DRIFTING AWAY.
It was the eve of the midsummer holidays; the examinations were over.
Miss Pinkett had come out victorious in music and geography, Ursula in
drawing and artistic needlework. The Beauty had proved to be nowhere in
the competition. Meg had taken no prize, but she had been encouraged by
kind reports from Signora Vallaria and Mr. Eyre. She had worked
incessantly, and some of the teachers had recognized her zeal.
The tension of the past few weeks was relaxed, and Miss Reeves was
giving the picnic that she usually organized for her pupils, in the
Surrey woods, watered by a branch of the Thames. It was a perfect summer
day, broadly golden, benignly calm.
The repast under the trees was over; the girls, tired of their games,
sat about in groups discussing plans for the holidays. Meg sat apart. In
the midst of the surrounding gayety the loneliness of her heart
deepened. She was enduring the tantalizing pangs of picturing the happy
hours from which she was excluded.
She heard of the dear little children who would come to the station to
welcome these home-comers; of the lawn-tennis parties, the rides, the
picnics which awaited them. One girl was going home for the wedding of
her sister; another was promised a pony to ride out with her brother
George. There were vivid descriptions going on all around her of the
charms of holidays. Oh, the delights of not hearing the school-bell of a
morning--of awaking at the appointed hour, and being able to turn round
cosily for another sleep! All were going home; even the teachers looked
forward to meeting relatives and friends. She alone was remaining--she
alone of all the school had no home to go to. She rose and wandered
away. Her desolate little heart could bear it no more: a bitter sense
was growing there that no one cared for her--that if Mr. Standish cared
for her he would have written.
Meg walked away, not minding where she went, willing only to be out of
earshot of that joyous talk. She presently found herself by the river's
bank; and there, moored among the reeds, was the longboat hired for the
occasion, in which the girls had rowed each other in parties all the
morning.
Ursula had pressed her to join the group of which she was a member, but
Meg had refused. It had seemed to the child enough to lie among the
ferns, inhaling the delicate, pungent perfumes, feeling the breath of
the summer day on her cheek, surrendering herself to the strength and
calm of nature's influence.
Meg now stepped into the boat and sat down. It was like being in a
cradle, she thought, as the water softly rocked the craft. No one was
near. Presently she perceived that the boat was sliding off--softly,
softly the shore was receding; the banks and the long reeds were falling
back.
Meg watched immobile. Bundles of oars lay at the bottom of the boat;
which was also strewn with bunches of meadow-sweet, elder-blossoms,
forget-me-nots, and other riverside trophies which the girls had plucked
on their travels. Meg sat upright like a startled rabbit, wondering when
the boat would stop. She wished that it would never stop--that it would
carry her away, away, she knew not whither! She had heard the girls
speak of the "weir." What was that? Was it some weird spot?--a strange
island, perhaps, inhabited by some of the water-fowl of which she had
read?
Then she perceived that the boat had swung itself round; it was drifting
down with the current. The river was narrow, and there was not another
boat within sight. Without oars, without sails, without guidance, the
little craft was making its way, keeping right in the middle of the
stream. For a moment Meg could not believe; then joy seized her--she was
off on her travels!
Past pale-green willows that hung their branches down into the water,
filling it with a twilight of green, sprinkling its surface with leaves
as with a goblin fleet; past sunny, silent stretches of woodland and
meadows where cows grazed and looked at her with horny heads sharply
outlined against the light; past banks full of flowers went Meg. The sun
shone for her, the breeze stirred for her, the trees seemed to look at
her. She felt like a little river-queen.
As she drifted along, the misery and loneliness at her heart dropped,
like the leaves the breeze had shaken from the willows. She, the
despised Meg, was free; all nature was her playfellow. From the banks
the cuckoo cried like a friendly presence playing at "hide-and-seek"
with her. A kingfisher, with a breast like a jewel fashioned in the sky,
skimmed past her where the solitude was shadiest. From the forked
branches of a willow a water hen, sitting on its nest, peered at her
with trustful eyes; a water rat from under the leaf of a water lily
eyed her with pleasant sympathy, as if he understood the pleasures of a
skiff on a summer day. The fishes leaped and made rippled circles around
her.
After awhile the river broadened. She passed boathouses that appeared to
stand in the water, their roofs bright with flowers; she drifted along a
bank where children were playing. They left their games to watch her.
They pointed at her, and Meg lifted herself up that she might be better
seen, feeling more than ever like a little river queen. She, the wild,
despised Meg, was envied and admired!
Once more the river grew lonely. Presently she thought she heard a
distant, drowsy sound; it grew louder; the boat seemed to glide along
more quickly. After awhile the sound became a roar, and the boat skimmed
along as if it were flying; still the water remained smooth as glass.
She fancied she heard voices shouting, but the roar of the water filled
her ears till it became a boom. She sat up straight and rigid, and as
she flashed past she saw with dreadful clearness the word "Danger"
written up in great letters on a post by the riverside. For the first
time Meg's heart began to beat. She heard shouts; she turned her head,
and again she saw with terrible distinctness the word "Danger" written
above the place the boat was making for. The water-line ended there,
and she understood the booming was the roar of the river rushing down to
a lower level. Her boat would upset and she must drown! Meg shut her
eyes. Mr. Standish, the old boarding-house, seemed to rise before her as
she speeded along.
Suddenly the boat jerked, struggling like a living creature arrested in
full flight.
"Don't move!" shouted a voice; and Meg, quiet as an image, felt the
struggling boat slowly turned round; a head showed above the water; a
muscular arm, bare to the elbow, a figure clad in white flannels,
swimming low and strong, were beside her.
It had been accomplished in one moment's time. The boat was being now
pushed in the direction of a bank, on which stood a watching group of
young men, clad, like her rescuer, in white flannels and loose,
bright-colored jackets. One of these got into the water, and catching
the prow of the boat, pulled it in with one vigorous sweep. The keel
grazed the bottom of the river; the young men lifted Meg and set her on
shore.
"Well, if ever a little girl escaped drowning you have!" said her
rescuer, giving himself a shake.
Meg was silent as she realized that she had been saved from drowning in
the whirl and foam of roaring water. The young men looked at her with
kind, smiling glances--she was surrounded with laughing eyes and
gleaming teeth. They plied her with questions of "Who was she?" "What
was her name?" "Where did she come from?" "Had she been frightened?"
She explained how she had got into the boat and she had drifted away.
No, she had not been frightened--only when she saw the word "Danger" she
had begun to be afraid.
Her rescuers voted that she was a heroine.
The young men moved away a few steps and held a consultation; one, who
had an eyeglass stuck in his eye and a pipe in his mouth, came forward.
"Get into the boat, Meg, and we will all row you back. You will point
out the place you came from when we approach it."
He handed Meg in, and the young fellows vied with each other to pay her
attention. One put a cushion at her back, another a plank to her feet.
"Meg," they vowed, "must be rowed back in triumph."
They stepped into the boat, four took oars. Another sat behind Meg,
ropes in hand. Presently they lit their pipes. Meg sat back in state.
How kind they were! They were not cross, as girls mostly were; they did
not mock or tease her; they did not say a word of what some of the
girls called chaff. She watched with amazement all their pipes going
puff, puff, puff. She liked them because they did not talk much. They
reminded her of Mr. Standish. When their eyes caught hers they gave her
a smile. How strong they were! She watched their muscular arms and hands
sweeping the water with their oars, the rhythmic movement of their
swaying bodies.
No Greek maiden delivered from peril by a group of demi-gods ever felt
more lost in dreamy wonder and gratitude than did Meg, rowed up the
river by her rescuers. Her eyes rested oftenest on the one who had saved
her--he seemed to her the most magnificent member of this gallant crew.
He had laughing, twinkling eyes, thick, short, curly hair, silky
mustache no bigger than an eyebrow. It occurred to her that she had not
thanked him for saving her life. She turned over in her mind what was
the proper thing to say. She tried to recollect what persons in
story-books said to the saviours of their lives, but she could not
remember; she pondered, but the words of gratitude would not come. At
last she exclaimed abruptly:
"You saved my life--and--and--I am very much obliged to you."
A peal of laughter taken up by all the group greeted this speech. The
laughter was so jovial and good-natured that Meg felt at her ease. It
seemed to say: "What nonsense! Don't thank me. It was nothing."
Then they began to question her again: "Was she afraid of meeting her
schoolmistress? Would she be scolded?"
Meg admitted the possibility of being scolded. Her rescuers vowed that
they would plead for her. They would extract a promise from the
schoolmistress not to punish her. Meg must not be scolded; Meg must be
welcomed home like the prodigal returning.
"There!" exclaimed Meg dejectedly, pointing to a group of girls and
teachers looking up and down the river. She enjoyed the amazement of the
spectators as from the bank they watched her triumphant return. With a
sweep of the oars the boat came alongside the shore. Miss Reeves stepped
forward.
"You must have been frightened, madam, at this young lady's
disappearance," said Meg's rescuer, jumping on shore.
Meg allowed herself to be helped out like a princess by the oarsmen.
"We had not long missed the child," replied Miss Reeves. "We were
startled when we discovered that the boat was gone. She ought not to
have gone alone--it was very thoughtless."
"The boat drifted away with her--it nearly carried her down the weir,"
said the spokesman. "She was very courageous."
Meg felt herself pleaded for, and listened, motionless.
"You saved her life?" said Miss Reeves.
"I was able, by swimming out in time, to turn the boat's head," replied
the young man lightly. "She behaved with great pluck."
"I am most grateful, and I shall acquaint her guardians," said Miss
Reeves.
"No, no--pray don't!" replied the young man; and his comrades echoed his
words. "Only," he added with a merry twinkle, "do not let Miss Meg be
scolded! She is so spirited, so courageous--she ought to have a medal
for steadiness of nerves."
Miss Reeves hesitated, then she said smiling: "She will not be scolded."
The announcement was received with approbation, the young men shook
hands with Meg, and lifting their white caps to Miss Reeves and the
schoolgirls, turned away.
Meg watched their figures retreating through the trees; and when they
vanished she felt the loneliness creep over her again.