A young woman faced me. Low and slight, dressed in tan from her jaunty
straw hat to her russet shoes; short walking skirt tailored to
perfection; a laced bodice very low in the neck; a tin fish bucket in
one hand. She had evidently taken me for one of the rustics in the
neighborhood, for I could see that she was as much surprised as I. A
glance sufficed to tell me her story. A jaded society woman, old and
_blase_ at twenty, having nothing but a sniff for the world and all
there was in it. She was pitifully young to wear those marks of
experience upon her face. Her features were inclined to be peaked; her
chin sharp, her blue eyes so weary, in spite of the momentary light
which flashed up in them now. There were faint lines about her unstable
mouth, and well defined crowsfeet at her eyes. She must have lived hard
and furiously from her early teens to have acquired that indescribable
expression which needs no interpreter. Whoever she was and whatever she
was--and I was convinced she could boast the blood of gentle folks--she
had seen some life in her score of years.
"I guess if there is any pardon to ask,--I should ask it," I replied,
dragging my cap off as I spoke. "I didn't know it was yours. I'm a
stranger. I was out walking, and ran up on the boat, and couldn't see
any harm in using it for a half-hour. Shall--that is, may I assist you
to get afloat?"
She had gotten rid of all tokens of surprise as I was speaking. Now,
with the ready action of a woman of the world, she came forward and held
out the bucket.
"You may stow that away.... I'm going to visit my lines."
"Lines?" I repeated, blankly.
"Trot lines," she explained, adjusting a pin in her hat when I was
absolutely sure such a thing was unnecessary. "I set them yesterday
afternoon."
"Oh! You're a fisherman!" I exclaimed. "Well, I hope you've had luck."
She stepped into the boat before I could offer assistance, got down and
took the oars--then stopped. She appeared to be thinking. I stood ready
to shove off at her word. Suddenly she looked up with a half smile.
"Would you like to go?"
I was not surprised. Poor little world-worn creature. How many men had
she molded with that half smile! I answered without hesitation.
"Certainly!"
There could be no harm to either of us. It was unconventional, but
conventionality is a terrible bugbear. She was lonely, I knew, and the
echo from a civilized world which I would get in her company would be
most welcome to me.
"Come on, then. Day before yesterday I caught a bass which almost wore
me out before I could get him aboard. You see you could be of help on an
occasion of that kind."
I offered to take the oars, but she declined, and subsequently displayed
a degree of skill in rowing that surprised me. She took the middle of
the stream and went with the sluggish current. From my position in the
stern I faced her, and feeling that conversation was almost imperative,
I said:
"Surely you don't live at Hebron?"
She smiled--a bright, winsome smile which somehow awakened a deeper pity
in me. Her true nature seemed revealed in that expression. She was not
wicked; not inherently bad, but was weak-willed, easily swayed,
susceptible to association and environment. One who loved the smooth
road of pleasure more than the stony highway of rectitude; one who had
given gratis and unthinkingly the perfume of the fresh flower of her
girlhood. Kind of heart, warm of sympathy, impulsive of temperament,
irresponsible.
"Yes," she said, with a cheery nod; "I live at Hebron."
"But you don't _belong_ there?" I insisted.
She laughed in a high, not unmusical key, and suddenly dipping her oars,
began to propel the boat swiftly through the water. Rowing shows a
graceful girl off to advantage, and my companion was richly endowed in
this particular. Her little russet shoes were firmly braced, the short
skirt revealing a few inches of tapering, tan-stockinged legs; her brown
hands gripped the oars firmly, and as she swayed forward and backward
with the rhythmic strokes I was conscious of a feeling of admiration for
her prowess. In a few moments we had rounded a bend, and here I saw a
line stretched across the river, with smaller lines depending from it
into the stream. The girl glanced back over her shoulder, dipped one oar
and adroitly piloted the boat toward a certain hook, before she spoke.
"I belong up yonder--for the summer," she said.
I followed her short gesture, and discovered upon a hill to my right
what I took to be a brick church, with a brick dwelling near it.
As I turned to make reply I saw that something was happening. The girl
was doing her best to haul in one of the sunken lines, but the hidden
force beneath the surface was combatting her strength fiercely. Before I
could offer assistance she had loosed her hold, and instantly the line
shot out and tightened, swaying this way and that, cutting the water
silently.
"I believe I have a whale!" she declared, in big-eyed seriousness,
shifting her position and kneeling before taking up her task afresh.
"No, don't help me yet"--as I made a forward movement--"it's lots more
fun to land one's own fish!"
She bent again to the vibrating line, while I held the boat steady and
eagerly awaited developments.
"I'm from Kansas City," she flung over her shoulder all at once, "and
I'm spending the summer with my uncle, the Rev. Jean Dupre--Father
John, the villagers call him. I am Beryl Drane."
The catastrophe cannot be told in detail. It may have been partly my
fault, for my guard was lax at the moment. Before I realized what had
happened Miss Drane was gone and I was in the water clinging to the
upturned boat. A sucking, gurgling whirlpool was moving down the stream,
and the cable line had disappeared. For a moment a cold horror crept to
my vitals and chilled me so that I could not move. Then my duty swept
over me with a swift rush, and, letting go the boat, I dived
desperately. Madly I swept my arms to left, right, everywhere, grasping
blindly for the touch of flesh or clothing. Dimly I seemed to realize
that I was in a measure responsible for the accident, and that I must
find the lost girl. Back and forth I fought through the water savagely,
my lungs hurting, my head throbbing. I could not give up. I had to find
her. She was there, somewhere in that silent, treacherous element. Into
my chaotic mind leaped the thought that perhaps she had risen to the
surface. Instantly I ceased my efforts and rose. Dashing the streaming
drops from my eyes and mouth I gulped in a deep breath, and glared
around despairingly. Silence; solitude; a shining, disc-like spot where
the reflection of the sun lay, and a dozen feet off the glistening
bottom of the boat. That was all. A man's length to the south I saw some
bubbles rise and burst. There can be no bubbles without air. Maybe--
Resurgent hope filled my breast as I plunged downward again, striking
out with all my might. I grasped a sodden something. I opened my eyes.
The water was clear and the sunlight filtered dimly through it. A
confused shadowy shape confronted me. I could get no outlines. An
instant later I touched a hand, and knew it was Beryl Drane. A
conception of the truth came then. When the fish, or whatever it was,
had dragged her overboard, she had become entangled in the lines, and
the thing which had power to pull her from the boat likewise had power
to hold her below the surface while it struggled to escape. I clasped
her in my arms, gave a tug, and together we shot upward. I looked at her
as we reached light and air. She was limp, and to all appearance
perfectly lifeless. Her lips had a bluish tinge, and were parted the
least bit. Her eyes were half closed; she did not breathe.
Filled with foreboding which trembled on the verge of certainty, I swam
for the shore. The distance was short, and presently I was struggling up
the slippery mud bank with the senseless form of the girl. My mind had
been busy while I was swimming. Should I stop on shore and attempt
resuscitation, or should I hurry on to the priest's house, just up the
hill? I decided on the latter course as the most expedient, as the delay
would be practically nothing, and proper restoratives could be had at
the house. There probably was a road. Straight up the wooded slope I
dashed. My exertions in the water had tired me, and now as I made my way
through the dense undergrowth up the steep hill I was conscious of
intense physical fatigue. But I pressed grimly on, with a dread in my
heart which far outweighed any physical weakness.
At length I reached a rail fence. How I surmounted it with my burden, I
do not know. Beyond the fence was a pasture lot with only a gentle
incline, and across this I raced. Another fence, the back yard of the
parsonage, wherein squalling chickens fled precipitately as I tore by,
around the house to the front porch, where sat a little old man in a
swinging chair, clad in a priest's robe. I knew it was Father John. He
was quietly reading, and smoking a meerschaum pipe with a stem as long
as my arm, but the sound of my feet aroused him, and he raised his head.
"_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, jumping up, dropping his book, but holding
to his pipe, which he waved wildly. "In ze name of heaven, m'sieu! What
was it zat has happen?"
The front door stood open, and I rushed into the house without replying.
A couch was in the hall, and on this I laid the form of the girl. Father
John, his wrinkled face stamped with terror and anguish, was beside me
in an instant.
"Madonna! Jesu!" he wailed. "My blessed Bereel!"
I began the treatment for the drowned, explaining hurriedly how the
accident had occurred.
"Call your housekeeper!" I added. "Her clothes must be loosened. Quick!
If no doctor is near there is no use sending. I know what should be
done. Bring brandy, or whiskey--hurry!"
Father John ran from the hall crying at every step:
"Marie! Marie! Marie!"
His tremulous voice receded in the rear.
I unfastened the girl's belt, tore open her clothing at the waist, and
as I worked feverishly, was conscious of a gaunt, austere woman of
fifty-five or sixty suddenly falling on her knees at my side, and
unhooking the tight corset which my rude haste had exposed. Thereafter
we worked together, in silence, moving the arms up and down and striving
for artificial respiration. Father John hovered just out of reach, an
uncorked flask in one shaking hand; the long stemmed pipe, which he had
never abandoned, in the other. In the stark silence which accompanied
our efforts I could hear him whispering incoherent but fervent prayers
in his native tongue.
Closely I watched the pallid face--the poor, peaked face which had
looked upon so much that a woman ought not to know exists--but no signal
flare came to the waxen cheeks. I took the flask and carefully poured
some brandy between the parted lips--poor lips, which I knew had taken
kisses not given by love. The fiery liquid trickled down her throat, but
there was no movement, no attempt to swallow. I gave more, for this was
the sovereign test for life. There came a rigor, so slight that I was
not altogether sure of it. More brandy. A shiver passed over the limp
form; a choking, gasping sound issued from her throat, followed by a
moan of pain. I stood erect, looking down at her intently. Almost
imperceptibly the faintest glow showed in the marble pallor of her skin.
She was reviving. The danger was past. The gaunt woman crouched at my
feet looked up at me mutely, interrogatively.
"Continue to rub her hands and feet," I said. "Keep all her clothing
loose. Give her very small quantities of liquor from time to time. She
had better not see me immediately on awaking."
Then I took the priest by the hand and silently led him out on the
porch. A wooden settee was placed against the railing at one end. I
conducted him here, and we sat down. My clothes were still wet, but I
gave this no thought.
I proceeded first to assure Father John that his niece was practically
out of danger, then recounted everything in detail pertaining to the
accident in the river. He listened in eager silence, his expression
still one of amazement and distress. I looked at him as I talked. He was
a very small man. His skin was yellowish brown, like parchment. His
brows projected; his eyes were black and keen; his nose was straight and
thin, but quite large. His chin protruded into rather a sharp point, and
his mouth was the most sensitive I have ever seen on a man. His lips
were beautifully bowed, and had retained their color. They were never in
perfect repose, but were constantly beset by what I am tempted to
describe as "invisible" twitchings. As I spoke on, he gradually became
calmer, after a while relighting his pipe. This seemed to act magically
upon him, for soon after he began to smoke the wild expression vanished
from his face.
"So you are ze stranger on ze Bal' Knob?" he queried, when I had
finished my recital.
"Yes; I am out after health."
"Health?" he repeated, sweeping his keen eyes over my stalwart form in
open astonishment.
"I don't appear to be an invalid, I'll admit," I hastened to add. "But
something started up in here"--I touched my chest--"and the doctor sent
me to the woods."
"Ah! Ze--ze--ze lungs.... You never struck me to have ze consumption.
You are ze stron' man."
"It was just a beginning--a fear, rather than an actuality. I have been
there a month, and I am already much better."
The housekeeper appeared in the doorway.
"Miss Bereel ees awake, and has asked for you both," she said.
When we again stood beside the couch, the girl made an effort to take my
hand, but was too weak. Seeing her purpose, I grasped hers instead.
"Thank you," she said, in a thin, ghostly little voice. "It was not his
fault, uncle; he saved me. Come to see me sometime, and we'll go--rowing
again!"
She tried to smile, but was too exhausted.
"I shall certainly come to inquire about you," I replied, gently laying
her hand down. "I fear I was somewhat to blame, and I hope you will be
all right very soon."
She looked at me with a wan light of gratitude in her eyes, and a few
moments later I was bidding Father John adieu on the porch step.
"Come again, m'sieu," he said, squeezing my hand warmly. "You shall have
ze welcome!"
I thanked him, again expressed my hope and belief that his niece would
be quite all right in a day or two, and struck out for Hebron.