Really, I believe it's nicer than being on the boat.”
“Yes,” responded Sylvia, with a supreme faith in any assertion that
Courage might choose to make; “but why?”
“Because we have the fun of living out on the water, and Miss Julia
besides.”
“Oh, yes, to be sure!” half ashamed to have ventured so obvious a
question.
Miss Julia besides! No one could imagine what those three little words
meant to Courage. It was a delight in itself simply to waken in the
morning, and know that before night Miss Julia would probably come
riding over on her beautiful “Rex” or driving the gray ponies, or if not
to-day, then to-morrow. Whenever she came she would stop for a chat, and
more likely than not bring with her some little gift from the wonderful
place on the Rumson--a plant from the greenhouse, a golden roll of
delicious butter, or just a beautiful flower or two that her own hands
had picked in the garden. And so the summer was crowned for Courage by
the happy accident of nearness to Miss Julia, and the only sad moments
were when, now and then, a great longing for her father surged over
her, or when the realization of Larry's ever-increasing blindness
pressed heavily down upon even her buoyant spirit.
[Illustration: 8089]
As for life on the draw, the days slipped by as uneventfully as on
the lighter, though no doubt they were more monotonous. There were no
morning trips through the busy streets to market (David had all their
supplies sent over from Red Bank), and nothing, of course, of the
ever-changing life of the harbor; but the children were more than
contented. Sylvia was never so happy as when at work, and somehow or
other there always seemed to be plenty of work for the little black
hands to do. But, it must be confessed, there were times when Courage
did find the days rather dull--times when she did not feel quite like
reading or studying, and when she could think of nothing that needed to
be done. There was one recreation, however, that always served to add
a zest to the quietest sort of a day. Every clear afternoon, somewhere
between four and six o'clock, she would don the pretty blue hat, and
when it was anywise cool enough the blue coat, too--for she loved to
wear it--and then go out and perch herself safely somewhere on the top
of the bridge rail and with her back to the sun, should he happen to
be shining. Then in a little while some of her friends, out for their
afternoon drive, would be pretty sure to come crossing the bridge, and
though possibly lacking the time to stop for a chat, would at least
exchange a few cheery words as they perforce walked their horses over
the draw. I say some of her friends, for already there were many of
them, for people could hardly escape noticing the pretty little house
and the kind-faced, halfblind old man sitting in the door-way, or
failing these, the little girl in the handsome blue coat and hat. Some
had either guessed or found out the meaning of the black bow on the
sleeve, and ever afterward seemed to regard her with an interest close
bordering on downright affection. Indeed, in one way and another, the
household on the draw became known far and wide, and strangers sometimes
driving that way for no other reason than to see the beautiful little
girl with the remarkable name, were disappointed enough if they did not
chance to come across her; but of this far-reaching notoriety Courage
fortunately never so much as dreamed.
And so the days fared on much as I have described until there came an
evening when something happened. It was an evening early in October, and
our little party sitting down to their six o'clock supper were every one
in a particularly happy frame of mind. The sun had gone down in a blaze
of gold and crimson, and the river, which is wide enough below the
bridge to be dignified as a bay, lay like a mirror reflecting the
marvellous color. Later, when the twilight was fusing all the varying
shades into a fleecy, wondrously tinted gray; a brisk little breeze
strode up from the west, and instantly the water rose in myriad tiny
waves to meet it, and each wave donned a “white-cap,” as in honor of its
coming.
Low down on the horizon the veriest thread of a new moon was paying
court to the evening star, that was also near its setting, but both
still shone out with more than common brilliancy through the early
evening air. Here, then, was one cause for the generally happy feeling,
and another, no doubt, lay in the all-pervading cheeriness of the little
home. Humble and small it was, to be sure, but there was comfort, and
plenty of it, on every side--comfort in the mere sight of the daintily
set table; comfort of a very substantial kind in the contents of the
shining teapot, in the scrambled eggs sizzling away in a chafing-dish,
which Sylvia had cleverly concocted, and, above all, in the aroma,
as well as in the taste, of the deliciously browned toast. People who
chanced to come driving over glanced in at the cosey, lamp-lighted
table, caught a whiff of the savory odors, and then the moment they were
off the draw urged on their horses in elusive hope of finding something
as inviting at home. During the progress of the meal, and while Sylvia,
who was an inimitable little mimic, was giving a lisping impersonation
of one of the teachers at the Asylum, a carriage rolled rapidly by, and
some one called, “Hello there, Courage!” Quickly recognizing the voice,
Courage rushed out-of-doors, almost upsetting the table in her eagerness,
but even then Miss Julia was a long way past, having actually trotted
her ponies right over the draw itself in most unprecedented fashion.
This was a grave offence in David's eyes, and Courage, retaking her seat
at the table, wondered what he would have to say about it.
“Miss Julia must have been in a great hurry,” she ventured.
“Yes, a ten-dollar hurry,” growled David.
“Oh, you won't fine her!” Courage exclaimed, alarmed at the mere thought
of anything so ungracious; “she just couldn't have been thinking.”
“Well, then, we'll just teach her how to think;” but Sylvia, quite
sure that she detected a lack of determination in David's tone, said
complacently, “Neber you fear, Miss Courage. Mr. David don' sure nuff
mean what he sez, I reckon,” whereupon Mr. David shook his head, as much
as to say, “Well, he rather guessed he did,” but Courage saw with relief
that there really was nothing to fear. After supper Larry and David took
a turn on the bridge while the table was being cleared, and then coming
back to the little living-room, Courage read aloud for an hour from one
of Sylvia Sylvester's namesake books. It chanced to be the incomparable
story of “Alice in Wonderland,” and David and Larry were as charmed as
the little folk themselves. At nine o'clock the book was laid away and
Larry went directly to bed. Courage and Sylvia hurried into coats and
hats for a run in the bracing night air, and David, stopping first to
light his pipe, followed them out onto the bridge. All three found to
their surprise that the sky had grown suddenly lowering and overcast,
while the breeze of the twilight was fast stiffening to a vigorous west
wind.
[Illustration: 0094]
“We're in for a blow, I'm thinkin',” said David, looking down-river,
with the children standing beside him, “and, bless me! there isn't a
star to be seen. Who'd a-thought it after that sunset.”
Courage, seeing something in the distance, paid no attention to this
last remark. “Mr. David, what's that?” she exclaimed, pointing in the
direction in which she had been gazing.
“Sure it looks like a sail, Courage. Can it be that they're wantin'
to get through, I wonder? What's a boat out for this time o' night,
anyhow?” Then for several minutes all was silent.
“Listen,” said Sylvia at last; “doesn't that sound like rowing?”
“Yes it do,” said David, after listening intently, his hand to his ear.
“I thought it didn't 'pear just like a sail-boat; howsomever, there's a
white thing dangling to it that looks--” but here David was interrupted
by a coarse voice calling out, “Hello there! Open the draw, will you?”
“Hello there!” David answered; “but what'll I open it for? Ye're rowin',
aren't ye?”
“Yes, we're rowing to gain time, but there's a sail to the boat as plain
as daylight, isn't there? Now hurry, man alive, and do as you're told;
we've sprung aleak.”
“Sprung aleak! Then ye're fools not to make straight for the shore,”
reasoned David.
“That's our lookout; but for land's sake! open the draw, instead of
standing there talking all night,” and David, realizing that there may
be danger for the men in longer parleying, puts his hand to the lever,
hurriedly dispatching the children to close the gates at either end;
and away they fly, eager to render a service often required of them when
there was need for special expedition. Indeed, one can but wonder how
David sometimes managed when alone, and a boat tacking against the wind
had need to make the draw at precisely the right moment.
But to-night it happens that he is in too great haste, and while yet
several yards from the gate, Courage, with horror, feels the draw
beginning to move under her. “Wait,” she calls back to David, but her
voice is weak with fear, and her feet seemed weighted. Oh, if she cannot
reach the end in time to make the main bridge and close the gate, and
some one should come driving on in the darkness, never seeing that
the draw was open! At last she is at the edge, but only the tenth of a
second more and it will be too late to jump. Shall she try it? It will
be taking a dreadful risk. She may land right against the rail, be
thrown back into the water, and no one know in time to hasten to her
rescue. She hesitates. _No_--and then _yes_, for an instantly deciding
thought has come to her.
The draw swings clear of the bridge. The men in the boat, grumbling at
everything, paddled clumsily through, while over the other gate, reached
barely in time, Sylvia hangs breathless and trembling. At the same
moment with Courage, she, too, felt the draw begin to move, but luckily
chanced to be nearer her goal. Meanwhile, where is Courage? Not in the
water, thank God, but prone upon the bridge above it, lying just where
she fell when, as she jumped, the rail of the draw struck her feet and
threw her roughly down upon it. She feels terribly jarred and bruised,
and tries in vain to lift herself up. But, hark! is that the sound of
horses on the road? Yes, surely, and they are coming nearer; and
now they are on the bridge, and the gate--the gate is open. With one
superhuman effort she struggles to her feet, reaches out for it, and
swings it to. Then, leaning heavily against the rail, she utters one
shrill, inarticulate scream. There is another scream almost as shrill in
answer, and instantly a pair of ponies, brought to an alarmingly sudden
standstill, rear high in the air beside her, and Courage, unable to
stand another moment, drops in a limp little heap to the flooring.
“My darling, darling Courage!” whispers some one close bending above
her.
“_Dear_ Miss Julia,” and a little hand all of a tremble gropes for Miss
Julia's face in the darkness.
The draw swings back into place, and Sylvia is on it in a flash.
“Oh, you didn't gib us 'nough time,” she cries accusingly to David as
she flies past. David instantly divines her meaning, for they both know
Courage well enough to fear she may have run some terrible danger, and
seizing the lantern, hanging midway in the draw, David follows Sylvia
as fast as tottering limbs will carry him. What a sickening sensation
sweeps over him as the horses loom up in the darkness and he sees a
group of people crowding about something hung on the bridge!
[Illustration: 0099]
“She isn't deaded! she isn't deaded!” Sylvia joyfully calls out, and
that moment the light from the lantern falls athwart a prostrate little
figure in the midst of the group.
“I think I can get up now” are the words that meet David's ear, and an
answering “God be praised!” escapes from his quivering lips. Then some
one turns the heads of the quieted horses, and two ladies, one on either
side of Courage, help her back to the house. Larry, who has heard the
commotion, succeeds in getting dressed and out to the door just as the
little party reach it. He starts alarmed and surprised at the sight
of Courage, but fortunately is too blind to see the alarming stains of
blood on her little white face, but the moment they enter the light the
others are quick to see them. Courage is lifted into David's big rocker,
and Larry, groping into his own room, brings a pillow for her back;
Sylvia disappears and returns in a trice with a towel and a basin of
water; Miss Julia, with shaking hands, measures something into a
glass; the other lady, with a little help from Courage, removes the
dust-begrimed coat, and then lays it very tenderly over a chair. And now
the color begins to surge back into the little pale face. The cut under
the curls, which is not severe enough to need a surgeon, is tightly
bound, and then at last they all sit down to get their breath for a
moment. The horses, which of course were none other than Miss Julia's
gray ponies, are secured to a rail outside, and David brings a strange
gentleman into the room.
“This is my brother, Courage,” says Miss Julia--“he has often heard me
speak of you--and this lady is his wife.”
Courage smiles in acknowledgment of the introduction, for, indeed,
she does not feel equal to talking yet, and so keeps perfectly quiet,
listening to all the others--to David's reiterated self-accusations for
forgetting, in his haste, to make sure that the children were clear
of the draw; to Sylvia's excited account of the way she had “jes' ter
scrabble” to get over in time; to Miss Julia's explanation of how they
had set out at that late hour, and on a sudden impulse, to pay a call
down at Elberon, and of how, in her eagerness to spend as little time
as possible on the road, she had forgotten to walk the ponies over the
draw; and then to her description of her terror when the scream smote
her ears, and she reined in her ponies so suddenly as to almost throw
them over backward; until, at last, Courage herself feels inclined to
put in a little word of her own.
“And you didn't hear me call at all, Mr. David?” she asked in a low
little voice.
“Never a word, darling--never a word. Oh, it's dreadful to think what
might ha' happened, and I so careless!”
“It's all right now though, Mr. David,” Courage said comfortingly, “but
it was terrible to have to jump at the last moment like that. I thought
I couldn't at first, that no team would be likely to come over so late,
and then--oh, it's wonderful how many things you can think just in a
moment--I remembered that Miss Julia was over the draw, and I felt I
must try to do it,” and Courage looked toward Miss Julia with eyes that
said, “There is nothing in the world I would not try to do for you,” and
then what did Miss Julia herself do but break right down and cry.
“Oh, why are you crying?” asked Courage, greatly troubled.
“Because I cannot help it, Courage. It was so brave to risk so much, and
all for my sake, too.”
“But I was not really brave, Miss Julia. You see”--and as though fully
convinced of the logic of her position--“I think I was not going to do
it at all till I remembered about you. And if I hadn't, and even if no
one had happened to come on the bridge, I should have been ashamed of it
always every time any one called me Courage.”
“And so you are not going to take the least credit to yourself,” said
Mr. Everett, Miss Julia's brother. “Well, you certainly are a most
unheard-of little personage.”
Courage was not at all sure whether this was complimentary or otherwise,
but no matter. She had not much thought or heed for anything beyond the
fact that Miss Julia was crying, and she very much wished she wouldn't.
Meanwhile, Miss Julia's sister sat thinking her own thoughts with a sad,
far-away look in her eyes. She knew that little blue coat so well, and
this was not the first time she had come across it since, months before,
she had sent it away, expecting never to see it again.
“Courage,” she asked at last in what seemed an opportune moment, “were
you not on a lighter that was run into by the St. Johns a few weeks
ago?”
“Why, yes,” answered Courage, surprised; “and were you the lady and the
gentleman?” (glancing toward Mr. Everett).
“Yes; we wanted to learn your name, but you and Sylvia here both
answered at once, so we could not make it out.”
“But why did you want to know?”
“Because I thought I recognized the little blue coat you had on, and now
that I have seen you again, I feel sure of it. I think it must have been
given to you by Miss Julia.”
“Why, yes,” said Courage; “and did you know the little girl it used to
belong to?”
“It belonged to my own little girl, Courage.”
“To your little girl? Oh, I would love to have seen her wear it, it's
such a beautiful coat! Did she mind having it given away?”
“Courage,” said Miss Julia sadly, “little Belle died last winter, and so
there was no longer any need for it.”
“Oh, dat's how it was,” said practical Sylvia, who had listened
attentively to every word. “We've spec'lated of 'en an' over--ain't we,
Miss Courage?--why a jes-as-good-as-new coat was eber gib away.”
“Hush, Sylvia!” whispered Courage, feeling instinctively that this
commonplace remark was untimely; and then by grace of the same beautiful
intuition she asked gently, “Did it make you feel very badly to see your
little Belle's coat on a strange little girl?”
“It almost frightened me. Courage, for Belle had auburn curls, too, and
you seemed so like her as you stood there. Then, after a moment, when
I had had time to think, I felt pretty sure it must be Belle's own coat
that I saw.”
“I am sorry that I happened to have it on,” said Courage; “I would not
like to have seen anything of my papa's on anybody else.”
“And so I thought,” said Mrs. Everett, wondering that a child should so
apparently understand every phase of a great sorrow, “but I find I was
mistaken,” and Mrs. Everett, moving her chair close beside Courage, took
her little brown hand in hers, as she added: “More than once since that
evening it has been on my lips to ask Miss Julia if she knew who was the
owner of Belle's coat.”
“And more than once,” said Miss Julia, “it has been on my lips to tell
without your asking, and then I feared only to start for you some train
of sad thoughts.” Miss Julia by this time had gotten the best of her
tears, and stood behind Courage affectionately stroking the beautiful
wavy hair, for both she and Mrs. Everett were longing to give expression
to the overpowering sense of gratitude welling up within them.
“Do you know what the black bow is for?” Courage asked of Mrs. Everett.
“I thought it was mourning for some one, perhaps.”
“Yes; it is mourning for my papa. A little girl told me I ought to wear
all black clothes, but Miss Julia thought not; only she just tied this
bow on for me the last day of sewing-school, because I wanted to have
something that would tell that I was very lonely without him. Soldiers
wear mourning like that, you know.”
All this while Larry had sat quietly on one side, his dimmed eyes
resting proudly on Courage; but now he had something to say on his own
account.
“It was all my fault, sir,” he began abruptly, addressing Mr.
Everett--“that accident on the bay a few weeks back. I was losing my
sight, and was just going to give up my life on the water when I found
that Hugh Masterson had died, and that Courage there had set her heart
on spending the summer with me on the boat. And so I tried for her sake
to hold on a while longer, but it wa'nt no use, and I'd like to made an
end to us all that evening. I wish sometime when ye're aboard the
St. Johns ye'd have a word with the captain, and tell him how it all
happened, and that Larry Starr has not touched a drop of liquor these
twenty years; he thought I was drunk, you know, and no wonder.”
“Indeed I will, Larry, and only too gladly,” Mr. Everett promised,
drawing closer to Larry's side, that they might talk further about it.
Not long after this Miss Julia made a move to go, not, however, you
may be sure, until she had seen Courage tucked away in her own bed,
and dropping off into the soundest sort of a sleep the moment her tired
little head touched the pillow. But before Miss Julia actually gave
the reins to her ponies for the homeward drive there was a vigorous
hand-shaking on all sides, for the exciting experiences of the last hour
had made them all feel very near to each other.
“Well, Julia, we must do something for that precious child,” said Mrs.
Everett as soon as the ponies struck the dirt road, and it was less of
an effort to speak than when their hoofs were clattering noisily on the
bridge.
“And what had it best be?” asked Miss Julia, and yet with her own mind
quite made up on the subject.
“Nothing less than to have her make her home with us always.”
“Nothing less,” said Miss Julia earnestly.
“Bless her brave heart! nothing less,” chimed in Mr. Everett; “but what
will become of poor Larry?”
True enough! what would become of poor Larry? and would it be right
to ask him to make such a sacrifice? It was not necessary, however, to
discuss all the details of the beautiful plan just then, and even Mr.
Everett, who had raised the question, had faith to believe that somehow
or other everything could be satisfactorily arranged. For the remainder
of the drive home not a word was spoken. People who have just been face
to face with a great peril, and realize it, are likely to find thoughts
in their hearts quite too deep for utterance and too solemn.
L'ENVOI
You may not happen to know what this “l'envoi” means. Neither do I
exactly, only nowadays poets who try to make English poems like French
ones put it at the head of their last verse; so I have a notion to
follow their example and put it at the head of this last chapter.
As to its meaning as the poets use it, I find that even some pretty wise
people are not able to enlighten us, so we'll have it mean just what we
choose, and say that it stands for the winding up of a story by which
you learn what became of all the people in it. At any rate, as that's
what this chapter's to be, we'll press this mysterious little L'Envoi
into service in lieu of such a long title. Confidentially, however, I
have an idea that it isn't “the thing” to wind up a story at all.
That to give you merely an intimation as to what probably happened to
Courage, and to leave you wholly in ignorance as to the others, would be
far more in keeping with modern story-telling; but why try to be modern
unless it is more satisfactory? Then I imagine you really would like to
know something more of the friends we have been summering with through
these eight chapters, and besides, if someday you should yourself go
driving over the South Shrewsbury draw, you would naturally expect to
at least have a chat with David Starr, feeling that he was a fixture,
whatever might have become of Larry and Courage and Sylvia. But alas!
that cannot be, and you ought to know it beforehand. The same little
house is there, and in summer weather the same boxes of geraniums,
verbena, and portulaca line the rail in front of it, but the old man at
present employed at the draw is as much of a stranger to me as to you.
It is several years now since that eventful night on the bridge, and all
this while Courage has been living in Washington Square, for it had been
easily arranged with Larry that she should make her home with Miss Julia
and Mrs. Everett. Indeed, it had proved an immense relief to Larry's
anxious heart to know that her future would be so well provided for, and
it all came about at the right time, too, for the very next winter Larry
died. He had not been feeling well for a few days, and Sylvia, who had
been left behind at the bridge, wrote for Courage; and Courage, losing
not a moment, came in time to care for him for two whole weeks before
he passed away. His illness was not a painful one, and now that complete
darkness had closed in about him, he had no great wish to live. The many
mansions of the Father were very real to Larry, and the eyes that were
blind to all on earth seemed to look with wondrous keenness of vision
toward “the land that is very far off;” while to have Courage at his
side in this last illness summed up every earthly desire that remained
to him. He was buried in the cemetery over at Shrewsbury, and it was not
long before a grave was dug for faithful Bruce, who seemed to lose all
heart from the hour his master left him.
When Courage went back to Washington Square, the day after the funeral,
Sylvia went with her, to assist in the care of a blessed Everett baby
that had lately come to gladden every one in the home; and Sylvia was
overjoyed to be once more under the same roof with Courage.
For a year or two after that David continued to keep the draw, living
alone in the same way as before, which must have seemed a more lonely
way than ever, with Larry out of the world and Courage and Sylvia quite
the same as out of it, as far as he was concerned. But finally David had
to give up. “The rheumatics,” as he said, “got hold of him so drefful
bad that there was no help for it but that he must just go and be
beholden to his daughter,” which, as you can imagine, must have been no
little trial to independent old David.
And Courage! brave little Courage! just how does the world fare with
her? Well, she is quite a young lady by this time, with the beautiful
auburn curls twisted into a knot, and dresses that sometimes have trains
to them, and yet she is just the same Courage still. It seems to Mr.
and Mrs. Everett as though they could hardly have loved their own
little Belle more, while to Miss Julia it seems as though she could not
possibly live without her; and no one who truly knows Courage wonders
at this for a moment. As for Courage herself, she looks up to Miss Julia
with all the saint-like adoration of the old sewing-school days, and
Miss Julia is every whit worthy of such loyal devotion. At the same
time, they are the best of friends.
[Illustration: 0111]
During these five years of daily companionship Miss Julia has been
unconsciously training Courage to be just such another noble woman as
she is herself, and so they have been constantly growing nearer and
still nearer to each other, if that were possible. They love the same
books, they enjoy the same things, and now that regular school-life is
over for Courage, they have the happiest sort of time together, day in
and day out. Often, indeed, they have a very merry time of it, largely
accounted for by the fact that Courage, being well and strong, as well
as young, is often brimming over with a contagious buoyancy, sometimes
called animal spirits, but to my thinking, it deserves a better name
than that.
Everywhere that Miss Julia goes Courage goes too that is, if she is
wanted (and seldom is she not), and one of the places where they go most
frequently, and never empty-handed, is to a great hospital, where, since
little lame Joe died, Mary Duff has become one of the sisters who give
their lives to caring for sick children.
Courage even has a class next to Miss Julia's in the sewing-school where
she used to be a scholar. Now and then she feels some little finger
pointing at her, and knows well enough what is being said. One Saturday
afternoon, when on her way to the chapel, she noticed two rather unkempt
little specimens in close conference. “Yes, that's her,” she heard
the smaller girl exclaim as she neared them, “and ain't she sweet and
stylish! Well, she used to belong down here somewhere, but now she lives
in a beautiful house with Miss Julia in Washington Square.”
“Like as not she didn't do nothin' to deserve it, either,” said the
larger girl enviously, with a sullen shrug of her shoulders.
“Didn't do nothin'? Well, perhaps you don't know that she just saved
Miss Julia's life; that's something, ain't it?” And with the color
mantling forehead and cheeks Courage hurried on, grateful for the
championship of her unknown little friend.
[Illustration: 0114]