RIVERCLIFF LANDING
Beth was roused from her reverie by the mournful tooting of the _Water
Wagtail’s_ whistle for the landing at Marbury. Here Cynthia Fogg
expected her pursuers would come aboard to search the boat for her; but
she was a sound sleeper and did not arouse at all while the steamer was
at the dock, discharging and receiving freight.
Nor did Beth hear anything outside her stateroom door that indicated
a search of the passengers’ quarters for the runaway girl. Beth was a
little worried, now she stopped to think of the matter more seriously.
What would the authorities do to her if it was learned that she had
hidden Cynthia away?
She wondered about another thing, too. If Cynthia safely escaped her
pursuers, what was to be done with her? Beth wondered whether or not
she should take Molly Granger into the secret. She felt that she ought
to advise with somebody, and Molly seemed the only person at hand.
Yet she realized that the laughing, joking, careless Molly might not
be just the best sort of individual to advise with in any important
emergency.
Somehow, Beth felt that Cynthia Fogg was one of those persons who are
apt to trust implicitly in the suggestions or help of others rather
than themselves exert mind or body in an emergency. Having given
herself into Beth’s hands, the runaway had gone to sleep as peacefully
as a baby, leaving her hostess to think out her future course--if she
would.
The steamboat finally got under way again, and nobody disturbed the
occupants of stateroom Number 53. Beth then undressed, said her
prayers, put Larry’s present and her purse under her pillow, and
climbed gingerly into bed, being careful not to awaken the slumbering
Cynthia.
She did not expect to sleep much, the situation being so strange and
the day such an exciting one. But scarcely was her head comfortably
settled on the pillow than she was off.
One o’clock was a late hour for Beth Baldwin to be awake. Therefore,
the early morning stir upon the boat--even its stopping at several
small landings--did not arouse her. But a fist pounding vigorously on
the door of Number 53 did finally awaken her.
“Beth Baldwin! Beth Baldwin! For the sake of goodness! Do you die at
night and have to be resurrected every morning?”
“Is--is that you, Molly Granger?” yawned Beth.
“It is. Get up!”
“Isn’t it _dreadfully_ early?”
“No. It’s only cloudy. The day is broke, my child--dead broke, by the
looks of it, I should say. A nasty day! and I so wanted it to be nice.”
Beth had reached down and was fumbling at the key in the lock. Now she
turned it and Molly bounced in.
“Well! you lazy girl!” cried Miss Granger, who was fully dressed.
“You’ll learn to get up more promptly than this at Rivercliff. Miss
Hammersly believes in early hours. So does the madam.”
“I did not go to sleep till after the boat left Marbury,” said Beth,
yawning frankly again.
“Mercy! and I never even knew we stopped there,” laughed Molly. Then
suddenly she uttered a suppressed shriek and fell back from the berths.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the startled Beth, sitting up wildly and
bumping her head.
“What--what’s _that_?” asked the other girl, pointing.
“Oh! Ow! Ouch!” groaned Beth, placing both hands tenderly on her poor,
bruised crown. “What is the matter with you, Molly Granger?”
Then she remembered Cynthia Fogg and carefully crept down from her
berth. In the lower berth, the freckled runaway was wound up in the
blanket like an Egyptian mummy in its wrappings, quite unconscious of
what was going on about her.
“For mercy’s sake!” repeated Molly. “Did that grow there in the night?”
“Oh dear me, no!” gasped Beth, between laughing and weeping, for the
bump hurt. “That’s Cynthia.”
“What?”
“Cynthia Fogg.”
“Goodness! Did you have her in your bag? Was that why I didn’t see her
before?” asked Molly Granger.
“Why--don’t you see? It’s the girl I gave flowers to. Don’t you
remember?”
Molly was staring wonderingly about the stateroom. She spied the green
hat and purple feather.
“Cracky-me!” she sighed. “That dowdy?”
“Sh!” began Beth, but Molly interrupted:
“She’s dead, isn’t she? Nothing less than Gabriel’s trump will wake her
up. Tell me about it--do! A strange girl in your stateroom? I shouldn’t
have thought you’d dare.”
“Why--I never thought there was the least harm in her,” Beth said,
wonderingly. “And she was in trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
In whispers Beth told Molly all about it. The jolly girl laughed when
she heard how Beth thought the freckled girl was about to commit
suicide; but she listened to the remainder of the story with some
seriousness.
“I don’t see how you dared do it,” repeated Molly. “To take her right
into your stateroom!”
“But she’s only a girl like ourselves.”
“But from a public institution of some kind!”
“Is that different from a boarding school?” demanded Beth, with some
warmth. “Only the girls, I suppose, are all poor and don’t have very
much fun.”
“Cracky-me!” exclaimed Molly again. “Maybe she’s from some place where
they send really bad girls. Perhaps she’s escaped from a reform school.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Beth. “She’s nicely spoken and is very ladylike.
And has such wonderful eyes!”
“I noticed those eyes last evening,” said Molly, reflectively. “And she
is older than we are.”
“Not much.”
“Maybe she has been with people who are not nice. To think of the risk
you took, Beth Baldwin! And she admitted the authorities were after
her.”
“Yes.”
“Suppose a policeman had come right here to this room and demanded
her--and taken you to jail, too?”
But Molly’s eyes twinkled, and Beth laughed again. “You can’t scare me,
Molly Granger. I don’t believe there is a mite of harm in Cynthia Fogg.”
“Well, what are you going to do with ‘Cynthia-of-the-minute?’” asked
Molly.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” said Beth, seriously.
“With me? Goodness! Am I going to be in this?”
“Of course. We’re chums, aren’t we?” laughed Beth, roguishly, as she
drew on her stockings. “Sit down on the edge of the berth, Molly, and
we’ll talk. I don’t think Cynthia means to wake up.”
“She wouldn’t awaken if the upper berth fell down,” declared Molly
Granger. “Well now! what is it, Beth Baldwin? I believe you are going
to get me into trouble.”
“Not a bit of it. But we both must help this poor girl.”
“Why must we? I don’t like that word, anyway,” confessed Molly.
“But if we can help folks in this world, we ought to, oughtn’t we?”
“That is, if we find a convict, for instance, escaping, we should aid
him rather than the police?” giggled Molly.
“Hush! I tell you I have every confidence in Cynthia’s being a good
girl. But she is a poor girl, and she needs some better looking clothes
than those she has. And then, she needs work.”
“What kind of work?” asked Molly, wide-eyed. “We couldn’t find her work
to do.”
“I don’t know whether we could or not. She speaks as though she were
used to domestic service.”
But Beth refrained from mentioning the fact that the appearance of
Cynthia’s hands did not bear this out.
“Might introduce her to Madam Hammersly,” said Molly, really thinking
about the situation now. “She is always hiring and discharging maids
and waitresses. She is awfully particular.”
“But we’d want to get Cynthia a permanent position,” said Beth.
“Oh! if the madam liked her--if this girl could suit her--she would
have a good situation. Madam pays well, I believe,” said Molly.
Just then the bundle of blankets on the berth began to heave, and a
voice came from out of it, saying:
“’Nuff said! I take the job! Ow--yow! yow! Is it morning? Who’s this
girl sitting on me, anyway?”
Molly got up in a hurry. Beth laughed, saying to the girl in the berth:
“How do you know the position will suit you, Cynthia?”
“Why, any position suits one if one has no money--isn’t that so?” said
the philosophical one. Her clear, low voice made Molly think more
favorably of her--the jolly girl showed this in her expression of
countenance.
“How jolly!” she exclaimed, and throwing all her previous caution to
the winds. “It would be great fun to take you to Rivercliff with us.”
“To school, you mean?” yawned Cynthia Fogg.
“To school. But to work for Madam Hammersly. She is housekeeper and
general manager. Why! there are twenty or more girls on her staff.”
“They don’t have to take lessons, do they?” demanded Cynthia,
apparently rather startled by the idea.
“Oh no!” giggled Molly. “I should say not.”
“Then I’m willing to try it,” said Cynthia, swinging her slender limbs
out of bed. “But, Miss Baldwin, you didn’t tell me this girl’s name?”
“So I didn’t. Pardon!” said Beth. “Miss Granger.”
“All right. Now, there isn’t much room in here, Miss Granger, for us to
dress. So if you’ll go out while Miss Baldwin and I are about it, it
will facilitate matters--don’t you think so?”
“Well, I like that!” gasped Molly, in a tone that showed she did not
like it at all.
But Beth only laughed. That the strange girl assumed the right to give
orders did not trouble the even temper of Beth Baldwin. She said:
“Cynthia is right, Molly. It is close quarters in here. And please run
and see if you haven’t a collar or a collarette that you can spare, and
that will help out on this shirt waist I am going to ask Cynthia to
wear instead of that brown one.”
“Huh!” grunted Molly.
“My! you girls are awfully particular about the way I look,” Cynthia
Fogg declared.
“If you want to go to Rivercliff with us,” Beth said firmly but
pleasantly, “you must look neat. Mustn’t she, Molly?”
“Yes indeed!” exclaimed the girl questioned.
“If I look too nice will they think I need the job?” Cynthia asked,
bluntly.
“Cracky-me!” ejaculated Molly, losing her momentary “grouch.” “Madam is
awfully particular! She’d judge your ability to keep her things neat
by the neatness of your own apparel--sure she would!”
She ran away cheerfully to find things in her suitcase to help bedeck
the runaway.
“If I could only get to my trunk!” Beth said to Cynthia. “I’ve a hat
there that----”
“Why! mine is a perfectly good hat. Don’t you think it’s rather
striking?” asked Cynthia, with her face turned from Beth’s gaze.
“Goodness, yes! That’s the very trouble,” gasped Beth, looking at the
green hat with the purple feather.
“And the girl who wore it really worked as a maid and waitress,”
declared Cynthia, as though that settled the question of its
suitability.
But Beth was puzzled. Cynthia spoke just as though she were playing a
part and was proud of the fact that she had dressed for it. Yet the
girl from Hudsonvale could not put her finger upon one word Cynthia had
said or one thing that she had done which really bore out the suspicion
that she was not exactly what she pretended to be--a fugitive from some
institution where girls without home and friends were confined.
There was nothing vulgar or mean in the strange girl’s speech or
actions. She was abrupt and rather impolite at times. But that
abruptness seemed to spring from a frank character repressed, rather
than from a lack of appreciation of proper behavior. Indeed, Beth
fancied that Cynthia felt no social inferiority and was used to
treating others as her equals in that respect. Or was it that she felt
herself naturally superior to most of those whom she met?
A strange combination was Cynthia Fogg, that was sure.
Beth finished dressing first and went in search of Molly Granger. The
jolly girl demanded first of all:
“Isn’t that the strangest girl you ever met, Beth Baldwin?”
Beth sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “Either she does not know when
she offends good taste or she does not care. She is an odd-acting girl
for one in her position.”
“Yet,” said Molly, reflectively, “there is something taking about her.”
“That’s what I say,” said Beth, brightening up. “Anyway, we’ll see if
we can get her taken on by Madam Hammersly. My! she is so abrupt. I
wonder what the madam will say to her?”
“Will she even give her an interview?” asked Beth.
“Sure. We’ll get her a chance to see the madam,” said Molly.
“You must do that,” said Beth. “I am a stranger.”
“Leave it to me,” said the other girl, with assurance. “But that hat!
If we could only lose it!”
“I’d gladly give her another,” Beth cried.
“Jolly! leave it to me,” Molly said, again nodding. “I know what to do.”
They went back together to Number Fifty-three. Cynthia was completely
dressed, and Beth said to her:
“Come on now. We’ll go to breakfast.”
“But I’ve no money!” exclaimed the freckled girl.
“I have invited you to go with me,” said Beth.
“With us,” put in Molly Granger. “You will be our guest to-day. How far
up the river is your fare paid?”
“To tell you the truth, I had a ticket--er--given me to Jackson City,”
replied the other, speaking slowly.
“All right,” said Molly, quickly. “That’s beyond Rivercliff. You can
get a stop-over.”
“Well!” said Cynthia Fogg, with a burst of emotion. “You are good to
me!”
“Let’s go out on deck for a breath of fresh air first,” Molly suggested.
The trio went outside, through one of the sliding doors. The deck was
wet and the mist stood congealed in drops upon the railing. Into the
fog their gaze could not penetrate a dozen yards. All they could see
was a portion of the steamboat itself, and the grayish, muddy water
lapping alongside and below them.
“Ugh, how nasty!” said Cynthia Fogg with a shudder, leaning over the
wet rail.
“Oh!” squealed Molly, and fell heavily against the taller girl.
In grabbing at her own hat, her elbow struck Cynthia’s topheavy
“creation,” and the abomination flew off the freckled girl’s head.
“What _are_ you doing?” demanded Cynthia, in some heat, although her
voice remained low and well modulated.
“How awkward!” gasped Molly. “Will you forgive me, Miss Fogg?”
The hat had dropped into the water and now danced astern. Cynthia
cried, rather wildly:
“How shall I ever recover it?”
“Hat overboard!” exclaimed Molly, giggling now. “Call all hands!”
“Well--it’s my only hat! I don’t believe you care,” said Cynthia,
eyeing Molly doubtfully.
“Well, never mind!” Molly said. “No use crying over spilled milk.”
“That isn’t milk,” said the freckled one. “It was a perfectly good hat.”
“Oh!” gasped Molly.
“What’s the matter, Miss Granger?” asked the tall girl, suspiciously.
“Don’t you suppose I paid good money for that hat?”
“I--I don’t know,” giggled Molly. “Only if you did, you must have been
color blind.”
At that Cynthia Fogg burst into a low, agreeable laugh. Her blue eyes
brightened and twinkled. Under her usual demure manner there certainly
was some sense of fun in this strange girl.
“If I could only get to my trunk,” Beth began, but Molly cried:
“She’ll look all right bareheaded.”
“They will take me for an immigrant,” said Cynthia.
“That’s better than looking like a scarecrow,” said the saucy Molly.
“Jolly! if you’d worn that freak hat up to the school, and the girls
had seen you----”
“But I sha’n’t mix with the young ladies who attend Rivercliff School,”
said Cynthia Fogg, demurely.
“You won’t mind going without a hat for one day--and on this boat?”
said Beth.
“Of course she won’t!” cried Molly.
“I’ll leave mine in the stateroom, too,” suggested Beth.
“So will I,” the jolly girl declared.
Cynthia laughed again. “I never saw girls like you two before,” she
said. “Go ahead, I’ll do whatever you say. I’m in your hands.”
Beth secretly thought that Cynthia had made a very honest confession in
this statement. She seemed perfectly satisfied to allow her friends to
go ahead and plan for her.
They went upstairs to the saloon deck to breakfast, and had a very
pleasant meal, despite the gloominess of the day. Beth noted that
Cynthia had surely been well brought up. She was quite used to good
form in table manners. She was not on her guard against mistakes; the
proper table etiquette was as natural to this runaway girl as breathing.
The _Water Wagtail_ plodded up the river through the thick mist all
the forenoon, stopping now and then at misty landings. But at noon the
weather cleared suddenly and then the beauty of the banks was revealed
to Beth Baldwin, who had never before been so far from Hudsonvale.
During the forenoon two girls came aboard the steamboat whom Molly
Granger introduced to Beth. They were Stella Price and Lil Browne.
“Notice the ‘e,’ please, at the end of Lil’s name,” said the jolly
girl. “That is why she is a ‘Brownie’--and we all call her that, don’t
we, Brownie?”
“Of course _we_ do, Jolly Molly,” returned the new girl, laughing.
So Beth learned that, quite in keeping with her language and character,
her new chum was known by everybody at Rivercliff as “Jolly Molly”
Granger.
Cynthia Fogg stayed in the stateroom most of the day. She did not
put herself forward or try to take advantage of the other girls’
consideration for her. She kept to herself, either from a feeling that
she was not of the class of these girls going to Rivercliff to school,
or because--because----
“Can it be that she feels herself _above_ us?” thought the puzzled Beth.
But she did not whisper this thought, even to Molly Granger.
The day was spent pleasantly enough by Beth and the other girls. The
banks of the river were an ever-changing panorama of beauty; the small
landings and the larger towns came in rapid succession, for it was a
thickly inhabited part of the State.
Late in the day Rivercliff came into view. Molly pointed it out to the
Hudsonvale girl with pride.
There was a small landing at the foot of a high, gray bluff. The
village on the river’s immediate bank did not number fifty houses. A
road, plainly marked, wound up the face of the bluff, to which several
little houses clung like limpets to a rock. On the brow of the bluff
was a huge, brick house, with towers at the two front corners, and
wings thrown out on either side. There were several smaller buildings
that evidently belonged to the school, too.
To tell the truth, Beth Baldwin, at first view, thought Rivercliff
School rather ugly.