Dorcas delivered herself of this statement in a defiant attitude, her arms folded behind her, but her little breast heaving. And she could scarcely believe her own ears when the only reprimand she received was:
“Say ‘eaten,’ darling, not ‘et.’ I do wonder where my boy is! In some mischief, I fear, the precious little scamp!”
But she was still wondering when that day’s sun went down.
For once Gerald was neglected, and for once he was glad of it. Mrs. Stillwell and Jim had both come in, on the afternoon before, in a high state of excitement. They had demanded of him if he had seen Saint Augustine, the mischievous child with the peculiar name. He had retorted, angrily, that of course he had seen nobody, neither child nor grown-up. He might lie there and die for all anybody would bother! He’d get up, he declared he would, dress and go away at once. Never before had he stayed in such a wretched place as this, and yes, he surely would get up and leave. If he could find his own clothes. Did anybody know where his clothes were?
Even in the midst of her terrible anxiety, his faithful nurse and hostess had smiled, encouragingly, saying:
“You couldn’t do better. When a sick person gets to your state of mind and nerves, he’s usually well enough to go out. All you brought with you is in that parcel under the bed. You can leave Corny’s shirt—anywhere.”
She caught her breath with a sob and went swiftly out of the cabin. He heard her calling her children and directing them:
“Wesley and Saint Anne, little brother has run away. He’s done that before, so don’t be frightened. He’s always been found—he will be now. But mamma may not be back by sundown and you, Wesley, must do the milking and lay the fire ready for lighting in the morning. Saint Anne, my precious little care-taker, see well after the others and give the sick boy his supper of cream and oatmeal which was sent. Don’t feel lonely because both papa and mamma are away. The dear God is right here with you, you know, in your little bedroom and close outside the window. No harm can happen where God is, you know, and now good-bye.”
She had kissed them all around and only Saint Anne noticed her lips trembled. Then she had gone swiftly away in one direction which they knew well. It was toward the little whirlpool in the woods, caused by the sudden meeting of two small streams and named Tony’s Eddy, because a man named Tony had been drowned there.
It was a spot all the cabin children, except Saint Augustine, greatly feared. He liked it because “papa does,” and was never happier than when Corny took him on a ramble thither. Lucetta had protested against these visits to the dangerous place, but her fear had been laughed down by her light-hearted husband.
“Fall into the Eddy? Why, woman dear, he will scarcely look into it when I try to make him. Just shivers in a silly way, and makes up all sorts of queer yarns about it. The Eddy fascinates him but scares him, too. He believes that bad fairies live in it and if he should go too near they’d come out and drag him down with them to destruction. Oh! you needn’t worry about Tony’s Eddy.”
Alas! for her peace of mind, now that Saint Augustine had disappeared, “The Eddy!” was her first and only thought.
Jim searched in an opposite direction.
“I believe he’s gone to find the monkeys. He was talking of them almost the last thing. Horrid things! I wish they’d never been heard of. They’ve made more trouble than human beings could, try their best! Or, maybe, child like, he’s gone to dig that wonderful ‘treasure’ out of the ground and to buy you the silk dress he’d heard about. Dear little kid! He was as earnest as a man, almost!” said Jim, trying to comfort the mother-heart that suffered so.
“You look. I’ll look. He must be found. I can’t meet Corny’s eyes and tell him that our boy is lost,” she had answered quietly enough, but with agony in her expression.
When they had gone Gerald got up and dressed. He was rather shaky in the knees but felt far better than when lying on the hard bed which had been given up to his use. How hishostess had managed he had not even thought, until that moment Jim had lain on the bench across the room, upon a bag of fern leaves he had gathered for himself in the woods near-by, with his rag-carpet blanket to cover him. He hadn’t complained and Gerald had given no thought to his comfort, his own being his first concern as it had always been.
Now the house seemed desolate. Saint Anne came timidly in with his light supper and started back in affright. He looked like a stranger to her in his own clothes, having seen him only as “the sick one” in bed. But he called her and she dared not disobey her mother’s command to give him his supper. Somehow, for the first time, the child’s face appealed to him and he thanked her for her attention. This was more astonishing than to see him fully dressed in his white duck suit, that had been laundered by Lucetta on the day after his arrival.
In a flutter of excitement, Saint Anne retreated to the inner room and the safe presence of her family; and when, after a moment she regained courage enough to open the door between—the lad was gone.
“He was here and he isn’t here. He was all in white, like mamma says the angels wear, and Dr. Jabb’s little Eunice. She had on clothes all flyey-about and thin—looked like moonlight. She had a hump in her shoulders where mamma thinks maybe her wings are starting to grow.Mamma knows her mamma a right smart while, and she says Eunice is a perfectly angelic child. Mamma wouldn’t say that if she didn’t know. Maybe the sick boy’s turned into a angel, too, or is turning! Just supposing! Maybe God sent him to stay with us, because papa and mamma had to go away. Maybe!”
There was no radiance from the moonlight now upon the eager little face, and indoors was dark; but it was delightful to think of angels being about, until Wesley remarked, in his matter-of-fact way:
“If he wassenthe ought to havestayed. I don’t believe he was a truly angel. I guess he was just one them changelings, papa tells stories about, that the fairies over in the Ireland-country carries ’round with ’em. If a baby or a boy is terrible cross—like the sick one was, yesterday, the fairy just snatches him up and whisks him off somewhere and puts a good new one in his place. Peek and see, Saint Anne!”
“Peek yourself, Wesley. I’m—I’d rather have an angel than a changeling. Anyhow, I’m going to sleep. God’s here, taking care, so it don’t matter.”
Happy in the faith that had been instilled into their minds from their earliest consciousness the deserted ones fell fast asleep, though not till Dorcas had slipped into Saint Augustine’s place in the boys’ bed a little willow whistle Jim had made for her and which she had refused to give her brother.
As for the angelic Gerald he was weakly trudging on his way toward the cross-cut lane, which he had seen from the cabin window and had been told led outward to the main road, running past Deer-Copse. How often he had wished to be upon it, and now he wondered why he hadn’t started long before. Though it grew steadily dark, he kept as steadily on, though his strength was sorely tried and he wished he dared stop and rest. He was afraid to do this. He knew if he lay down on the ground, that looked so tempting a bed, he wouldn’t have the energy to go on again. After a time his steps grew automatic. His feet lifted and fell with no volition of his own, it seemed, and a curious drowsiness came over him.
“I believe I’m going to sleep, walking!” he thought, and wearily closed his eyes. But he opened them again with a start.
“What’s that? What is it? Sounds like—I must be out of my head—I don’t know where I am. I can’t see. Ah! the lane! I’m there at last. Now I can lie right down and rest and somebody’ll find me—sometime.”
Yet once more into his drowsing ear fell a peculiar sound.
“Ah—umph! A-ah—oomph—ph—h——h!”
That prolonged bray so electrified him that he got up, to his knees, then to his swaying feet, a ghostly figure in his white suit, and with a last spurt of breath, cried:
“Billy! It’s—Billy!”
Billy it was. Why then and there his mulish brain couldn’t understand. He had come a tiresome way, through woods and along country roads and found it a painfully new experience. Of course, he had rested often and long. He had been bidden, innumerable times: “Billy, lie down!” and after an interval: “Billy, get up.” Now, as he was wearily trudging through the night came this apparition in white, right in his path.
Billy had heard the stumbling of human feet long before his rider had, and had announced the fact by mild remarks about it. But, sidewise upon Billy’s broad back—his head pillowed on Billy’s neck, the Colonel had known nothing of this until the mule’s abrupt stop shocked him awake and to a sight of the ghostly apparition on the roadside.
“Hello, Spook!” exclaimed the Colonel, inclined to be friends with anybody or anything which would relieve the loneliness of his night ride.
“Hel—Hello, yourself! Ha, ha, ha!” returned Gerald, in great delight yet half-confused by fatigue and the surprise of this meeting. They were mutual “apparitions,” arisen out of the earth to confront one another. “Where you come from? Where you going? I’m—I’m awful tired.”
“So ’m I. Always tired. Always expect to be. I come from going to and fro upon the earth seekin’ that I cayn’t find. No, I cayn’t. And of all the bad luck I’ve had this is the worst. Ah! hum.”
“I’m sorry,” murmured Gerald, stumbling near enough Billy to lay his head on the animal’s shoulder, where he immediately went to sleep.
“Sho! That’s odd! But everything is in this topsy-turvy world. I’ll be glad to be out of it. I never had no luck, Billy, an’ you know it. This yeah ’s a piece with all the rest. To have this boy, or his spook, rise up this-a-way, an’ go to sleep, standin’. Well, Billy, it cayn’t be helped. The trouble is I was born with a heart, and it’s always gettin’ us into trouble. It’s that old heart o’ mine makes me feel I cayn’t just shove this creatur’ off an’ leave him to his own deserts. Ah! hum.”
In his mournful tones the Colonel thus addressed the intelligent beast, who responded with a sympathetic bray; but he stood rigidly still while his master loosened and slipped from his back the blanket strapped there and spread it on the grassy bank beside the road. Then, as if Gerald had been a little child, the Colonel carried him to the blanket, laid and covered him in it. He even took off his own coat and made a pillow of it for Gerald’s head. Next, he ordered: “Billy, lie down!” and having been obeyed, calmly composed himself for another nap upon the back of “his only friend.”
The night passed. Gerald slept as he had never done in all his life. The healthful fatigue of his tramp across lots and the pure outdoor air did more for him than all the medicine he’d swallowed. When he awoke the sun was shining inhis eyes and Billy was braying an injunction to get up, while the Colonel sat on the roadside pensively reading out of his little brown book.
“My! You’re an early student!” cried Gerald, who had lain still for a moment after waking, trying to understand the situation. “Must be an interesting story, that!”
“Story? Life’s too short—or too long—to waste on stories, young man. This is Marcus Aurelius, the sage of all the ages. Now, talk, tell, how come, et cetery. For me, I’m seekin’ a lost wallet, and I don’t expect to find it. I shan’t. Course. But I’m on the road to that pickaninny and if I cayn’t squeeze the wallet out of his clo’es I’ll squeeze the truth out of his insides, what he done with it. The idee! ’T one measly little nigger could force me to break the vow of years an’ come here, where I never meant to set foot ’s long as I lived. Ah! hum.”
“Eh, what? Lost wallet? Why, I know something about that. Jim Barlow had it. He picked it up.”
“Where is he? Quick, young man! That wallet’s mighty precious and it’s mine—mine, I tell you! Mine by the right of findin’ and preservin’. Where’s he at, quick?”
The Colonel had never shown such excitement, nor such depths of depression as when Gerald answered:
“I don’t know. I haven’t the least idea.”
“Ah! hum. Course you haven’t. I didn’t suppose you had. They couldn’t be any such goodluck in this world. ‘Don’t know’! Course not. Don’t reckon you know anything.”
“Ah! yes I do! I know that I’m so hungry I could almost eat this grass. Where can we get a breakfast?”
The Colonel scanned the surrounding country. Had there been even a melon-patch in sight he wouldn’t have troubled himself to answer. He was hungry himself, but he often was that and food always came his way sometime and of some kind. Why worry or hurry?
Fortunately, the rumble of approaching wheels was heard just then, and presently there came into sight around the bend in the road a mule-team, driven by a man in a blue smock. Gerald recognized him at a glance—the same teamster who had brought him and his mates through the “gust” from the Landing. He had a sadly confused remembrance of how that ride had ended, and this was a good thing; for he was now able to hail the man in real pleasure and no anger.
“Hello, there, driver! Do you want a job?”
A startled expression came to the teamster’s face as his own mind returned to the hour when these two had last met. However, he braced himself for whatever was to come, and answered:
“That depends. What job?”
“To carry us two and lead the mule to wherever the Water Lily is now. That’s my boat—I mean, it was—and they’re my friends aboard. Do you know her and where she lies?”
The man knew perfectly well. On the morningafter his ugly treatment of his four passengers, he had repaired to Deer-Copse on the Ottawotta and collected from Mrs. Calvert the sum of five dollars. This was more than double the price asked of the lads but none of them happened to be in sight, and he made a great matter of delivering the row-boat uninjured. Knowing no better she promptly paid him. Though he was sober now, he was just as greedy as ever for money and cautiously answered:
“I might guess. But I’m off for the Landing and some hauling there. It would be with a couple dollars for me to turn about an’ hunt her up now.”
“All right, I’ll pay it. I mean, if I can’t my sister will. She’s on the Water Lily and would about give her head to see me back again. I’ve been sick. I’ve been—”
But the teamster had no sympathy for Gerald’s past ailments. He was busy getting his wagon turned about and in another moment Gerald was on the seat beside him, the Colonel riding at the back of the wagon, feet dangling, leading Billy. This last task was needless, for the mule would have followed his master anywhere and unguided.
The teamster “guessed” so accurately that he drove straight and swift along the road bordering the Ottawotta and to the beautiful spot where the Water Lily shone in all the glory of white paint and gilt, her brasses polished to the last degreeby Ephraim, and all her little company pressing to the front at the rumble of wheels.
Not many vehicles passed that way and the coming of each was an event in the quiet life of the house-boat. It was Dorothy who first recognized the newcomers and her cry of delight which brought Aurora around from the nook where she was busily embroidering a cushion for the Lily.
“Gerald! Oh! Gerald, my brother!”
The lad had never felt her so dear nor thought her so pretty as when her arms closed about him and her happy face looked into his. But the face clouded when he asked:
“Got any money, Sis?”
“Huh! Can’t you be glad to get home without begging for money? Popper gave you just as much as he did me when he startedand——”
The stumping of crutches interrupted them. It was the old captain who had caught sight of the teamster, waiting for his money, and was hurrying forward in anger.
“Step aside, younkers! Lemme deal with him!Lemme!Oh! you old villain, here again be ye? Tryin’ to cheat widders an’ orphans outen their livin’ substance! Oh! I know. I’ve heered. I’ve been told. Two dollars was the price agreed—a quarter a-piece for us folks an’ fifty a-piece for the monks! The boat was throwed in. That was the bargain fixed an’ fast, an’ deny it, if ye can, with this here Melvin an’ me an’ this poor sick Gerry for witnesses. You haul in your sailsan’ put for shore! Don’t ye come around here a-tryin’ to cheat no more. I’ve been layin’ for ye ever sence that night. I’ve ’lowed I’d meet up with ye an’ get even. Pay? Not this side Davy Jones’s locker! Be off with ye an don’t ye dare to show your face here again till you’ve l’arnt common honesty, such as ary yuther Marylander knows. What would these here women an’ childern do if it wasn’t for Cap’n Jack Hurry a pertectin’ of ’em? Tell me that, you ornery land-lubber, you!”
But the teamster was already gone. He had not tarried the completion of the Captain’s tirade. He saw that there was little prospect of receiving pay for that morning’s ride except after much discussion and many hard words, and decided that if he were ever to secure further patronage from these silly people who lived on a boat he would better not quarrel with them now.
With his departure peace was restored and the welcomes bestowed upon Gerald made him very happy and roused a wish in his heart to become as good a fellow as they all seemed to imagine him to be. With some shame he remembered his often ungrateful treatment of Mrs. Lucetta and her children, and described the family so graphically that Dorothy clapped her hands, exclaiming:
“I’m going right away to know them! I am! What darlings they must be, those little ‘Saints’ and sinners, and what a charming woman the mother must be. Melvin has told us how sheserved them with that poor pudding and sour buttermilk, just as if they were the greatest luxuries.”
Mrs. Calvert nodded, smiling:
“Yes, dear, I shall be glad to have you know her. She is a born gentlewoman and a good one—which is better. But now, has everybody had all the breakfast wanted? If so, let’s all go off to our arbor in the woods. ‘The Grotto,’ the girls named it, Gerald, and it’s beautiful. But where is Jim? Why should he have gone away from the Stillwell cottage before you, in that sudden way you mentioned?”
“I reckon he went to search for a runaway kid. The one they called Saint Augustine. Fancy such a name as that for the wildest little tacker ever trod shoe-leather—or went barefoot, I mean. That youngster looked like an angel and acted like a little imp. I should think his folks’d be glad to lose him.”
“No, Gerry, you don’t think that. You don’t want anybody to be unhappy now that we’re all so glad you’re well and back. I hope Jim will find the little Saint right soon and be back, too; but don’t you think they’ll be frightened about you? It just came to me—what can they think, when they come back and find you gone, except that you were out of your mind and wandered off? You that had been in bed till then!” asked Dorothy.
“Oh! they won’t bother about me. Jim’s been as good as gold and I’ve been pretty hateful,sometimes, I know. It’ll be a relief to him and Mrs. Stillwell that I’m off their hands. Why, folks, do you know? That slender slip of a woman does almost all their farm work, herself? Her husband—I fancied from what I had sense enough to understand—hates work, that kind, anyway, and she adores him. I know Jim took a hand, soon’s I was well enough, or good-natured enough, to let him off sticking inside with me. I never saw a fellow work so, I could see through the window by my bed. They hadn’t any horse and he ploughed with a cow! Fact. He dug potatoes, hoed corn, cleared up brush-wood—did that with his jack-knife—carried water—Couldn’t tell what he didn’t do! Oh! Mrs. Stillwell will be glad enough to be rid of me but she’ll hate to miss Jim. Hello, Elsa! What in the world!”
Mabel laughed and clapped her hands.
“Isn’t it the queerest thing? and isn’t it just jolly?
“She fell in love with them that morning when they came. Elsa, timid Elsa, is the only one of us not afraid of the monkeys! She’s captivated them, some way, and is actually training them to do whatever she wants. She’s taught them to walk, arm in arm, and to bow ‘Thank you’ for bits of Chloe’s cake. She punishes them when they catch the birds and—lots of things. Are you taking them for their ‘constitutional’ now, Elsa dear?”
The shy girl, whose poverty and ungraceful manners had made Aurora and Mabel look downupon her at the beginning of the trip, had now become the very “heart of things,” as Dolly said. Elsa was always ready to mend a rent, to hunt up lost articles, to sit quietly in the cabin when anybody had a headache and soothe the pain and loneliness, and to do the many little things needed and which none of the others noticed. It had come to be “Elsa, here!” or “Elsa, there!” almost continually; and the best of it was that the more she was called upon for service the happier and rosier she grew.
“Indeed, Papa Carruthers will see a fine change in his little girl, when he gets her home again!” Aunt Betty had said, that very morning, drawing the slender little figure to her side. “We have all learned to love you dearly, Elsa. You are a daily blessing to us.”
“That’sbecause you love me—and let me love you. Love is the most beautiful thing in all the world, isn’t it? It’s your love has made me grow strong and oh! so happy!”
Indeed, it was love, even for such humble creatures as the monkeys, that had given her power over them. She had been the first, save Dorothy, to pity them for being caged; and she hadn’t been afraid, as Dorothy was, to let them out to freedom. They had been very wild at first, springing into the trees and leaping about so far and fast that all except Elsa believed they were lost.
Then she would beg everyone to go away and putting the opened cage upon the ground would sit quietly beside it, with their favorite food near,for a long, long time. The first time her patience was rewarded by their return to the cage, she still sat quiet and let them settle themselves to rest. After that the training was easier, and by common consent the little animals were left to her charge till they were soon called “Elsa’s monks!” Hardest part of their training was the punishment they daily needed.
“Elsa, your monks have torn Mabel’s hat to ribbons!” “Elsa, the monkeys have ripped all the buttons off my uniform.” “Elsa, Metty’s heart is broken! They’ve chewed his ‘libery’ to bits!”
“They didn’t mean it forbadness. I’ll fix the hat, Mrs. Bruce. I’ll hunt up the buttons and sew them on, Cap’n Jack. I’ll mend Metty’s finery;” and the pleasure she seemed to get from doing all these things amazed the others.
Now, since all the others were engaged with Gerald and the Colonel, she slipped away into the woods which she had learned to visit alone and without fear. Melvin had found some small brass chains in a locker of the tender and the Captain had made some collars for the animals, so that she was able to lead them with her wherever she wished. Jocko, the larger of the pair, had developed a limp so like Elsa’s own that it was ludicrous and Dorothy declared that he had done so “on purpose.” He now hobbled after her while Joan, his mate ran ahead, pulled backward at her chain, and cut up so many “monkey shines” in general as kept her young mistress laughing sothat she scarcely saw where she walked nor how far.
But, at length, she looked up, surprised that she had taken a new direction from that she commonly followed. Here the trees were larger, and the undergrowth closer. Ferns which reached to her shoulder hid the ground from her sight and she stumbled over fallen limbs and unseen vines, but constantly urged onward by the discovery of some rare flower or shrub, which she might take home to Dorothy.
These two flower-lovers had daily studied the simple botany which Aunt Betty had brought on the trip, and the science opened to bookish Elsa a wonder-world of delight.
“Ah! there’s a creeping fern! I mean a walking one. We read how rare they are and Dorothy will just be wild to come and see it for herself. Let me see. It was yesterday we studied about ferns. Be still, Joan. No, Jocko, I’ll go no further, on account of your poor, lame foot. You may jump to my shoulder if you like. I think it was this way. Listen, dears! ‘Order, Filices, Genera, Asplenium. Asplenium Rhizophyllum—Walking Fern!’ There I said it, but the little common name suits me best. Heigho, beasties! What you jabbering about now? and what are you peering at with your bright eyes? Come on. There’s nothing to be afraid of in the woods, though I was once so scared of them myself. Come on, do. I must get—My heart! What—what—is this?”
Maybe the Colonel was more pleased to meet his Water Lily friends again than they were to see him. But Aunt Betty hid her disappointment under her usual courteous demeanor and was glad that the angry mood in which he had left them had not remained. Upon her, she knew would fall the task of entertaining him; and after breakfast was over and Billy been led to the deepest pasture available, she invited him to sit with her on the little deck that ran around the cabin, or saloon, and opened conversation with the remark:
“We’ve been very happy here in the Copse. Except, of course, we were worried about our sick guest, Gerald, till Dr. Jabb informed us he was out of danger. He seems a fine man, the doctor, and I’m thankful to have a physician so near. Why—what—are you ill, Colonel?”
At the mention of the practitioner her visitor had risen, his eyes ablaze with anger, his gaunt frame trembling with excitement.
“Madam! MADAM! Do you mention that hated name to me? Don’t you know—Ah! hum. I suppose you don’t but, if he—HE—poisons this atmosphere—I will bid you good morning.”
He was turning away in a far more furious mood than had seemed possible to so easy-going a man, and his hostess hastily laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
“My dear sir, what have I said? Do you know this doctor and dislike him? I’m sorry. Forget him, then, please and just enjoy this wonderful air which nobody could possibly ‘poison.’ It’s perfect to-day, with just enough crispness in it to remind us it is really autumn and our picnicking days are numbered. The young folks have felt it dull, sometimes, lingering so long in the Copse, but it’s been a restful, happy time to me. One has to get away from home worries once in a while to keep things in their right proportion. And, after all, what does it matter where we live or what we have so long as there is peace and good will in one’s heart? Not much, do you think?”
Aunt Betty was herself in happy mood and had talked on more to prevent the guest’s departure than to “preach,” as she called such little dissertations. She had gained her point. The Colonel settled back again in the familiar chair he had appropriated on his first visit and gradually the lines of anger left his face. An expression of intense sadness took their place, and after a moment he sighed:
“Ah! hum. I hadn’t a right to get huffy. I reckon you don’t know—some facts. You couldn’t. Nobody could, without explainin’ an’ I cayn’t explain. This much I’ll say. I haven’t set foot in this yeah region sence—in a rightsmart while. I never meant to again. But—I lost my wallet an’ I came to seek it. I’ve cause to think, Madam, ’t one your folks has it. If so, they must deliver real soon. To me it’s vallyble. Also, it might concern Miss Dorothy. She an’ me—an’ you, of course, Mrs. Calvert, bein’ a Calvert—Well, it’s an old story an’ I’ll wait till after dinner, thank ye, ma’am. And if you don’t mind, I’ll just lean back an’ take my ‘forty winks.’ I hain’t rested none too well, lately. I’ve beenthinkin’. Ah! hum. A man’s no right to think. He cayn’t an’ be real comf’table. Beg pahdon.”
Aunt Betty watched him, smiling. He was a bore who, at times, was amusing. She knew that he had been well educated and had still a fondness for books, as was proved by his habitual use of “Marcus Aurelius;” but like many other cultured southern people he lapsed into the speech of the colored folks, with whom his life had been passed. His “yeah,” and “cayn’t,” “right smart,” and “soon” for early, were musical as he uttered them; and under all his laziness and carelessness he had the instincts of a gentleman.
“Poor old fellow! I wish I could do something for him, before we finally part company. I’m glad he didn’t go away again in anger, though he doesn’t ‘stay mad,’ as Dolly says. And I wonder what that scrip of paper in that old wallet does mean! My young folks are greatly excited over it, and Dolly told me some ridiculous story about her great-great-grandfather and his great-great-grandmother that seems to be the beginning ofthings. Anyway, though they found it, or Metty did, the Colonel claims it and I must see that it is returned.”
So reflected Mrs. Calvert, watching her guest’s peaceful slumber; then, resuming her own book, forgot him and his affairs, at least for the time being.
“Where did Elsa take those monks? It’s all well enough for her to train ’em, but they aren’t hers and she needn’t think so. I’d like to take a hand in that business, myself. Wouldn’t you, Melvin? They belong to you and me, you know. And I say isn’t this the beastliest slow-poke of a hole you ever saw? How on earth do you put in your time? All these days what have you done?” demanded Gerald, moving restlessly from tender to shore, and already heartily sick of the quiet Copse.
“Well, we fish, the Captain and I. We search the woods for berries and grapes. We go to the farmhouses nearest for supplies; and right here, Gerald Blank, let me warn you. Don’t you go expecting fine living on the Lily. You see there wasn’t much capital to start on, not for so many folks; and the other day what was left was lost.”
“Lost? Lost! How could a fellow lose anything in this hole, even if he tried? What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. Mrs. Bruce has held the purse of the company and the other day she and Dorothy were counting up their money and—that’s the last anybody has seen of it. They keptit in a little empty tin box, that marsh-mallows came in; and Chloe called Mrs. Bruce over to the galley to see about some cooking, and Mrs. Calvert called Dorothy for something else, don’t you know? Well, sir, when they came back to finish their counting there wasn’t a thing left but the tin box—empty as your hat.”
“Somebody stole it, course. Who do they suspect?”
“Look here, Gerry, that’s a question comes pretty near home, I know that Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy suspect nobody. I can’t say as much for Mrs. Bruce and the rest. The money was there—the money is gone. We’re all in the same boat—literally, you know. There wasn’t a peddler here that day, nobody around but just ourselves. You and Jim are out of it, course, because you were away; but—it might be me, it might be Mabel, it might be Metty—Ephraim—Chloe—no not her, for she wasn’t out of Mrs. Bruce’s sight—and it might be your own sister Aurora.”
“What’s that? How dare you?” angrily demanded Gerald.
But Melvin smiled, a little sadly, indeed, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Not so fast, Gerry. I’m not accusing her, nobody is accusing anybody. But the money’s gone, and maybe it’s just as well so much of it went for you.”
“For me? What do you mean by that?”
“Cap’n Jack reckoned you’d cost the exchequerabout fifty dollars. Dorothy had the very choicest things, poultry, cream, fruit and things, besides the doctor’s bills. And the farmers down here aren’t so low in their charges as nearer Jimpson’s. Mrs. Bruce got furious against them, they took advantage so. But the doctor said you were a very sick boy, for only measles, and must be built up, so good-hearted little Dolly dipped into the marsh-mallow box for you.You——”
“Hush! Don’t say another word! I’m so mad I can’t breathe. I wish I’d never come on this cruise. Cruise? It’s nothing better ’n being buried alive. Thought we might get some fun out of it, hunting for that ‘buried treasure’ and now, up pops that old stick-in-the-mud and claims the whole business. Pshaw! I’ll go home if I have to walk there.”
“How? You couldn’t. But I’ll tell you what you could do. Hunt up Elsa and the monks. I want to see if this harness I’ve made out of a fur-rug they destroyed will fit either. Dolly proposes to make them some clothes and get up a little ‘show.’ Thinks she and Elsa could exhibit them for pennies, when the people come to sell stuff, and that would help pay for it.”
Gerald considered. Many troubled thoughts passed through his mind, but the strongest feeling was anger. He had been so self-sufficient until this “beastly trip.” Now he was learning the sometimes bitter lesson that nobody in the world can be actually independent. He had begun by lording it over his mates, and even hishostesses, and now here he was dependent upon them for the very food he ate and the medicine he had taken. He ceased to feel himself an invited guest but rather a burden and a debtor.
“Of course, Popper’ll pay everything back if we ever get home. But—Oh! dear! How I hate it all!”
For down in his heart he realized that no amount of money could cover his obligation to these friends, and he started off in a most unhappy frame of mind.
“I’ll find that girl and teach her to mind her own business. The idea of her training those monkeys—my monkeys! Course, she’s done it all wrong, and it’s harder to unlearn a thing than learn it right first off. When they’re trained they ought to be worth ten times as much as we paid for them. I might sell ’em to an organ-grinder, if Popper’d buy out Melvin’s share.”
But at this stage of thought it occurred to him that he couldn’t picture his dandyish father dealing with organ-grinders. Indeed, the idea was so absurd that it made him laugh, and in that laughter his ill-temper vanished, or nearly so. After all, it was good to be alive! Even the freedom of the woods, after the stuffy cabin he had left, was delightful. He’d rather have had it the freedom of the city streets, but this was better than nothing.
He began to whistle, imitating the call of a bird in the tree overhead, and with such fair success that he was proud of himself. The birdceased, startled, then flew onward. Gerald followed, still practicing that wild, sweet note, till suddenly his music was interrupted by another cry, which was neither bird nor joyous, but one of keen anxiety; then, as if it had come out of the ground, a girl begged:
“Oh! whoever you are, come quick!”
“Why, Elsa! I was looking—Hello! Of all things!”
Almost hidden by the great ferns amid which she sat Elsa held, lying across her lap, a little figure in faded gingham.
“Saint Augustine! The boy I heard ’em say was lost! How did he get here? It must be a long way from his house.”
Elsa pointed pityingly to the bare little feet and legs, cruelly scratched and with dark bruises.
“I don’t know. I found him just this way.”
“Sainty! Wake up! My! How sound he sleeps! And how red his face is!”
“He’s sick. I’m sure. I found him all curled up, his little arms under his head. He moans, sometimes, but he doesn’t know anything that I say.”
At that moment a hoarse yell made Gerald look away from the boy and a leap of something to his shoulder made him yell in response.
“Jocko! Down! Behave! Oh! he’ll hurt you. They’ve both been asleep in that spot where the sun shines through. Oh! Stop—stop!”
The monkey was attacking Gerald’s face, snapping at his ears, pulling his hair, and almost frightening him into a fit. But Elsa laid SaintAugustine gently on the ground and went to the rescue. With sharp slaps of her thin hands she soon reduced Jocko to submission and, as if fearing punishment herself, Joan crouched behind a bush and peered cautiously out.
“Pshaw! How’d you do it? I was coming after the monkeys, they’re mine you know—or half mine, but—do they act that way often?”
“Yes, rather too often. That’s what makes everybody afraid to handle them. They’ll get better natured after a time, I hope. But no matter about them. They’re nothing but animals while this darling little boy—I don’t know as I can carry him. You’ve been sick and so can’t either, I suppose. Yet we can’t leave him here. Will you go back to the Lily and get more help? If you brought a hammock we might put him in that. He’s awfully sick. I’m afraid—he’ll die—and his mother—”
Gerald had stood looking upon the little lad while she said this, wondering what would best be done, and annoyed that he should be put to the bother of the matter. His decision was made rather suddenly as again Jocko leaped upon his back and resumed his angry chattering.
“Call him off! I’ll carry the child. Which is the way home?”
“I don’t—know. It all looks alike—but not like—I mean, I haven’t the least idea where we are, except that it must be a good ways from the boat. Don’t you really know, either?”
For a moment Gerald looked about. Then answered frankly:
“No. I was pretty cross when I came out, for Melvin had just told me about that lost money and about Dorothy’s paying for me—So horrid, that! I heard a bird whistle and whistling’s my gift, some folks think. I’ve whistled for entertainments at school and I like to learn new notes. Following that wretched bird I didn’t notice.”
“And looking for a walking-fern I didn’t either. But we can’t stop here. We must go on—some way.”
“Let’s try the children’s way: ‘My—mother—told—me—this!’”
Elsa laughed. She had known so little of childish things that each new one delighted her. Gerald had uttered the few words, turning from point to point with each, and now finishing with an outstretched forefinger in a direction where the trees were less thick and crowding than elsewhere.
Fortunately, “his—mother—had—told—him” the right one. This was almost the end of the forest behind Corny Stillwell’s cabin; a short-cut to the long way around by which Gerald had gone to Deer-Copse. He didn’t know that when he lifted Saint Augustine in his arms and started forward. The child was small and thin, else Gerald would have had to pause oftener than he did for rest; but even so it was a severe task he had set himself.
But somehow the burden in his arms seemed to lift the burden from his heart, as is always thecase when one unselfishly helps another. Also, he feared that the illness of Saint Augustine was the result of his own; so that when Elsa once limped up to where he had paused to rest and asked:
“What do you suppose it is that ails him?” he had promptly answered:
“Measles. Caught ’em from me. Ain’t that the limit?”
But Elsa who knew no slang understood him literally, and said:
“No, it isn’t, I had them once and the doctor scared my father dreadfully, telling him that folks could have themfour times! Think of that! He said most people had them only once and the younger the lighter. So I guess Saint Augustine won’t be very ill. But—my heart! Do you suppose the monkeys can catch it? Wouldn’t that be awful!”
“I hope they will and die of them! Nasty little brutes! They keep my nerves on the jump all the time, hearing them chatter and yell right behind me so. You keep real far back, won’t you? I don’t know how you can stand them; but don’t—please don’t let them hop on me again. I know they’re too heavy for you but I’m too nervous for words. I wish I’d never heard of ’em, the little gibbering idiots!”
Again Elsa laughed, this time so merrily that Gerald got angry.
“I don’t see anything so very funny in this predicament! Not so very amusing! My armsache fit to break and all a girl cares about a fellow is to giggle at him.”
And now, indeed, was the “giggle” so prolonged that its victim had to join in it, and had Mrs. Calvert been there to hear she would have rejoiced to see shy Elsa behaving just like any other happy girl. Yet, after a moment, she sobered and begged:
“Don’t mind my doing that, but I couldn’t help it. It seems so funny for a boy to have ‘nerves’ or to be afraid of monkeys. Papa has a song: