THE RESCUE
When Madge opened her eyes the sun was shining into them. It was already
broad daylight. Her boat was no longer held fast between rocks. In the
night it had made its own way out and had floated toward the land. It
was now only a few yards from the shore. With her one oar Madge pushed
herself gently toward land.
Hills rose up along the river bank. The farmhouses lay farther back, she
supposed. Certainly she had not the faintest idea where she was. The
hills were thickly covered with scrub oaks and pines. She had not landed
in a friendly spot. It was far more deserted than any place that she had
ever noticed along the Rappahannock. At least, so she thought in the
gray dawn of the August morning. Yet she knew that there were plenty of
kind people who would be glad to help her if she could get over the
hills to their homes.
From the appearance of Madge's clothes she might easily have been
mistaken for a tramp. Her long coat was wet to her ankles and her shoes
and stockings were muddy. She had long since lost her little cap and
her hair was rough and tumbled from her night's sleep in the boat, while
her face was white and haggard. Instead of following the line of the
river, where she was sure to find some life stirring in another hour or
so, Madge foolishly pushed up over the hill. She did not find a path, so
she might have guessed that she was off the beaten track. She must have
walked up the hill for half a mile when she saw a sight that at last
gave her hope. An old, broken-down horse was tethered to a tree, eating
grass. Surely he was a sign-post to some human habitation farther on.
Madge spied a cornfield to the left of her, though some distance off.
She knew that the Virginia farmers cultivated the low hills for their
crops, and that she was near some house. She sniffed the fresh morning
air. A delicious odor wafted toward her, the smell of boiling coffee,
which came from the thickest part of the hillside, away to the right of
the cornfield.
Madge made straight for it. She had to push aside branches and
underbrush, and the place was farther off than she supposed, but she
found it at last. Seated on the ground before a small fire was an old
woman, the oldest the little captain had ever seen. She was
weather-beaten and brown, withered like a crumpled autumn leaf. She was
roasting something in the fire and muttering to herself. A little
farther on a man was drinking coffee from a quart cup. They were
rough-looking people to come across in the woods. But Madge knew that in
the harvest season many tramps and gypsies traveled about through
Virginia, living on the crops of the fruitful land. They were usually
harmless people, so she felt no fear of the strangers. They had no tent,
but a few logs with branches over them formed a sort of hiding place.
"Please," began Madge timidly, "will you tell me where I am?"
The man sprang up and rushed toward her with a big stick in his hand. He
seemed not so angry as frightened. The little captain's appearance
disarmed his suspicions. He dropped his stick to the ground. The strange
girl was a gypsy or tramp herself.
"Will you give me some coffee?" asked Madge pleadingly. She was
beginning to feel weak and faint.
With the instant hospitality of the road the man passed Madge his own
quart can. She took it, shuddering a little, but she was too thirsty to
hesitate. She held the cup to her lips and drank. Then she went over and
dropped down on the ground by the side of the old woman, who, although
her eyes were fastened on the girl, had never ceased to mutter to
herself. Madge began telling the story of her night's adventure.
"I haven't any money with me," she declared as she finished her story,
"but if the man will get an oar and take me down the river to my
friends, I will pay him whatever he thinks is right. I dragged my
rowboat up on the shore not very far from here. I must return to my
friends at once."
The old woman looked at the man questioningly. Madge's eyes were also on
him. It did not dawn on her that the fellow could have any reason for
refusing her simple request.
The man shook his head doggedly. "I can't row," he announced.
"Oh, that does not matter," replied Madge. "If you will get me an oar
and come with me, I can do the rowing. I am rested now."
The man grunted unintelligibly, then went on with his breakfast. He paid
no further attention to Madge. The old woman continued her curious
muttering.
"Won't you try to find me an oar?" asked Madge again.
The man shook his head. His face darkened with anger.
"Then I might as well leave you," declared Madge haughtily. "If you are
so unaccommodating, I will look for some one else." She struggled
wearily to her feet to continue her search. Her body still ached with
the fatigue.
"Don't be rough with her," the old crone spoke from behind Madge.
The young girl felt her arms roughly seized and drawn back. She was
forced to the ground. She struggled at first, but she was powerless. The
man took a small rope and bound her feet together so that she could not
move them. The ropes were not tight. The fellow did not wish to hurt
her, but merely to prevent her getting away.
"You can't leave this place by day, Miss," he announced quietly. "I
can't have anybody following you back here and running me down. When
night comes I'll let you go."
Madge bit her lips. Night! Once more she must wander alone in the
darkness in a vain search for her lost friends. What would they think if
a day, as well as a night, passed with no sign of her?
Her big blue eyes were dark with grief and protest. "Please let me go,"
she entreated. "I promise, on my honor, that I will never show any one
your hiding place, or say that I have seen you. I must get back to my
friends, they will be so frightened." She was shaking with terror and
anger, but she struggled to keep back her tears. Surely the man must
relent and let her go back to the houseboat.
He turned away without paying the least attention to her demands.
Creeping under the pile of underbrush, he lay so still that no one would
have dreamed that a human being was concealed there.
It came over poor Madge, at first dully, then with complete conviction,
that the man whom she had come upon in the woods was a fugitive from
justice--an outlaw hiding from the police.
Madge flung herself down in the warm, soft grass. For the first time in
the seventeen years of her life she cried without any one to care for or
comfort her. Until to-day Eleanor, her uncle or aunt, or one of her
chums--some one--had always been near at hand to soothe her grief. Madge
knew that her own recklessness had got her into this predicament. She
had deserved some of the punishment. But she thought, as a great many
other people do, that she was being judged more severely than her fault
merited.
"Here, child," a voice said not unkindly, "bathe your face and eyes.
There's no use crying. We don't mean you no harm. Only you have got to
wait here."
Madge sat up; the old woman, who looked like an aged gypsy, was handing
her a dirty basin filled with a small supply of river water. The woman
evidently went about and got what was necessary for the existence of the
man and herself. At other times she kept guard over his hiding place.
Madge bathed her tired eyes and face. She was glad to have the use of
her hands. She even managed to smile gratefully when the woman offered
her a piece of cornbread and an ear of roasted corn.
She resolved to summon all of her courage and endurance to her aid. She
would not plead or argue again. She would wait patiently until the long
day had passed. Perhaps Tom or David or one of the other boys would see
her skiff on the beach and come to her aid.
The morning went by. No one spoke or moved. Only once the man crawled
out from under the brush for food and water. Then he stole back again.
Madge grew more tired with every hour. It was hard to have to sit still
so long in one place, so she lay down on the grass. She did not go to
sleep, but was drowsy from the heat and fatigue.
The old woman came over to where she lay and stood looking at her sadly.
Her pretty white face, with its crown of sun-kissed hair, gleaming with
red and gold lights, her brilliantly red lips, brought back to this
ugly, time-worn crone the memory of her own youth. Madge always caused
other women to think of their own youth, she was so radiant, so full of
faith and enthusiasm. It was partly because of this that Miss Betsey
Taylor disliked her. Her own springtime had been prim and narrow. She
had wasted the years that Madge was living so abundantly, and
unconsciously Miss Betsey envied Madge.
The little captain saw the old gypsy's little, beady eyes fixed on her.
She tried to sit up, but found herself too tired to do so. The woman
dropped down near her and lifted her up. She had a pack of dirty cards
in her hand. "Want your fortune told, honey?" she asked. "Then cross my
palm with gold." The crone looked narrowly at the single gold seal ring
that Madge wore. It had been a gift to her from her three houseboat
chums.
Madge shook her head. "No, thank you," she answered politely, then
listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. She looked up toward
the crest of the hill. "'From whence cometh my strength'," she thought
to herself. But she could not see or hear any one. The little spot where
she was held a prisoner was surrounded with heavy shrubbery and walled
in with ancient trees that had grown on the Virginia hillside for
centuries.
The woman ran the cards through her withered hands. "Better let me tell
your fortune; never mind the gold." She shook her head and muttered so
mysteriously that Madge's cheeks flushed.
"I see, I see," the gypsy crooned, "many hearts in your fortune, but as
yet few diamonds. And here, there, everywhere there is mystery. You are
always seeking something. I can't tell whether it is a person, or
whether you are only looking for happiness. But you are very restless."
For a long time after this the old woman said nothing more. She sighed
and mumbled to herself. Two or three times she went over her pack of
cards. Madge watched her in fascination.
"Now I see a light-haired and a dark-haired man. They will come together
when you are older. One of them will bring diamonds and the other
spades. Neither are for you, not at first, not at first. I see water all
about you and a fortune in the sea. But be careful, child, be careful.
Go slow and----"
Madge was no longer interested. "There is always a dark man and a light
one in everyone's fortune," she thought wearily. "What a silly old
woman, and what utter nonsense she is talking! Oh, if you would only let
me go away from this place?" she begged aloud.
[Illustration: David Came to Her Rescue.]
At some distance off there was an unmistakable sound of people coming
through the woods. Madge's heart leaped within her. She gave one glad
cry, when the gypsy woman clapped both hands over her mouth. Madge
fought the woman off. She cried out again. The man crept from his hiding
place, half dragging, half pulling Madge behind a thick cluster of
trees, keeping his coarse, heavy hand over her mouth.
Madge heard Phyllis Alden's and David Brewster's voices, yet she could
not call out to them for aid.
She saw some one pull aside the low branch of a tree, then David's face
appeared, discolored with anger as he caught sight of her. Before the
man who had seized her could strike at the boy David had grasped him by
both shoulders and hurled him to the ground.
Whipping out his knife David cut the cords that bound Madge and raising
her to her feet, placed one arm protectingly around her. Her captor had
also risen and stood glowering at David without offering to attack him.
The boy's rage was so terrifying that even this hardened lawbreaker
quailed before it.
"We didn't mean any harm," mumbled the old woman. "You know us, boy. You
know we wouldn't hurt the young lady. You won't say you saw us, will
you?"
But ignoring her question David turned to help Madge back to her
friends.