A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS
“I’ve got a new bunk now, Jean,” said Douglas, as he set out for his
Sunday half-holiday, a covered tin pail in his hand.
“Do you mean you’ve left the Harrels’?” asked Jean.
“I’m going to leave to-night. I won’t stay in _that_ place any longer.”
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“Tony’s mad because people are getting onto his breaking the game laws,
and he thinks I gave him away. He told me I’d been lying about him. I
won’t stand anybody saying that I lie!”
“The wicked thing! How did he dare?” cried Jean. “He won’t try to hurt
you now, will he?”
“Oh, shucks, no!” said Douglas contemptuously. “Don’t you worry about
_me_! He went off this morning, anyhow: he says he’s got a job in
Plattsburg. Guess where I’m going?”
“To the Hamiltons’?” asked Jean.
“Good guess. Yes, Dr. Hamilton found out I was going to leave, and he
said he’d take me in and let me work out my board when I’m off duty
here. Isn’t that a cinch?”
“I should think it was! It’s perfectly fine!”
“I’m sorry about Limpy, though,” said Douglas. “She feels real badly
because I’m going.”
“Who’s Limpy?”
“She’s George Harrel’s stepdaughter. Her mother’s dead. She’s sick, and
I do things for her and sort of jolly her up.”
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Jean.
“Oh, I don’t know. Her heart does queer stunts. She was sick all last
winter, and now she’s just weak all the time, and sometimes she gets
unconscious fits,—you’d think she was going to die right off.”
“Poor thing, how dreadful!” cried Jean. “What a funny name _Limpy_ is!”
“It’s short for _Olympia_,—Stella Olympia Weeks—that’s the whole of it.”
“Stella Olympia Weeks! Horrors!” exclaimed Jean. “I should think her
_name_ would be enough! Limpy Weeks,—limp and weak! I don’t wonder she’s
weak all the time. _Stella_’s pretty, though. Why don’t they call her
_Stella_?”
“Give it up,” said Douglas.
“How old is she?” asked Jean.
“Fifteen—she’s just three days younger than I am. She’s a real nice
girl, but her father’s a regular old skinflint. Well, anyhow, Limpy’s
going to have something nice _this_ time. Mrs. Brook gave me some ice
cream for her. I’ll have to hustle, or it’ll melt. Look here! Couldn’t
you go and see her some time? It’ll do her an awful lot of good.”
“Really? Do you want me to? Do you think she’d like to have me?” asked
Jean, her face lighting up.
“Of course she would,—she’s awfully lonely. Come along and see her now,
don’t you want to?”
“I’d love to! I’ll get Carol to come too, and take her mandolin, and
sing to her.”
“That’ll be great,” said Douglas. “She loves music, and she hasn’t
anything but an old accordion. I give her accordion concerts.”
Carol had just thrown herself down under a golden birch to enjoy a
comfortable Sunday afternoon of reading; but the battle maid roused her
mercilessly, demanding that she bestir herself and join the expedition
to visit the damsel in distress.
“There was a young maid of Brazil,
Who never could learn to keep still.
She was so energetic,
And peripatetic,
She made her poor Carolie ill!”
improvised Carol.
“You lazy old Carolie! It won’t make you ill a bit!” laughed Jean. “Come
along, _please_!”
“Oh, now, Queenie, does your majesty really think it’s your duty to drag
me off with you this hot day, when I’m _so_ comfortable? Think what a
nice chance it is to show _me_ a little Caritas, and let me rest in
peace!”
“You don’t need any Caritas at all!” said Jean relentlessly. “Come
along! _I_ don’t know what to say to sick people. You’ll have to help
me.”
“Oh, misery me!” groaned Carol. “Well, pull me up!” she added
good-naturedly, holding out a lazy arm. “I’ll go with you and die of
sun-stroke in a good cause,—that is, if our stern teachers will let us
run off together again. Go and ask them.”
“All right. You’re a love and a jewel! Oh, Carolie! don’t forget to take
your mandolin!”
“I’m not going to _sing_ at that poor sick girl!” Carol objected.
“Oh, but Carolie, Douglas says she _loves_ music, and she has only a
silly old accordion! You _must_ sing for her,” Jean insisted.
“Why did I adopt a tyrant!” sighed Carol, going into her tent.
It was a mile to the Harrel farm, and the place—Carol said when they
reached it—was enough to give the Frisky Mouse, herself, the blues. For
many a year the house had cried for a coat of paint, and the barn looked
ready to topple over. Douglas took them into the living-room, where
nearly every piece of furniture was a threadbare cripple. There they
found Limpy lying on a dilapidated sofa. She had tossed her tangle of
pale, lusterless hair over the pillow, and thrown her patch-work quilt
on the floor. She wore an untidy calico wrapper, the collar flying open
and the sleeves rolled up, showing her pitifully thin neck and arms.
“Hello, Limpy!” said Douglas. “I brought Miss Armstrong and Miss Jean to
see you.”
The girl turned her head and stared, but did not speak or smile. Such a
white, tired face as the poor child had! Her big gray eyes had dark
rings under them, and their expression was listless and unhappy. Jean
had picked a large bunch of daisies, but she lacked the courage to offer
it. Carol, nothing daunted, knelt down by the sofa and caught up a weak
little hand. “You poor little chicky! What’s happened to you?” she
exclaimed. “You’ve had a real hard time, haven’t you? It’s too bad! But
we’re going to take you in hand and pet you up and make you well again.”
Limpy looked in dumb astonishment at the lovely, healthful face, and the
clear eyes full of sunlight, and Carol went on cheerily: “You know
there’s a great big crowd of us girls here, and we’re all just as jolly
as can be. We’re going to spend the whole summer, and you must take us
all for friends.”
“’S ma’am,” murmured Limpy faintly; as if the prospect of friends was
depressing.
“Miss Jean’s coming to see you a lot,” said Douglas. “You won’t care a
cent about my going, now.” Limpy moved her head in a sad little shake of
denial.
“We’re not going to let you miss Douglas one bit,” said Carol. “Here’s
Jean now, and next time we’ll bring Cecily, and some day when you feel
_very_ well, you may find the whole twenty of us coming to call. Will
you let us in?”
“’S ma’am,” said Limpy, but she looked overawed at the thought.
Carol settled herself in the chair that Douglas had brought her, and
tried again. “I never saw such lovely daisy fields as you have here,”
said she. “Jean thought you’d like some daisies.”
Jean, thus prodded, laid her flowers silently on Limpy’s pillow,—as if
she were laying them on Juliet’s bier, so Carol told her afterwards. A
weak “Thank you!” was heard, and the ghost of a smile flickered over the
wan face.
Douglas winked at Jean, then at the invalid. “Come on, Limpy,—look
pleasant!” said he, impersonating a photographer. “Here, hold your
bouquet,—that’s the ticket! Now let’s stick a daisy over your ear.
There! now you look stunning!”
“Ain’t you silly!” Limpy murmured softly, the ghost of a smile turning
to a real one at last.
Then Douglas presented Carol with her mandolin, saying, “Miss Carol’s
going to sing for you; isn’t that great!” Carol took the mandolin from
its case, and the tired eyes brightened with expectancy. Douglas picked
up his pail.
“Here’s something Mrs. Brook sent you. Feel like some pork and beans?”
he inquired, and carried the pail into the kitchen to unpack the ice
cream.
Jean shot after him. “Douglas, I’m scared to death!” she declared. “I
don’t know what to say to her. I know she doesn’t want me here. I think
she’s mad I came.”
“No, she’s not,” said Douglas, “but she’s scared worse than you
are,—that’s what’s the matter with her. She thinks you’re ‘city people.’
She’s awfully shy, but I didn’t think she’d be quite so bad. Say—you
take this ice cream in to her,—then you’ll make friends.”
“Yes, do give me _something_ to do,” said Jean piteously. She took the
bowl, and Douglas a spoon. As they turned back they heard Carol singing
a Southern mammy’s lullaby. Carol had a sweet, rich-toned voice, and
they found Limpy all attention, a light in her face, and the dull
lifeless look quite gone.
“There!” said Douglas, as Carol paused. “That’s the real thing, isn’t
it, Limpy?”
“It’s _elergant_!” she replied rapturously.
Then Jean presented the strawberry ice cream. “Here’s something nice,”
she said shyly. “I’ll hold it for you.”
“Oh—thank you!” said Limpy eagerly. “Don’t you want some, too?” she
timidly asked her guests.
“No, thank you. We’ve had ours already,” she was assured, and she took a
first delectable spoonful.
“It’s awful good!” she said with a sigh of bliss.
Limpy feasted to music, for the lullaby was followed by _Comin’ through
the Rye_ and _Anne Laurie_, for the benefit of the Scotch laddie who was
beating time on the invalid’s foot.
“That’s enough now. I don’t want to tire you,” said Carol. But Limpy
protested: “Oh, no, ma’am! I couldn’t never get tired o’ music! I play
the accordion when I feel good, but I’d rather play _that_ thing, an’
sing.” So the clear voice rang out again, this time in joyous Easter
melodies.
“Now we’re going to cool you off beautifully,” said Carol, at last,
laying down her mandolin. “Douglas, you take that chair. You take the
quilt and pillow, Jean, and I’ll take Limpy, and we’ll set her out under
the trees where it’s nice and breezy.”
A very much surprised Limpy was presently reclining in an armchair under
the shady maples. “Oh, ain’t it nice out here!” said the poor little
white blossom that had been withering indoors.
“Now I’m going to braid your hair in two dear little pigtails,” said
Carol. “It must make you so hot, hanging loose like that. Come along,
Douglas, show me where her room is, please. I’ll have to get her comb.
We’ll keep out of the way for a while, and give Jean a chance to make
friends with her,” she explained, as they went into the house.
Jean, still tongue-tied with shyness, rolled imploring eyes at the
comrades deserting her, and pulled a clover to pieces while her brain
whirled in a wild hunt. Wonder of wonders, a thought came! “When you’re
better, Limpy,” said she, “wouldn’t you like to come up to the camp and
see some of our fun? Douglas could take you out on the lake.”
“Oh, I’d love to!” said Limpy wistfully. “But I don’t feel like I’ll
ever be well enough. I have such bad spells with my heart, an’ I can’t
have Doctor no more.”
“Why can’t you have the doctor?”
“Pa says he won’t pay no more doctor’s bills.”
“The mean—” Jean began, and stopped short. Remembering Carol’s cheery
way, she said brightly, “Oh, but you’re going to get well! Why, you look
_ever_ so much better than when we came! And never mind if you can’t get
up to camp just yet, we can have lots of nice times right here. I’ll
come and read to you whenever I can.”
“You’re awful good,” said Limpy, gratefully. “I’ll be so lonesome, now
Douglas is goin’.”
“I’m lonely, too, sometimes, because I’m so far away from home,” said
Jean.
“I wisht I had a sister,” said Limpy.
“I’ve always wished _I_ had one,” said Jean. “I’ll tell you what! Let’s
play _we_’re sisters, and then you won’t feel half so lonely.”
Limpy opened her eyes to their widest. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Why, I’ll pretend you’re my sister, and come and see you just as often
as I can; and when I go back to school I’ll write letters to you and
tell you all about the girls, and all we do. And you must write to _me_
too. And we’ll sign our letters, ‘Your loving sister.’ Then you won’t
feel all alone, will you?”
When Carol came back, having put the small coop of a bedroom to rights,
she found Jean sitting on the arm of the chair, chattering like a
magpie, and Limpy laughing merrily as she held Jean’s hand. And when her
visitors had to go, Limpy made Douglas gather them each a bouquet of
very stiff flowers from the little old-fashioned overgrown garden.
“Good-bye, chickabiddy,” said Carol. “We’ll run in to-morrow and see if
you’re behaving yourself, and if we find you hiding away indoors again,
we’ll pick you right straight up and put you out to play in the
daisies.” She gave her a pat and a kiss.
“Bye-bye,—Sister,” said Jean. Holding out the neat pigtails, one in each
hand, she kissed the face between them, and Limpy put her arms around
Jean’s neck and gave her a soft little grateful hug.
“Jeanie, Queenie, no fear your majesty won’t conquer the world!” said
Carol as they went back to camp. “You came out gloriously! I’m so glad
you dragged this lazy-bones off this afternoon. Poor little dear! I’m
going down to give her a concert whenever I can.”
“Oh, will you, Miss Carol!” said Douglas eagerly. “We’ll have her cured
up in less than no time, with music like that! It’s the best _I_ ever
heard!”
Jean walked along in a brown study. Suddenly she said, “Limpy’s afraid
she’ll never get well, because her horrid old miser of a stepfather
won’t pay any more doctor’s bills. Carolie, let’s have a _fair_, and
raise money for her so she can have the doctor whenever she wants.”
“Fine idea, your majesty!” said Carol. “Talk it up with your battle
maids, and the rest of us’ll help you. Only don’t let’s call it a
_fair_,—fairs were stale when Columbus came over.”
So the queen of the Silver Sword called her maidens into counsel.
“I know!” said Cecily. “Let’s have a Forest Festival!” And she
propounded a plan that enchanted her friends. Around the camp-fire that
evening, a meeting of all the summer sisters was held, and Cecily’s
project was adopted. By the time that Carol, who was the camp bugler,
had sounded _taps_, it had been decided that Camp Huairarwee should give
a fair in July for the benefit of Stella Olympia Weeks, and that it
should be of a novel and strictly woodsy kind, called—as the princess of
the Scroll had suggested—“A Forest Festival.”
The days that followed were brimming over with frolics and excursions;
but the girls found time to devote a part of each one to working for the
fair. There was much letter writing, too, for supplies had to be ordered
from home, and petitions sent to their families and friends to
contribute wares. The battle maids who had not come to camp were
appealed to and responded gallantly to their sovereign’s call.
Meanwhile, Limpy, her listlessness all gone, became the protégée of the
Silver Sword, and found warm friends in Cecily and Betty as well as in
Carol and Jean. Frances made one call on her, sniffed the aroma of the
parlor, observed to Betty, “Don’t you hate that cabbagey smell?” and
declined to repeat the visit. But even Frances worked for Cecily’s
Forest Festival. As for the queen herself, hardly had she unsheathed the
sword of Caritas in behalf of the damsel in distress when she found a
chance to draw it in quite a new direction.