in a
birch tree overhead, and a blackbird warbled his heart out among the
hazel bushes by the fence. The girls went peeping here and there and
everywhere in quest of birds' nests, and their diligent search was
amply rewarded. In the hollow of a decaying stump a robin was feeding
five little gaping mouths, the blackbird's mate guarded four speckled
eggs, and three separate thrushes had pale-blue treasures in
clay-lined cradles amidst the undergrowth.
As they penetrated farther into the wood they struck upon a pond
closely surrounded by sallows and alders. Raymonde peered through the
shimmering leaves, and called Fauvette with a cry of joy, for covering
almost the entire surface of the water was a mass of the gorgeous
pale-pink fringed blossoms of the bog bean. The girls had never found
it before, and it was indeed rare for it to be growing in a Midland
county. They thought it was the most beautiful flower they had ever
seen. How to pick any was the difficulty, for even the nearest piece
lay fully a yard from the edge of the pond, and the finest blooms were
in the middle of the water.
"I'm going to get some somehow, if I have to take off my shoes and
stockings!" declared Raymonde.
An easier way than wading, however, presented itself. Close by the
side of the pond was a young tree which had been blown over by the
spring gales; the forester had chopped it from its roots, but had not
yet removed it. By dint of much energy the girls lifted this, and
pushed it over the water till part of it rested securely on an alder
which grew on a little island in the midst. It made a rather shaky but
perfectly possible bridge, if not for Fauvette, at least for Raymonde.
The latter advanced upon it cautiously but courageously. She took
three steps, almost slipped, but regained her balance by a miracle,
grasped an overhanging bough of the alder, and set a firm foot on the
island. From here, by reaching a long arm, she could gather some fine
specimens of the bog bean. She pulled it up in handfuls, with trailing
oozy stalks. As she turned to grip the alder branch before venturing
back over her primitive bridge, her eye suddenly caught sight of a
large nest built at the extreme brink of the water. It held four
browny-speckled eggs, and an agitated moorhen, seeking cover among the
reeds, gave the clue to their parentage.
The school was making a collection of birds' eggs for its museum.
There were plenty of robins' and thrushes' and blackbirds', and all
the common varieties, but so far not a solitary specimen of a
moorhen's egg. Raymonde felt that even at the risk of betraying their
secret expedition she must secure some of these. She decided to go
halves, to take two and leave two in the nest to console the moorhen
when she came back. She wrapped them in some grass and packed them in
her handkerchief, which she slung round her neck for safety. Then
taking her bunch of bog bean she managed to scramble back to the
bank.
The girls were naturalists enough to remove their tree-trunk from the
island, lest it should tempt marauding boys to go across and discover
the moorhen's nest. They hoped the bird would return and sit again
when they were out of the way. Each carefully carrying one of the
precious eggs, they went on farther to explore the wood. They had only
walked a short distance when Fauvette stopped suddenly.
"What's that queer squeaking noise?" she asked.
"Do you hear it too?" confirmed Raymonde.
The girls glanced round, and then looked at each other blankly. There
was no doubt that the persistent chirruping and peeping came from the
eggs in their hands.
"Oh, good night! The wretched things are hatching out!" gasped
Raymonde.
They had indeed robbed the poor moorhen at the very moment when her
chicks were in the process of hatching. Already there was a chip in
the side of each egg, and a tiny bill began to protrude, the owner of
which was raising a shrill clamour of welcome to the world. The girls
laid them hastily down on the grass.
"Those won't be any use for the museum!" exploded Fauvette.
"I wonder if we ought to put them back," murmured Raymonde, decidedly
conscience-stricken, though somewhat unwilling to venture again over
the slippery tree-trunk.
She might perhaps have braved the crossing, and restored the eggs to
the nest, but at that moment the rain, which had been threatening all
the afternoon, came down in a torrent. She felt it had sealed the fate
of the chicks.
"We'll just have to leave them here. It's like murder, but I can't
help it. If we don't get back quick we shall be drenched."
As the girls turned to retrace their steps they became aware that they
were not alone in the wood. Some distance among the bushes a dark coat
and hat were plainly advancing in their direction. Undoubtedly
somebody had been watching them and was following them. Wild visions
of Black Jack and his "Limberlost" gang swam before their eyes, and
with one accord they ran--ran anywhere, panic-stricken, bent only on
escaping.
A voice shouted, and it added to their terror, and sent them hurrying
on the faster. They imagined oaths and pistol-shots behind them. Such
exciting scenes were all very well in the pages of _Freckles_, but
they would be decidedly out of place in an English wood. When it came
to the point, neither of them possessed the courage and presence of
mind of the Swamp Angel.
Suppose they found themselves bound and gagged, and tied to trees,
while some dastardly ruffians hewed down the best timber in the wood?
The shouts behind grew nearer. Their pursuer was evidently gaining
upon them. Through the pouring rain they struggled on, splashing
anyhow through swampy places, regardless of soaked shoes and
stockings, pushing through wet bushes and underneath dripping
branches, possessed by the one idea of flight. Down through the hollow
where they had gathered the forget-me-nots, and up the bluebell bank
they struggled, with never a thought for the flowers; and they were
just about to scramble over some felled trees when Raymonde, who was a
yard in advance, caught her foot in a tangle of brier and fell on her
hands and knees among the springing bracken. Fauvette, unable to stop
herself, collided heavily and collapsed by her side. Too much out of
breath to stir, the girls lay for a few moments panting.
"Hallo! Wait!" shouted their pursuer.
The rather rasping, authoritative voice was so well known and familiar
that the girls scrambled up and turned round, to find--no desperate
villain armed with revolver and bowie-knife, but Miss Gibbs, in a
neat, shiny-black mackintosh and rainproof hat to match. She advanced
breathless and agitated, and very decidedly out of temper.
"You naughty girls! What do you mean by running away like this? I
watched you through my telescope as you went to the wood, and of
course followed you. Why didn't you come at once when I called?"
"We didn't know it was you!" murmured Raymonde, forbearing to explain
that they had taken their mistress for a ruffian.
Fauvette said nothing. She was looking horribly conscious and caught.
Miss Gibbs glared at the guilty pair, and, telling them curtly to come
along, led the way back.
Such a serious breach of school discipline was naturally visited with
heavy consequences. For the next three days Raymonde and Fauvette
spent their recreation hours indoors, copying certain classic lines of
_Paradise Lost_. They were debarred from the purchase of chocolates or
any other form of sweetstuff for the period of a month, and made to
understand that they were under the ban not only of Miss Gibbs's, but
also of Miss Beasley's displeasure.
"I never thought of that wretched telescope," mourned Fauvette. "Just
imagine Gibbie spying on us all the time! She must have watched us
scramble over the palings into the wood. It's worse than second sight!
And then for her to come gallivanting out after us in that swanky
mackintosh! It gave me spasms!"
"We'd a jinky time, though, first. It was worth being caught
afterwards," maintained Raymonde candidly. "And, you know, in secret
the Bumble Bee was rejoiced to see that bog bean. She won't admit it,
of course, but I know it's the discovery of the term. It's recorded in
the Nature Note-book, and the best piece was pressed for the museum.
My own private opinion is that both the Bumble and the Wasp will go
buzzing off to that Limberlost, exploring on their own, some day, and
I don't blame them. It's a paradise!"
"Most top-hole place I've ever been in in my life!" agreed Fauvette,
sighing heavily. "I say, I call it rather appropriate of the Bumble to
have made us copy out _Paradise Lost_!"