0051
Who could marvel, then, that the tears came unbidden, as Courage at one glance took in the whole situation—the elaborate decorations, the sadly despoiled plants.
“Oh, Sylvia, how could you?” was all she found words to say. Poor Sylvia, never more surprised in her life, stood aghast for a moment, looking most beseechingly to Larry. Then a possibility dawned upon her.
“Am it dem posies, Miss Courage?” and the question let the light in on Larry's bewildered mind.
“Of course I mean the flowers,” said Courage, laying one hand caressingly on a poor little dismantled plant. “You have not left a single one, and I wouldn't have had you pick them for all the world.”
“But I was 'bliged to, Miss Courage,” with all the aplomb of a conscientious performance of duty.
“Obliged to?” and then it seemed to occur simultaneously to Larry and Courage that they had possibly secured the services of a veritable little lunatic.
“Yes, Miss Courage; hab you neber hearn tell of a kitchen garden?”
“Never,” said Courage; and now she and Larry exchanged glances as to the certainty of Sylvia's mental condition.
“Well, I'se a kitchen-garden grajate,” Sylvia announced with no little pride.
“Bless my stars! if you're not a stark little idiot,” muttered Larry under his breath, but fortunately Sylvia was too absorbed to hear.
“Well, dere ain't much you kin tell a kitchen-garden grajate,” she continued complacently, “'bout setting tables and sich like. Dere's questions and answers 'bout eberyting, you know, an' when Miss Sylvester ses, 'What must yer hab in de middle ob de table?' the answer is, 'Fruit or flowers so as there wasn't no fruit, why—” and Sylvia, pausing abruptly, gave a little shrug of her shoulders, and with a grandiloquent gesture, pointed to the geraniums, as though further words were superfluous.
“Oh, I didn't understand,” said Courage, for both she and Larry were beginning to comprehend the situation, and a little later on, when they had had time to realize more fully the careful arrangement of the table, to say nothing of the tempting dishes themselves, they were ready to pronounce the little lunatic of a few moments previous a veritable treasure. The ham was done “to a turn;” the fried potatoes were deliciously crisp; dainty little biscuits fairly melted in your mouth; the coffee was perfection, and Sylvia sat beaming and radiant, for there was no lack of openly expressed appreciation.
“What did you say you were, Sylvia?” asked Courage during the progress of the meal.
“Oh, I didn't say I was nuffin 't all,” nervously fearing that in some unconscious way she might again have offended her new little mistress.
“Yes, you did, don't you know?” pretending not to notice the nervousness. “It was something nice to be; it began with kitchen.”
“Oh, yes,” said Sylvia, much relieved, “a kitchen-garden grajate. Want to see my di-diplomer?” including both Larry and Courage in one glance as she spoke. Wholly mystified as to what the article might be, both of course nodded yes, whereupon Sylvia, plunging one little black fist down the neck of her dress, vainly endeavored to bring something to the surface.
“It kinder sticks,” she explained confidentially, but in another second a shining medal attached to a blue ribbon came flying out with appalling momentum. “Dere now,” she said, giving a backward dive through the encircling ribbon, “dat's what I got for larning all dere was to larn.”
Courage took the medal and examined it. It was made of some bright metal, and was stamped with the figure of a girl with a broom in her hand. Across the top were the words “Kitchen Garden,” and on a little scroll at the bottom the name Sylvia Sylvester.
“Why do they call it a kitchen garden?” asked Courage, passing the medal on for Larry's inspection; “it's an awful funny name.”
“Glory knows! ain't no sense in it, I reckon.”
“And that medal,” added Courage, “was a sort of a prize for doing things better than the others, wasn't it?”
“No, Miss Courage, dat's a reg'lar diplomer. All de chillens in de school had 'em when, dey grajated.”
Courage looked appealingly toward Larry, to see if he knew what she meant, and Larry looked just as appealingly to Courage. The truth was, Sylvia had the best of them both. To be sure, she used a pronunciation of her own, but it was near enough to the original to have suggested graduate and diploma to minds in anywise familiar with the articles.
“And did they teach you to cook in the kitchen garden?” Courage asked, feeling that she must remain quite hopelessly in the dark regarding the words in question.
“No, dat was an extry. One ob de lady man'gers, Miss Caxton, teached us de cookin'. She was a lubly lady—sich a kind face, and sich daisy gray haar, and allers so jolly. She came twic't a week, case she was dat fond ob cookin' and liked chillens. She ses black skins didn't make no difference. One ob dese days I'se gwine to write down for yer all de dishes what she teached how to cook.”
And so the first meal aboard the lighter fared on, and before it was over Larry made up his mind that as soon as he could afford it he would send five dollars to the orphan asylum and a letter besides, in which he would warmly express his approval of an institution that sent its little waifs out into the world so well equipped for rendering valuable service.
It took such a very little while for Courage to feel perfectly contented and at home on the boat, that she was more than half inclined to take herself to task for a state of things which would seem to imply disloyalty to Mary Duff. As for Sylvia, she felt at home from the very first minute, and was constantly brimming over with delight. Nor was Larry far below the general level of happiness, for work seemed almost play with Courage ever at his side. As for Larry's boy, Dick, of a naturally mournful turn of mind, he too seemed carried along, quite in spite of himself, on the tide of prevailing high spirits. On more than one occasion he was known to laugh outright at some of Sylvia's remarkable performances, though always, it must be confessed, in deprecatory fashion, as though conscious of a perceptible loss of dignity. And who would not have been happy in that free, independent life they were leading! To be sure, there were discomforts. Sometimes, when the lighter was tied to a steaming Wharf all day, the sun would beat mercilessly down upon them, but then they could always look forward to the cool evening-out upon the water; and so happily it seemed to be in everything—a hundred delights to offset each discomfort. Even for Larry and Dick, when work was hardest and weather warmest, there was a sure prospect of the yellow pitcher of iced tea, which Courage never failed to bring midway in the long morning, and then at the end of the day the leisurely, comfortable dinner, for they were quite aristocratic in their tastes, this little boat's company.
0057
No noon dinner for them, with Larry in workaday clothes and the stove in the tiny kitchen piping its hottest at precisely the hour when its services could best be dispensed with, but a leisurely seven-o'clock dinner, with the lighter anchored off shore, and when, as a rule, Dick also had had time to “tidy up,” and could share the meal with them. And in this, you see, they were not aristocratic at all. Even little black Sylvia had a seat at one side of the table, which she occupied as continuously as her culinary duties would admit.
One night, when Larry stood talking to a friend on the wharf, Courage and Sylvia overheard him say, “They're a darned competent little pair, I can tell you.” Now, of course, this was rather questionable English for a respectable old man like Larry, but he intended it for the highest sort of praise, and the children could hardly help being pleased.
“Larry oughtn't to use such words,” said Courage.
“But den I specs he only mean dat we jes' knows how to do tings,” said Sylvia apologetically; and as that was exactly what Larry did mean, we must forgive him the over-expressive word; besides they were, in point of fact, the most competent pair imaginable.
Early every morning, when near the city, Dick would bring the lighter alongside a wharf, and Courage and Sylvia would set off for the nearest market, Sylvia carrying a basket, and always wearing a square of bright plaid gingham knotted round her head. There was no remembrance for her of father or of mother, or of much that would have proved dear to her warm little heart, but tucked away in a corner of her memory were faint recollections of a Southern fish market, with the red snapper sparkling in the morning sunlight, and the old mammies, in bandana turbans, busy about their master's marketing; and as though to make the best of this shadowy recollection, Sylvia insisted upon the turban accompaniment to the basket.
0060
Then, after the marketing, came the early breakfast; and after that, for Courage, the many nameless duties of every housekeeper, whether big or little; and for Sylvia the homelier tasks of daily recurrence; but fortunately she did not deem them homely. Why should she, when pretty Miss Sylvester, as perfect a lady as could be, herself had taught her how to do them, every one? Nor was this work, so dignified by the manner and method of teaching, performed in silence. Every household task had its appropriate little song, and the occasions were rare on which Sylvia did not make use of them.=
``"Washing dishes, washing dishes, suds are hot, suds are hot,
``Work away briskly, work away briskly, do not stop, do not stop,"=
was the refrain that would greet the ear first thing after breakfast, followed by=
```"First the glasses, rinse them well, rinse them well,
```If you do them nicely, all can tell, all can tell,"=
and so onad infinitum.
Then, after everything had been gotten into “ship-shape” condition, came the mending, of which there seemed to be an unending supply. Tarry and Dick were certainly very hard on their clothes, and when, once a week, Dick brought the heaping basketful aboard from the washer-woman, who lived at the Battery, Courage and Sylvia knew that needles and thimbles would need to be brought into active requisition.
Then, in odd hours, there was studying and reading, and whenever they could manage it, a little visit to be paid to Mary Duff. In addition to all this, Courage had taken upon herself one other duty, for big, fifteen-year-old Dick did not so much as know his letters. He one day blushingly confessed the fact to Courage, who indeed had long suspected it, with tears in his honest blue eyes. Dick's mother—for that is what she was, though most unworthy of the name—had shoved him out of the place he called home when he was just a mere slip of a lad, and since then it had been all he could manage simply to make a living for himself, with never a moment for schooling. But a happier day had dawned. No sooner was Courage assured of his benighted condition than she won his everlasting gratitude by setting about to mend it. Their first need, of course, was a primer, and they immediately found one ready to the hand, or rather to theeye, for it could not be treated after the fashion of ordinary primers.
There were only seven letters in it, five capitals and two small ones, and the large letters were fully ten feet high. It did not even commence with an A, but C came first, and then R; then another R, followed by a little o and a a little f; and after that a large N and a large J. Indeed, C. R. R. of N. J. was all there was to it, for the letters were painted on a depot roof that happened to be in full sight on the evening when Dick commenced his lessons. And so Dick finally mastered the entire alphabet by the aid of the great signs in the harbor, and do you think they ever rendered half such worthy service?
This, then, was the story of the uneventful days as they dawned one after the other, until at last May yielding place to June, and June to July, Saturday, the first day of August, came in by the calendar, ran through its midsummer hours, and then sank to rest in the cradle of a wonderful sunset. It was such a sunset as sometimes glorifies the bay and the river, and will not be overlooked. Long rays of gold and crimson shot athwart even the narrowest and darkest cross streets of the city, compelling every one who had eyes to see and feet to walk upon to come out and enjoy its beauty; while a blaze of light, falling full upon the myriad windows of Brooklyn Heights, suggested the marvellous golden city of the Revelation. Full in the wake of all this glory, and just to the southeast of Bedloe's Island, Larry had moored the lighter. It was a favorite anchorage with all the little boat's company.
0064
“The Statue of Liberty”, standing out so grandly against the western sky, and with the light of her torch shining down all night upon them, seemed always a veritable friend and protector.
To-morrow, perhaps, they would touch at Staten Island, and locking the cabin, “all hands” repair to a little church they loved well at New Brighton; or, should it prove a very warm day, they might have a little service of their own on board instead, sailing quite past the church and as far down the bay as the Bell Buoy.
But for the present there was nothing to be done but watch the sun set, so they sat together in the lee of the cabin, silently thinking their own thoughts as the sun went down. Courage had on the blue coat and hat, and from the wistful look in her eyes, might easily have been thinking of Miss Julia. Larry sat looking at Courage more, perhaps, than at the sunset, and his face was grave and sad. Courage had noticed that it had often been so of late, and wondered what could be the trouble. After awhile Larry slowly strolled off by himself to the bow of the boat, and Courage gazed anxiously after him; then, turning to Dick, she said with a sigh, “We had better have a lesson now, Dick.”
“Ay, ay,” answered Dick, always glad of the chance.
“It's too dark for a book,” Courage added, “but there's a good sign;” whereupon Dick set himself to master two large-lettered words over on the Jersey shore, one of which looked rather formidable.
“Begin with the last word, Dick. You've had it before.”
“D-o-c-k—dock, of course.”
“Now the first word. Try to make it out yourself.”
Dick shrugged his shoulders, for it was rather a jump to a word of three syllables, but success at last crowned his efforts. “National Docks!” he exclaimed, with the delight of unaided discovery, feeling as though the attainment had added a good square inch to his height. Then came another sign with the one word Storage, but that was easy, for “Prentice Stores” had been achieved the day before off the Brooklyn warehouses, and it was only a step from one word to the other. Finally, when there were no new signs to conquer, Courage began a sort of review, from memory, of all they had been over. In the midst of it Sylvia suddenly ran to the side of the boat, arched one black hand over her eyes that she might see the more clearly, and then flew back again.
“Dat horrid statue boy is comin',” she cried excitedly; “I thought it looked like him, an' if onct he gets a foot on dis boat he'll keep comin', he will; I knowed him.”
“I don't see that you can help it, though,” laughed Courage; “you can't tell him that we just don't want to have anything to do with him.”
Sylvia looked perplexed, but only for a moment; then, indulging in one of those remarkable pirouettes with which she was accustomed to announce the advent of a happy thought, she ran back again to the boat's edge.
Meanwhile every dip of the oars was bringing the objectionable boy nearer, and a horrid boy he was, if one may be permitted to speak quite honestly. Dick and Sylvia had made his undesirable acquaintance one evening when Larry had sent them to the island to learn the right time. He was the son of one of the men employed to care for the statue, and was, alas! every whit as disagreeable in manners as in looks, which is not to put the case mildly.
“Hello, Miss Woolly-head!” he called, bringing his boat to the lighter's side, and tossing a rope aboard, which Miss Woolly-head was supposed to catch, but didn't, so that the boat veered off again.
“What's the name of your little missus?” called the boy, apparently not in the least nonplussed by his rather chilling reception. The knowledge that Sylvia had a little “missus” had been obtained by means of several leading questions which had characterized the young gentleman's first interview with Sylvia and Dick, and which they had regarded as the very epitome of rudeness.
“Dis yere lighter is called for my missus,” said Sylvia, “so you kin jes' read her name dere on de do' plate,” pointing to the lettering at the bow of the boat, “an den again, mebbe you can't,” she chuckled.
It looked as though the statue boy “couldn't,” for he did not so much as glance toward the bow, as he added, “Well, it's your missus I want to see, and not you, you little black pickaninny.”
“Dat's all right, sah,” and Sylvia folded her arms aggressively, “but you can't see her.”
“Ain't she in?”
“Yes, she's in, but she begs to be excuged.” This last in the most impressive manner possible.
Dick and Courage, who were sitting just out of sight, looked at each other and almost laughed outright. What remarkable phrases Sylvia seemed always to have at her tongue's end! Indeed, Dick did not know at all what was meant by the fine phrase, but fortunately the statue boy did—that is after a moment or two of reflection.
“So she don't want to see me,” he said, sullenly adjusting his oars with considerable more noise than was necessary; “well, no more then do I want to see her. I ain't no mind to stay where I ain't wanted, but I reckon it's the last time you'll be 'lowed to anchor your old scow over the line without there being a row about it,” and with this parting rejoinder their would-be caller beat a welcome retreat.
“Oh, Sylvia, how did you happen to think to say that?” laughed Courage.
“Why, dat's what you must allers say when anybody calls. Dey teached it in a game in de Kitchen Garden. We all stood up in a ring, an' a girl came an' knocked on yer back and axed, 'Is Mis' Brown to home?' Den you turn roun' an' say, 'Mis' Brown are to home, but begs to be excuged,' and den it was yer turn to be de caller and knock on some other girl's back.”
“But, Sylvia, if Mrs. Brown wanted to see the caller what would you say?”
“I don' prezachly recommember. I mos'ly likes de excuged one de bes'.”
Meantime Dick made his way to Larry.
“Did you know we were anchored inside the line?” he said. Larry stood up to take his bearings. “Why, so we are,” with evident annoyance, for Larry prided himself on his observance of harbor rules.
0071
“And I guess we've done it before,” added Dick; “the boy from the island there said it would be the last time we'd be 'lowed to do it.”
“And it ought to be,” for Larry was thoroughly out of patience with himself; “we'll show 'em we meant to obey orders anyway. Let go her anchor, Dick,” and then in a moment the big sail, that had been furled for the night, was spread to the wind once more, and the Courage Masterson was running out upon the bay, that she might swing in again and anchor at the proper distance from the island.
“What's up, I wonder,” said Sylvia, starting to her feet when she felt the lighter in motion. “Oh, I know; Dick's told Larry we were anchored too near,” and she settled down again in the most comfortable position imaginable, on the rug beside Courage.
“Tell me, Sylvia, what is your other name?” Courage asked after a little pause; “I've been meaning to ask you this ever so long. I think it was on the medal, but I do not remember it.”
“Sylvester,” said Sylvia complacently, smoothing out her gingham apron. “Sylvy Sylvester; dose two names hitch togedder putty tol'ble, don't dey, Miss Courage?”
“Yes, they go beautifully together; that's why you're named Sylvia, of course.”
Sylvia shook her head. “No, dat's why I'se named Sylvester.” Courage looked puzzled. “I'se named arter Miss Sylvester, one ob de Kitchen Garden ladies.”
“But, Sylvia, children can only have their first names given to them; they're born to their last names.”
“Dis chile wa'nt, Miss Courage; leastways nobody didn't know at de 'sylum what name I was bawn to, cep'n jes' Sylvy, so I picked mine out mysel'. One day I went to Miss Sylvester an' sez, kind o' mischievous, 'How do yer like yer namesake?' 'Ain't got none, Sylvy,' sez she. 'Yes you hab,' I done told her. 'It's ten year old an' its black, but I hope yer don't mind, 'case it's me.' An' she didn't mind a bit, jes' as I knowed she wouldn't, and she sez some beautiful 'things 'bout as I mus' 'allers be a honor to the name, an' arter dat she gimme two books, wid Sylvy Sylvester wrote into 'em, from her everlastin' friend an' well-wisher, Mary Sylvester. Youse done seen dose two books on my table, Miss Courage. One's called—” but the sentence was not finished. Something happened just then that made both children spring to their feet and hold their breath for fear of what was coming. A few minutes before they had noticed that one of the large Sandy Hook boats seemed to be bearing down upon them, and that to all appearances they were directly in her track. But their faith in Larry was supreme. He would surely manage to get out of the way in time, but alas! they were mistaken, for the great boat came looming up like a mountain beside them, and in another second there was a deafening, heart-sickening crash, and splintering of timbers. Sylvia gave one piercing, terrified scream, while she and Courage clung as for their lives to the coping of the cabin roof. And indeed it was a terrible moment. The force of the collision sent the lighter careening so much to one side that it seemed for an instant hopeless that she could possibly right herself; and oh! low frightful to go down, down into that cruel dark water; but then in another instant she swung violently to the other side, and they knew that the danger of capsizing was over, though the boat was still rocking like a cradle. Then they saw the captain of the St. Johns come hurrying to the deck-rail, and heard him angrily call out, “Man alive there, are you drunk?”
“No, I'm not drunk,” Larry answered, from where he stood, pale and trembling, leaning heavily against the tiller.
“Not drunk? Then you're too green a hand to be minding a helm in salt water. Only for our reversed engines you'd not have a shingle under you.”
Larry made no reply; Courage, still holding Sylvia by the hand, looked daggers at the man. To think of any one daring to speak like that to good old Larry. Of course he was not the one to blame, and but that the two boats were fast drifting apart, she would then and there have told the St. Johns' captain what she thought of him. Just at this moment Courage noticed a lady and gentleman on the rear deck of the steamer. She saw the lady give a start of surprise and speak hurriedly to the gentleman, who immediately called in as loud a voice as he could command, “What is your name, little girl? Tell me quickly.” He meant Courage, and Courage knew that he did; but Sylvia not so understanding it, a confusion of sounds smote the air, of which a shrill little Syl was all that could by any chance be distinguished; then in a second they were all hopelessly out of hearing of each other, and the big boat steamed on to her pier, none the worse for the encounter save for a great ugly scar on her white-painted bow.
But alas! for Larry's lighter. Although she was still sound as a nut below the water's edge, above it she looked as though a cyclone had struck her. And so it was a subdued though a thankful little company that stowed themselves away in their berths an hour or so later, after the boat had again been brought to anchor, and they had had time to talk everything over. But there was one pillow that lay unpressed that night. With his mind full of anxiety, bed was out of the question for Larry, and for hours he slowly paced the deck; at least, it seemed hours to Courage, as she lay awake in her little state-room, counting his steps as he went up and down, until she knew precisely at just what number he would turn. She had first tried very hard to go to sleep. She had listened to the water quietly lapping the boat's side, imagining it a lullaby, but the lullaby proved ineffectual. At last she pulled back the curtain from the little window over her berth, so that the light from the statue might stream in upon her, entertaining a childish notion that she might perhaps sort of blink herself to sleep; but all in vain. Finally she heard Larry come into the cabin and apparently stop there. Why didn't he go on into his state-room, she wondered. When she could stand it no longer, she put on her wrapper and slippers, and stole out into the cabin. The little room, lighted by Liberty's torch, was bright as her own, and Larry sat at the table, his head bowed upon his folded arms. Courage went close to him, and putting out one little hand, began softly to stroke his gray hair. Larry did not start as she touched him, so she knew he must have heard her coming.
0076
“Do you feel so very sorry about the lighter, Larry?” she asked anxiously; “will it take such a great lot of money to mend it?”
Larry did not raise his head, but it seemed to Courage that a sob, as real as any child's, shook his strong frame.
“Please, Larry, speak to me,” Courage pleaded, and feeling her two hands against his face, Larry suffered her to lift it up. Yes, there were tears in his eyes. Courage saw them and looked right away—even to the child there was something sacred in a strong man's tears—but she slipped on to his knee, nestled her head on his shoulder, and then said, in the tenderest little voice, “It isn't just the accident, is it, Larry? Something's been troubling you this long while. Please tell me what it is. Don't forget about my name being Courage, and that p'r'aps I can help you.”
The words fell very sweetly upon Larry's ear, and he drew her closer to him, but she could feel him slowly move his head from side to side, as though it were hopeless to look for help from any quarter. Suddenly a dreadful possibility flashed itself across her mind, and sitting upright, she said excitedly, “You're not going to die, Larry? Say it isn'tthat, quick, Larry!”
“No, darling, it isn't that,” Larry hastened to answer, deeply touched by the agony in her voice, “but it's almost worse than dying; I'm going—” and then the word failed him, and he passed his hand significantly across his eyes.
“Notblind, Larry?” yet instantly recalling, as she spoke, many a little incident that confirmed her fears.
“Yes, blind, Courage; that's the way it happened to-night. It was all my fault. I couldn't rightly see.”
“But, Larry, hardly any one could see, it was getting so dark.”
“Courage, darling,” Larry said tenderly, “it's been getting dark for me for a year. I shall never sail a boat again. They told me in the spring that I wasn't fit for it, but then I found you'd set your heart on being on the water with me, and so, with Dick's eyes to help, I thought I could manage just for the summer; but it's all over now, and it's plain enough that I've got to give in.”
And so Larry has done all this for her. At first Courage cannot speak, but at last she contrives to say, in a tearful, trembling voice, “Try not to mind, Larry. If you'll only let me take care of you, it won't matter at all whether we live on the water or not. I can be happy any-where with you.”
And Larry is in no small degree comforted. How could it be otherwise with that loyal child-heart standing up to him so bravely in his trial! And finally he tells Courage of a plan, that has come into his mind, to spend the remainder of the summer in the queerest little place that ever was heard of, and he proceeds to describe the little place to her. Courage is delighted with the scheme, and they talk quietly about it for ever so long, till after awhile, right in the midst of a sentence, Courage drops asleep on Larry's shoulder. Then, rather than disturb her, Larry sits perfectly motionless, and at last the noble gray head, drooping lower and lower, rests against the red-brown curls, and Larry is also asleep, while across them both slants a band of marvellous light from the torch of the island statue.
It's mos' as nice as de boat, an' eber so much like it,” said Sylvia.
“Yes, most as nice,” Courage conceded, “and the next best thing for a man like Larry, who's lived all his life on the water. It looks a sight better than when we came, doesn't it? But hush! Look, Sylvia; isn't that a bite? Have the net ready.”
And Sylvia had the net ready, and in another second a great sprawling crab was landed in the boat beside them, for you must know that mistress and maid are out crabbing on the South Shrewsbury, and are meeting with much better luck than is generally experienced in midsummer weather. Directly over their heads is the queer little place that has recently become their home. That chink there is in the floor of Sylvia's carpetless room, and those wisps of straw are sticking through from Bruce's kennel. To be sure, you have heard nothing of that young gentleman since the day when Courage dried her tears on his coat, but that is only because there have been more important things to tell about. He has, however, been behaving in the most exemplary manner all the while, and has been, as always, Larry's constant companion.
As for the queer little place, you have probably never seen anything at all like it, unless, as is possible, you have chanced to see this very little place itself. It is a house, of course, but wholly unlike other houses. It has several rooms, but they are all strung along in a row, and boasts neither attic nor cellar. There is water under it and water on every side of it; in short, it is on the drawbridge that spans the river between Port-au-Peck and Town Neck, and is what I presume may be called a draw-house. Of the many bridges spanning the inlets threading all that region of sea-board country, this South Shrewsbury Bridge is by far the longest, and therefore the most pretentious.
0081
The draw, to accommodate the channel of the river, has been placed near the southern end, while at either end of it on the main bridge are gates that swing to for the protection of teams when the draw itself is open. The house also stretches its length along the main bridge toward its southern end.
From the day when the ice goes out of the river to the day when it locks it in again it is David Starr's home, and David is Larry Starr's brother. David's wife has been dead these many years; all his children are married and settled; and David, not wishing, as he says, “to be beholden to ony of 'em,” minds the South Shrewsbury draw. For nine months or thereabouts he stays on the bridge, and then, while the river is ice-bound, retreats to a little house on the main-land, living quite by himself all the while.
And this is the place to which Larry has come with Courage and Sylvia, and lonely old David is glad enough to see them, particularly as Larry proposes to pay a snug little sum weekly, by way of board.
What they will do when cold weather sets in Larry has not yet decided; he fully expects, however, to send Courage to school somewhere in the city, if it take half his savings to do it; but for Larry himself, alas! the darkness is settling down more and more surely. Meantime, Courage and Sylvia do all in their power to cheer him, and everybody, Larry included, tries hard not to think of the on-coming blindness. As for Larry's cabin-boy, Dick, he could not, unfortunately, be included in this new plan, but Courage, at Larry's dictation, wrote him a most promising sort of a reference, and one which succeeded in obtaining him just as promising a situation. And there was one other important matter attended to before they all took final leave of Dick and the dear old lighter. Larry painted out her name from the bow with the blackest of black paint. He would sell his boat if he must, but the Courage Masterson, never!
But while I have been telling you all this, Courage and Sylvia, their crabbing concluded, have tied their boat to the shore, and with a well-filled basket swinging between them, are coming down the bridge. Over against the house Larry sits in the sunshine, smoking his pipe, that is now more of a comfort than ever, and with Bruce at his feet. He hears the children and knows their tread almost the instant they set foot on the roadway, his good old ears seeming kindly bent on doing double service.
“Any luck?” he calls out, as soon as he reckons them within speaking distance.
“Yes, twelve big ones,” answers Sylvia; “but Lor'! Ise don' know nuffin 'bout how to cook things what's alive to start with.”
“David'll tell you how to manage,” laughs Larry, and just then a carriage, crossing over the bridge, comes close upon them. Courage instinctively glances over her shoulder, and straightway dropping her end of the basket, cries out, with what little remaining breath surprise has left her, “Why, Miss Julia!”
“Why, Courage, dear,wheredid you come from?” and instantly the phaeton is brought to a standstill, and Courage bounds into it, and then there is the report of a kiss loud enough to have started any save the most discriminating of ponies on the wildest of gallops.
“But I thought you were to be on a boat all summer!” exclaims Miss Julia the next minute.
“Yes, I was, but—” and then, feeling that there is something even more important than an immediate explanation, Courage bounds out of the carriage again, that she may lead Larry to Miss Julia, and they of course shake hands very heartily, as two people should who have heard so much of each other. Then Larry and Courage between them explain matters, and Miss Julia in turn tells of her summer home, but a mile away on the Rumson Road, and of how very often she drives over the Shrewsbury Draw.
Meanwhile poor Sylvia has been having an anxious time of it. When Courage so unceremoniously dropped her end of the basket, several of the crabs went scrawling out of it, and, as you know, there is nothing more lively than a hard-shell crab, struggling with all its might to regain its native element. But with the aid of Miss Julia's man, who has sprung down from the rumble to help her, Sylvia does succeed in recapturing four of the runaways, not, alas! however, before two beauties have succeeded in gaining the edge of the bridge, and in plumping themselves back into the water with a splash that must have consumed with envy the hearts of their less fortunate fellows.
At last it is time for Sylvia to be introduced, and, as usual, her beaming face expresses her satisfaction. Then there is a general chatting for a little while longer, in which each bears a hand.
“And how pretty you have made it all!” says Miss Julia, taking up the reins, preparatory to driving on. “I never should have known the place, with the dainty dimity curtains at the windows and these starch boxes full of plants along the rail here; such nice old-fashioned plants, too—geraniums and lemon verbena and that little low plant with the funny name—oh, yes, I remember—portulaca. How long has it taken you to work such a transformation, Courage?”
“Only a week, Miss Julia. We came down last Monday; but then Sylvia and I have worked pretty hard.”
“Of course you have. You're a pair of regular wonder-working fairies, you and your faithful Sylvia. And now I must say good-bye, but not until Larry promises that you shall come, both of you, and spend day after to-morrow with me. I will send John down for you, with the ponies, bright and early, and we'll have such a day of it.”
Larry promised, Miss Julia drove on, and the children looked a delight which was, in very truth, unspeakable.
Really, I believe it's nicer than being on the boat.”
“Yes,” responded Sylvia, with a supreme faith in any assertion that Courage might choose to make; “but why?”
“Because we have the fun of living out on the water, and Miss Julia besides.”
“Oh, yes, to be sure!” half ashamed to have ventured so obvious a question.
Miss Julia besides! No one could imagine what those three little words meant to Courage. It was a delight in itself simply to waken in the morning, and know that before night Miss Julia would probably come riding over on her beautiful “Rex” or driving the gray ponies, or if not to-day, then to-morrow. Whenever she came she would stop for a chat, and more likely than not bring with her some little gift from the wonderful place on the Rumson—a plant from the greenhouse, a golden roll of delicious butter, or just a beautiful flower or two that her own hands had picked in the garden.
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And so the summer was crowned for Courage by the happy accident of nearness to Miss Julia, and the only sad moments were when, now and then, a great longing for her father surged over her, or when the realization of Larry's ever-increasing blindness pressed heavily down upon even her buoyant spirit.
As for life on the draw, the days slipped by as uneventfully as on the lighter, though no doubt they were more monotonous. There were no morning trips through the busy streets to market (David had all their supplies sent over from Red Bank), and nothing, of course, of the ever-changing life of the harbor; but the children were more than contented. Sylvia was never so happy as when at work, and somehow or other there always seemed to be plenty of work for the little black hands to do. But, it must be confessed, there were times when Courage did find the days rather dull—times when she did not feel quite like reading or studying, and when she could think of nothing that needed to be done. There was one recreation, however, that always served to add a zest to the quietest sort of a day. Every clear afternoon, somewhere between four and six o'clock, she would don the pretty blue hat, and when it was anywise cool enough the blue coat, too—for she loved to wear it—and then go out and perch herself safely somewhere on the top of the bridge rail and with her back to the sun, should he happen to be shining. Then in a little while some of her friends, out for their afternoon drive, would be pretty sure to come crossing the bridge, and though possibly lacking the time to stop for a chat, would at least exchange a few cheery words as they perforce walked their horses over the draw. I say some of her friends, for already there were many of them, for people could hardly escape noticing the pretty little house and the kind-faced, halfblind old man sitting in the door-way, or failing these, the little girl in the handsome blue coat and hat. Some had either guessed or found out the meaning of the black bow on the sleeve, and ever afterward seemed to regard her with an interest close bordering on downright affection. Indeed, in one way and another, the household on the draw became known far and wide, and strangers sometimes driving that way for no other reason than to see the beautiful little girl with the remarkable name, were disappointed enough if they did not chance to come across her; but of this far-reaching notoriety Courage fortunately never so much as dreamed.
And so the days fared on much as I have described until there came an evening when something happened. It was an evening early in October, and our little party sitting down to their six o'clock supper were every one in a particularly happy frame of mind. The sun had gone down in a blaze of gold and crimson, and the river, which is wide enough below the bridge to be dignified as a bay, lay like a mirror reflecting the marvellous color. Later, when the twilight was fusing all the varying shades into a fleecy, wondrously tinted gray; a brisk little breeze strode up from the west, and instantly the water rose in myriad tiny waves to meet it, and each wave donned a “white-cap,” as in honor of its coming.
Low down on the horizon the veriest thread of a new moon was paying court to the evening star, that was also near its setting, but both still shone out with more than common brilliancy through the early evening air. Here, then, was one cause for the generally happy feeling, and another, no doubt, lay in the all-pervading cheeriness of the little home. Humble and small it was, to be sure, but there was comfort, and plenty of it, on every side—comfort in the mere sight of the daintily set table; comfort of a very substantial kind in the contents of the shining teapot, in the scrambled eggs sizzling away in a chafing-dish, which Sylvia had cleverly concocted, and, above all, in the aroma, as well as in the taste, of the deliciously browned toast. People who chanced to come driving over glanced in at the cosey, lamp-lighted table, caught a whiff of the savory odors, and then the moment they were off the draw urged on their horses in elusive hope of finding something as inviting at home. During the progress of the meal, and while Sylvia, who was an inimitable little mimic, was giving a lisping impersonation of one of the teachers at the Asylum, a carriage rolled rapidly by, and some one called, “Hello there, Courage!” Quickly recognizing the voice, Courage rushed out-of-doors, almost upsetting the table in her eagerness, but even then Miss Julia was a long way past, having actually trotted her ponies right over the draw itself in most unprecedented fashion. This was a grave offence in David's eyes, and Courage, retaking her seat at the table, wondered what he would have to say about it.
“Miss Julia must have been in a great hurry,” she ventured.
“Yes, a ten-dollar hurry,” growled David.
“Oh, you won't fine her!” Courage exclaimed, alarmed at the mere thought of anything so ungracious; “she just couldn't have been thinking.”
“Well, then, we'll just teach her how to think;” but Sylvia, quite sure that she detected a lack of determination in David's tone, said complacently, “Neber you fear, Miss Courage. Mr. David don' sure nuff mean what he sez, I reckon,” whereupon Mr. David shook his head, as much as to say, “Well, he rather guessed he did,” but Courage saw with relief that there really was nothing to fear. After supper Larry and David took a turn on the bridge while the table was being cleared, and then coming back to the little living-room, Courage read aloud for an hour from one of Sylvia Sylvester's namesake books. It chanced to be the incomparable story of “Alice in Wonderland,” and David and Larry were as charmed as the little folk themselves. At nine o'clock the book was laid away and Larry went directly to bed. Courage and Sylvia hurried into coats and hats for a run in the bracing night air, and David, stopping first to light his pipe, followed them out onto the bridge. All three found to their surprise that the sky had grown suddenly lowering and overcast, while the breeze of the twilight was fast stiffening to a vigorous west wind.