IN THE STORM.
IT was more than a week after Thanksgiving when Dr. Flemming came
hurrying into the school-room one morning, and spoke to Mr. Boniface for
a moment. Then he turned to the boys who were watching, curious to see
the meaning of his unwonted excitement.
“I should like to ask if any one of you have seen Gypsy this morning.”
No one answered, but there was an immediate sensation in the room, for
from the doctor’s manner, they all saw that something was wrong with the
child, and merry little Gyp was the pet and plaything of all the boys.
“What is the matter? Is Gyp lost?” asked Alex, who had chanced to be
standing near the desk when the doctor entered.
“I am afraid so,” her father replied, knitting his brow anxiously. “Her
mother just sent up to see if she was here. Gyp went out to play, early
this morning, and she hasn’t been seen since then.”
“Perhaps she may be with Lieutenant Wilde,” suggested Mr. Boniface.
“A good idea! Thank you, Mr. Boniface,” said the doctor gratefully.
“Eliot, will you run up to the laboratory and see?”
Max rushed away, but was soon back again with the discouraging report
that no one there had seen the child since the afternoon before, when
she had brought Mouse to call upon her cousin.
The doctor took one or two hasty turns up and down the room to collect
his thoughts, for the idea of any harm coming to the child unmanned him.
Then he faced the boys again.
“My boys,” he said; “I must call on you for your help. Mrs. Flemming had
looked about the grounds before she came here, and now there is no
knowing how long the child has been gone. How many of you will help me
to hunt for her? Any that are willing may leave their lessons and come
to me in the hall.”
With one exception, every cadet in the room sprang up. The exception was
Leon who was still unable to use his foot freely, and who sat there,
gazing rather forlornly after his companions as they hurried away,
followed by Mr. Boniface himself. The boy had taken his sprained ankle
very patiently; but now he was wretched enough, as he glanced about the
empty room, and listened to the voices of his friends outside. Then he
hopped slowly over to the window and stood there, watching the boys as
the doctor divided them into squads and sent them off, this way and
that. It was a bleak, cold day, with every promise of snow. The upper
limbs of the bare trees waved and twisted in the wind like so many gray,
beckoning arms, and the dead brown leaves went scurrying across the
frozen ground, in search of some sheltered corner where they might stop
and rest. Leon watched the group of boys, among whom were Alex and Harry
and Max, until it was out of sight, then he looked up at the dull,
lead-colored sky and shivered, for it seemed as if he could feel its
chill, even inside the house. But there was no use in his staying there
alone, so, picking up his cane, he hobbled over to his room in Old
Flemming and sat down to read.
For some reason, his book was unusually dull, and out from its pages the
face of Gyp kept laughing up at him, just as it had laughed down at him
on Thanksgiving morning, when he lay on the sofa and she told him her
wonderful story of the duck. All at once Leon threw down his book
excitedly. Strange he hadn’t thought of it before! She had probably gone
to see old Jerry. He recalled how interested she had been in his blue
door and his crow. That was doubtless the secret of the matter. For a
moment he rejoiced in the suggestion; but then he remembered that he was
alone in the house, for even the servants had joined in the search.
Careless of his foot, he sprang up and started for the door, thinking to
go himself; but a dozen reckless steps convinced him that such a
proceeding was impossible, and with an irrepressible moan of pain, he
threw himself on his bed and clasped his ankle in both hands. There he
lay for a long hour, forgetting his throbbing, aching foot while he
listened for any sound from below, and meanwhile glancing out, from time
to time, at the heavy flakes of snow which were beginning to whiten the
air. What would become of Gyp, he wondered. It was more than four miles
to the old man’s house, a long walk for a little child, and the road
through the thick woods and along by the lake was lonely, even to a
grown person. He fancied he could see the small figure trudging wearily
along, now and then starting at some unexpected sound, and throwing an
affrighted glance back over her shoulder. And what if, as was highly
probable, Jerry should be away from home? Any one who has been anxious,
alone and in pain, will realize how rapidly Leon’s fears increased, and
understand the relief he felt when steps and voices were heard on the
piazza below. He rose and, though the pain in his ankle turned his very
lips white, he went to the window, threw it open, and called loudly,—
“Who’s there? Come to fifteen!”
He waited for a moment until he heard the steps coming up the stairs;
then he closed the window and dropped into the nearest chair, just as
Harry, Louis and Stanley came into the room.
“Did you find her?” he asked impatiently, while they shook the snow from
their shoulders and looked at him inquiringly, too breathless to speak.
“Not yet,” said Louis. “We thought there were too many of us together,
so we came back to see if there was any news, and if not, to start out
again.”
“What do you want of us, Leon?” added Harry. “Tell us quick, for we
don’t want to lose any time.”
“I think she’s gone to find Jerry,” answered Leon, and then, while the
boys rubbed their blue, cold fingers, he went on to tell them his
reasons for such a supposition.
“I shouldn’t wonder if you were right,” said Stanley, when they had
heard him out. “It’s a good idea, and we’ll start for there, straight.
Between the wind and the snow, it’s an awful day, and the child must be
found soon, or she’ll freeze. But what makes you look so queer, Leon?”
“Nothing, only I hurt my foot a little. Never mind me, but go along.
Bother my ankle! I wish I could go with you.”
“What crazy thing have you been doing, Leon?” demanded Harry sternly.
“If you’ve twisted your ankle again, it will be no joke. You know what
the doctor said.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Leon meekly; “I didn’t mean to. But you go on
now, for the storm is getting worse, every minute.”
Harry looked at him anxiously. He was afraid the boy had done more harm
than he would admit; but, in the meantime, as he had said, the storm was
increasing, and he felt that Leon’s clue was too valuable to be
neglected. With a reluctant glance at his brother he turned away, and
followed the other boys down the stairs and out to the road.
“This is a genuine blizzard, and no mistake,” remarked Louis, as the
boys paused at the gate to button their coats tightly, turn up their
collars and pull their caps well down over their eyes, before turning
north, to face the cutting wind.
“I believe you,” responded Harry briefly. “That baby couldn’t stand this
long.”
Then they were silent, for the wind blew the words back into their
teeth, and they needed all their energy to struggle onward against the
driving storm. The walking was comparatively easy as yet, for the snow
was soft and light, and only a few inches had fallen; but it powdered
the fences and tree-trunks and threw a bluish-white light over all the
landscape, till it seemed as if they were passing through a strange and
ghostly world. On they plodded, now facing the storm, now turning to
walk backwards for a few steps, now stopping short to regain their
breath. They passed through the village street; quite deserted it seemed
to them, for even the hardy farmers were staying inside their homes that
day; then they came out past the last house in the street, went down the
hill, crossed the brook at the foot and struck out into the open
country. For a mile the road was quite unsheltered; then it wound along
under the trees, gaining a partial protection from the storm; then again
it came out on the shore of the little lake, across which the wind swept
fiercely. They talked but little on the way, so absorbed were they in
reaching the end of their journey, for not one of the lads had the
faintest doubt of finding Gyp curled up by the fire in Jerry’s cabin.
Leon’s suggestion had seemed so probable to them that they had accepted
it as a fact, and felt quite sure that they would go triumphantly back
to Flemming, with Gyp in their arms.
It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when they came in sight of
Jerry’s well-known blue door. Exhausted as they were, half-frozen and
faint with hunger, the sight of the cabin roused them until they broke
into a run. Harry reached the door first, pushed it open and glanced in.
Then he stopped short, and his face grew deadly pale. No Gyp was there;
only old Jerry dozing contentedly before the fire, with his dogs asleep
around him.
“She isn’t here,” he said faintly, facing the others as they came up.
“Not here!” echoed Louis and Stanley, growing white in their turn.
“No one here but Jerry,” repeated Harry; and the three boys stood gazing
at one another, in blank dismay.
The rush of cold air had wakened Jerry, who turned drowsily in his
chair, caught sight of the well-known uniform, and was on his feet at
once, to show his respect for his guests.
“How do?” he remarked. “Flemming boys; Jerry knows. How do? Sit down.”
And he bowed so low that his yellow-white hair fell forward over his
wrinkled old face.
“We can’t stay, Jerry,” said Louis. “What shall we do, boys? It’s plain
she isn’t here.”
“I don’t know what next,” said Harry wearily, as he took off his cap and
wiped the melting snow off the visor. “What do you say, Stan?”
“She may have been here and gone,” suggested Stanley rather doubtfully,
for indeed it did not seem likely that the child would venture out into
such a storm, for the second time.
“We can’t have passed her on the way,” said Louis. “I’m sure I should
have seen her,” he added, as if to reassure himself, for a vision of
little Gyp, lying chilled and alone by the side of the road, had struck
terror to his soul.
“Gyp has plenty of pluck,” said Harry. “If she really made up her mind
to come here, no amount of storm could keep her away. Let’s ask Jerry if
she has been here. Do you suppose we can make him know what we mean?”
“I’ll try it, anyway,” said Stanley.
This little conversation had been carried on in a hurried undertone,
while the old man was still bowing and beckoning to the boys to approach
the fire. Stanley now turned to him and, following the direction of his
hand, went up to the stove in the corner.
“Jerry,” he began, “do you know little Gypsy Flemming?”
Jerry shook his head in hopeless bewilderment.
“It’s no use, Stan,” said Louis, in a low voice; “you’ll never get it
through his head, and we’re only just wasting our time talking.”
“Wait a minute, Wing,” said Harry; “it’s worth trying. Go ahead, Stan.”
“Listen, Jerry,” said Stanley firmly; “a little girl with long brown
hair, all curly, and a red coat. Has she been here?”
The old man’s face lighted with a sudden thought.
“Jerry knows,” he said, while the boys eagerly pressed nearer him.
“Little girl so high,” and he measured with his hand; “long hair, red
hat, red coat, all cold, came here this morning and played with Jim
Crow.”
As Jerry paused, the boys were startled to hear a hoarse caw from above
their heads. Looking up, they saw a black head and two bright, beady
eyes peering down at them from a beam of the rough wall.
“That’s Jim,” remarked Jerry. “Jim knows Jerry, heard Jerry call.” And
in proof of the statement, the bird just then swooped down to his
master’s shoulder where he stood, cocking his head this way and that, as
he lent a goblin-like attention to the conversation.
“Where is she now?” asked Louis excitedly.
“Gone,” said Jerry, shaking his head, while the crow bent forward and
twisted his glossy neck until he could look into his master’s face.
“Where did she go?” inquired Harry.
“Jerry do’ know.”
“Hold on, boys; too many of us asking questions at once will only rattle
him,” said Stanley. “Now, Jerry, tell me when she was here.”
“Lit’ while ago.”
“How long did she stay?”
“Good while; got warm, played with Jim, then said ‘good by’ and went
out, do’ know where.”
“I suspect that’s all we can get out of him,” said Louis. “We may as
well go on, for if he can’t tell time and doesn’t know which way she
went, we can’t gain much here.”
“At least, she’s been here,” said Harry thoughtfully; “and it can’t be
so very long since she left, I should think. What shall we do next,
Stan?”
“Let’s go on up the road a little farther,” advised Stanley. “If only
’twere not snowing so hard, so we could see her track! But that’s all
covered up.”
“Shall we all keep together, or shall we take different ways?” asked
Louis.
“Keep together,” said Stanley briefly. “It may be that we shall find her
somewhere that it will take us all to see to her.”
Though the boys made no response, they realized the awful meaning of
Stanley’s words, and it was with a dull, heavy ache in their hearts that
they sadly left the cabin. As Harry turned back, to pull the door
together after him, he got sight of the crow who was hopping up and down
on old Jerry’s shoulder, croaking and chattering in a perfect
abandonment of mirth, as if in malicious enjoyment of their trouble.
Even the short time they had spent talking with the old man had made a
great change out of doors. It was now snowing furiously, and the flakes,
instead of falling, were driven straight before the wind which had
increased to a gale, here sweeping the ground bare, there piling high
white drifts which, to the boys’ excited imaginations, looked in the
uncertain light like little mounds heaped over a human body. Twice they
started out into the road; twice they were beaten back, and stood
breathless in the shelter of the cabin. Then Louis said, as he shut his
teeth tightly together, to steady his voice,—
“This won’t do, come on.”
On and on they struggled, peering this way and that, now and again
stopping to call the child’s name, then pressing onward once more. At
length Stanley halted.
“You’ll have to leave me, boys,” he panted. “I can’t go on any farther.”
“You must,” said Harry decidedly. “It’s sure death to stop here. Wing,
you take hold one side of him, and I will the other. Steady, old fellow;
keep up your courage and try again. We’ll get to a house soon.”
Yielding to their encouragement, Stanley made another effort, and the
three boys went on, arm in arm, floundering through the drifts which
were every moment growing deeper. The road had come out into the open
fields again, and it was becoming difficult to keep in the track, while,
to add to the danger of getting lost, the early winter twilight was
settling down around them and they could see but a few paces ahead.
Stanley’s steps were growing more and more uncertain, and the other boys
staggered under the weight of supporting him. Their very eyelids were
pressed together with the sweep of the snow, and it was well-nigh
impossible for them to glance up, as they plodded onward, with only
chance—or a higher, unseen power, to guide them.
All at once, Harry stopped abruptly.
“Listen!” he exclaimed.
They listened and heard, close at hand, the welcome sound of a dog’s
bark.
“There, Stan,” said Louis, trying to speak lightly; “we’re all right
now. All we have to do is to follow our noses till we get to the house,
and then we can get warm and dry before we go on.”
They renewed their efforts, and twenty steps more brought them to the
farmhouse, only twenty steps, but to the chilled and weary boys they
seemed like twenty miles. Without waiting to knock, and only intent on
finding warmth and rest, they pushed open the heavy kitchen door and
stumbled in, dazed with the rush of light and heat which met them. Two
women sprang up as they entered, leaving a small figure before the fire.
The figure turned and calmly remarked,—
“Hullo, Harry! Come see my kitties.”
It was Gyp herself, sitting on the floor and contentedly playing with
the cat and her family, perfectly unconscious of the alarm and suffering
she had caused.
Too much exhausted to speak, now the stimulus of their anxiety was gone,
the boys sank into the hard kitchen chairs, while Gyp ran up to them,
with four or five squirming kittens gathered up in the skirt of her
little apron.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, pausing to survey them doubtfully. “Are
you cold, or only just tired?”
There was a moment of silence. Then Louis bent forward and caught the
child in his arms, with her warm cheek against his cold one. The drops
on his face were not all from the melted snow, and his lips were
quivering; but he only said,—
“Oh, Gyp!”
But fortunately boy strength and spirits are both elastic, and by the
time the lads had taken off their overcoats and drawn their chairs up to
the stove, they had rallied and were themselves again. While their plump
hostess and her rosy daughter trotted up and down, setting out a
bountiful supper for the unexpected guests, the older woman told them of
Gyp’s coming.
“We was sitting here by the fire,” she explained, as she brought out a
great mince pie to adorn the feast, “when we heard a little knock, low
down on the door. It was storming so that I was some surprised, for I
didn’t expect I’d see anybody to-day. I went straight to the door, and
there stood this little shape, looking for all the world like a great
big snowball. We pulled her in and give her some dinner and got her all
het up, sos’t she shouldn’t take cold. She told us she was Dr.
Flemming’s little girl; but there wasn’t anybody to take her home, for
our men-folks all went off after cattle, this morning. But heart alive!
did you walk up here in all this storm?”
“So’d I,” put in Gyp; “at least, it didn’t storm till I was ’most at
Jerry’s. I meant to go home again; but I was mixed up and came here
instead. I’m glad I did, though, for now I’ve seen the kitties.”
“What time did you start, Gyp?” asked Harry, taking her on his knee,
while she helped herself to his pie, unrebuked.
“Just when papa went up to school,” answered Gyp. “I wanted to get to
Jerry’s in time for dinner; but he didn’t give me any. I had lots of fun
with the crow, anyway.”
“But, Gyp,” remonstrated Louis, half-vexed at the child for being so
unconcerned; “don’t you know you were naughty to run away, and frighten
papa and mamma and all us boys?”
Gyp’s lip began to roll over, and she dropped her pie.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I only wanted to see the old man and the
blue door that Leon told me ’bout.” And she burst out crying.
The boys looked at one another in dismay. It was easier for them to face
the storm than Gyp’s tears, and they hastened to console her with
assurances of pardon. The farmer’s wife came to their relief.
“Poor little tyke!” she said, taking the child into her motherly arms;
“she’s plumb tired out, and I’ll put her straight to bed.”
The supper completed the work the fire had begun, and when their hostess
came back to the kitchen, she found the boys pulling on their rubber
boots again and buttoning their coats.
“Whatever are you going to do?” she asked, in astonishment.
“We must get back now, as soon as we can,” said Louis, who had regained
all his usual grace of manner. “Dr. and Mrs. Flemming will be anxious to
hear, and we must let them know Gyp is found. We’re much obliged for the
supper, and if Gyp can stay here over night, somebody will come for her
in the morning.”
“I suppose you’d ought to go,” she answered reluctantly; “but even if
you do, you sha’n’t walk, when we’ve got a horse standing in the stable.
I’d like you to stop first-rate,” she added hospitably, as she started
in search of a lantern.
It was the work of only a few moments to harness the raw-boned old horse
to the home-made sleigh; the boys were rolled up in blankets. Harry took
the lines and they were off, with the wind at their backs, while the two
women encouraged them with shrill words of cheer, as long as they could
see the gleam of the lantern.
To both Mrs. Flemming and to Leon, the day had been a long one; and as
one party after another came back, took a hasty meal and went out again,
the suspense became almost unbearable. With an utter disregard for the
truth, the lads tried to convince the anxious mother that the storm was
not severe; but she was too familiar with the heavy snows which visit
the hill towns, to be deceived by their words. By afternoon it had
become impossible for her to keep still, and she wandered restlessly
from window to window, gazing out in the vain hope of seeing the
familiar little red coat being borne home in triumph. How cruel the
darkness seemed to her, as it settled down about the house! As the last
light faded away, she felt as if it were taking all hope with it. When
she could no longer see the outline of Old Flemming, up the hill, she
left the window, but still kept moving about the room, now stirring the
fire, now changing the position of the light in the window, and often
stopping to open the front door and listen intently. One by one, the
searching parties straggled in, each one stopping at the doctor’s to
give the same report, “No news yet,” and then going on up the hill, to
plan for their next departure.
Dame Pinny was ready for them with a hot supper, and they gathered in
the dining-room to eat and talk at once, for moments were precious.
Harry, Louis and Stanley had not yet appeared; but the boys were
expecting them at any minute, for no one but Leon knew where they had
gone, and none of the boys had been up-stairs to see him. In their
excitement, nobody noticed that he did not come down to supper.
The hurried meal was nearly ended, when the doctor came into the room.
At sight of his tired, haggard face, there was a sudden respectful
silence.
“I want to thank you all for the hard work you have done to-day,” he
said, and it was plain that it cost him an effort to speak. “And now I
must insist on your not going out again till morning. My duty to your
parents will not allow me to expose you to such a storm.”
There was a murmur of dissent from the boys; but it was stilled as the
doctor went on,—
“I am grateful for your good-will, but I shall forbid your going out
again to-night. Besides, it is useless to attempt anything in such
darkness. If Gyp is in some house, she will be perfectly safe; if not—”
He paused abruptly, rather than speak the words. The short silence which
followed, was broken by a sudden call from Jack Howard, who had
restlessly strayed to the door again.
In a second, the dining-room was deserted, and seventy anxious boys
stood bareheaded on the piazza, straining their ears to catch any sound
above the roar of the wind.
“It’s sleigh-bells!” exclaimed Max.
“Hush!” said Lieutenant Wilde, laying his hand on the shoulder of the
lad who was madly dancing up and down. “Listen again.”
This time there could be no mistake. The strong north wind was bringing
them the distant sound of bells, and with the jingling, were mingled
shouts and whistles, cheers and cat-calls, all of an unmistakably joyous
nature. The sounds came nearer and nearer, more and more distinct, until
above them all, could be heard Harry’s voice calling out the welcome
words,—
“Gyp’s found!”
And the ringing cheer from seventy throats bore the news to the lonely,
waiting mother.
------------------------------------------------------------------------