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Title: The Lass of the Silver Sword
Author: Mary Constance Du Bois
Illustrator: C. M. Relyea
Release date: December 31, 2025 [eBook #77584]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Century Co, 1909
Credits: Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.
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[Illustration: THE INITIATION CEREMONY OF “THE SILVER SWORD.”]
THE LASS OF THE SILVER SWORD
BY
MARY CONSTANCE DU BOIS
Author of “Elinor Arden, Royalist,” etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
CHARLES M. RELYEA
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
Copyright, 1908, 1909, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published September, 1909_
Printed in U. S. A.
TO
GRACE WINIFRED
AND
CECILY JEAN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Girl with Ideals 3
II. At Home in the Orioles’ Nest 14
III. A Tornado 31
IV. Castle Afterglow 42
V. The Queen of the Silver Sword 59
VI. Camp Huairarwee 72
VII. How the Queen Saved a Halcyon’s Life 83
VIII. Douglas Gordon 91
IX. Jasper Brook 107
X. The Trail to the North Pole 116
XI. Mermaids 132
XII. A Damsel in Distress 143
XIII. Philanthropists 156
XIV. The Camp Baby 173
XV. A Midsummer Day’s Dream 188
XVI. The Battle Maid 201
XVII. Forest and Fire 214
XVIII. Cinderella 226
XIX. The Hemlock and the Hist-oh-Hist 245
XX. Conspirators 268
XXI. The Runaway 281
XXII. Up the Gothics 292
XXIII. Down the Slides 306
XXIV. Life or Death 321
XXV. The Vigil Ended 329
XXVI. A “Stoot Hert” and a “Stey Brae” 337
XXVII. A Coronation 357
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The Initiation Ceremony of “The Silver Sword” _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
Camp Huairarwee 84
As If In Answer the “Hist” Shot Forward 262
Gazing With Admiration at the Silver Circlet 370
THE LASS OF THE
SILVER SWORD
THE LASS OF THE
SILVER SWORD
CHAPTER I.
A GIRL WITH IDEALS
“Rah! rah! rah!
Basket-ball!
Carol Armstrong!
Hazelhurst Hall!”
Jean Lennox improvised this yell on the spur of the moment, and leaning
over the gallery rail shouted it forth at the top of her voice, bringing
the eyes of players and spectators upon her fourteen-year-old self. The
basket-ball match was over; the senior team had beaten the junior by a
score of twenty to thirteen, and the winners had for one of their
forwards Carol Armstrong, the champion player of the school. The goals
that Carol had made that day! Why, just before the referee’s whistle had
announced the end of the game, standing so far to the side that her
friends had looked for failure, she had shot the ball high, high into
the air, and down it had come safely through the basket, raising the
score of the seniors to twenty, and bringing Carol another rousing
cheer. And now Jean, too, had distinguished herself.
“Good for you, Jeanie!” cried Cecily Brook, who sat on Jean’s left.
“Rah! rah! rah!
Basket-ball!
Carol Armstrong!
Hazelhurst Hall!”
All the girls in the gallery except the disappointed juniors took up the
yell with enthusiasm, for Carol was not only the champion of the school,
but also a prime favorite. The sequel to the basket-ball match should
have been an instantaneous dash from the gymnasium, but this chorus,
which they had never heard before, kept the teams a minute longer on the
field of battle.
“Did little Lennox start that?” called up Helen Westover, the senior
captain.
“Yes, she did!” answered Cecily.
“That’s fine, Jean!” cried the captain.
Carol Armstrong looked up at the blushing author of the rhyme. Carol was
a fine, handsome girl, just eighteen; tall and vigorous and graceful,
with an air about her of being all sparkle and life. Her cheeks were
brilliant from the hard exercise; her sunny, brown eyes were dancing.
She smiled at Jean and blew her a kiss with the tips of her fingers,
accompanied by a bow and flourish worthy of the melodrama. Jean blushed
hotter, but oh, the thrill of happiness! To be saluted by the leader of
Hazelhurst, with whom she had not exchanged ten words in all the months
that she had been at school!
Next to Cecily Brook was Carol’s chum, Eunice Stanley. She rose and,
leaning over Cecily, patted Jean on the shoulder. “You quiet little
puss,” said she, “you came out gloriously! Come down and let’s
congratulate the conquerors. Oh, quick! they’re going!”
Eunice ran down the gallery stairs with Jean after her, shot across the
gymnasium floor, and caught Carol Armstrong in the act of flight.
“Carol, I’m proud of you! You were perfectly splendid!” she exclaimed,
giving her friend an enthusiastic little hug.
“_I’m_ proud of Nancy,” said Carol. “Nan!” she called to the other
forward who was hurrying from the room, “we’ll have to challenge the St.
Audrey girls again! We’ll beat them all to pieces with _you_ on the
team!”
“With _you_, you mean!” Nancy Newcomb called back from the doorway.
All unnoticed, Jean stood behind Carol and lovingly squeezed the heavy
plait in which the champion had braided her curly chestnut hair for the
fray. Before she could have the satisfaction of winding around her
finger the tempting ringlet in which the plait ended, its owner broke
away.
The twelve players in their pretty jumpers and bloomers of navy-blue
rushed off to the dressing-rooms. The girls left behind in the gymnasium
rah-rah-rah’d for their Alma Mater; and then—for that first Saturday in
March was one of drizzle and sleet—they devoted the interval before
luncheon to indoor exercise. Jean brandished Indian clubs until her
muscles ached. Then she perched herself on the headless, tailless
“gymnasium horse” to rest, and absent-mindedly cuddled a club in her
arms.
Jean was tall for her age, and pale, and in her own judgment she was
homely, for she did not know what charm lay in her strong, yet delicate
face, with its constantly changing play of expression. Her eyes were
large, deep-set, and of a dark, clear blue; but the times came often
when their pupils dilated and they flashed warningly. Her forceful mouth
gave quick, responsive smiles; and when, as now, her hair-ribbons had
slipped from their moorings, the heavy locks, almost black, which fell
about her broad forehead, lent an attractively witch-like air to the
bright, earnest face.
At school, Jean was regarded in the light of an interesting curiosity;
she had among other things the distinction of having lived for two years
in Brazil. Her father’s business had called him to Rio Janeiro for a few
years, but her parents had decided that when their only child came to
fourteen she must be sent back to the United States to be educated. Poor
Jean! Shy and homesick, she had come to Miss Carlton’s boarding-school,
Hazelhurst Hall. She had stayed in her shell while the other newcomers
were choosing their best friends; and so most of the intimacies had been
formed while she was still left out in the cold. But if she had no bosom
friend, at least she had the luxury of an ideal to adore, and that ideal
was Carol Armstrong. Jean had fallen in love with her at first sight,
when, just arrived at the Hall, she had seen Carol laughing and talking
with her friends, her head against the window through which the sunlight
poured, her chestnut curls gleaming with red and gold. Alas! the course
of true love never did run smooth! Jean had not dared to confess her
admiration to any one but Cecily Brook, whom she had pledged to keep her
secret. Now and then she made offerings of candy and flowers
anonymously, leaving them on Carol’s desk, and so far all Carol’s
attempts to play detective had failed, and it looked as if her admirer
would remain forever unknown.
While Jean was still mounted on the horse, Carol came back to the
gymnasium, this time in her school dress, and was captured by a devoted
mob, who drew her to the piano and made her play for them to dance.
Couples were soon waltzing to spirited music, but awkward Jean found
dancing more work than play, and she sat still, no one claiming her for
a partner.
“Let’s go and poke up crazy Jane! It’s too silly for her to sit there
when she ought to be dancing!” said Frances Browne to her room-mate,
Adela Mears, when the girls had stopped to rest. Frances was a piquante
little brunette, small for her age, slight and nimble. Her bright, black
eyes, sparkling with mischief, and her elfin quickness had won her the
nicknames of “Brown Mouse” and “Frisky Mouse”; and Adela, with her
flaxen hair and small, pointed features, had been dubbed “White Mouse,”
and the room which they shared together “The Mouse Hole.”
“Jean, Jane, do wake up! It isn’t time to go to bed yet,” said Frances.
“Why don’t you come and dance?” asked Adela.
“I don’t care to,” replied Jean, frigidly. Between herself and Adela
there was no love lost.
The day before, as they sat side by side in the Latin class, Jean had
found that the translation she was writing was being stealthily copied
by the White Mouse, and her indignant start and look of scorn were still
rankling in Adela’s memory. “I know what you’re doing,” she said
teasingly. “You’re making up your novel.”
“Why, what do you mean?” Jean demanded, looking startled.
“Blanche, isn’t Jean writing a novel?” Adela turned to Blanche
Humphreys, Jean’s room-mate, who stood near.
“I shouldn’t wonder. She’s all the time scribbling in a blank-book, and
she won’t tell me what it’s about,” drawled Blanche. She was blonde, and
overplump, slow speaking, and slow moving.
“Well, I know it’s a novel, and that’s why she’s so moony all the time,”
said Adela.
“How did you find out about it?” asked Blanche.
“Don’t you wish you knew?” laughed Adela.
“I guess you were in our room without being invited,” suggested Blanche.
“Was that it?”
“‘Guess’ is not a proper substitute for ‘think,’” said Adela.
“You _were_ in the room, or you couldn’t have seen her book!” remarked
Blanche.
“It’s big enough to be seen a mile away,” said Adela. “When is it to be
published, Jean?”
“Adela Mears, what business did you have to sneak into my room and look
at my private book?” Jean demanded, the color rising in her pale cheeks.
“I haven’t touched your private book,” replied Adela.
“You were peeping through the keyhole, anyway!”
“No, I wasn’t!”
“You were hiding in the closet, then,” put in Blanche.
“Well, I had to,—to get away from Miss Sargent,” stammered Adela, who
had gone farther than she had meant in teasing. “She said I was to stay
in my room yesterday, just for nothing at all; but I wasn’t going to, so
I scooted upstairs to see _you_. But you weren’t there; and I heard Miss
Sargent in the hall and skipped into the closet. And then Miss Sargent
came in with Jean,—she was lecturing her about something or other,—and
as soon as she went out again Jean began raging around the room, and
said she hated everybody, and went on as if she was crazy, and I was so
scared I didn’t dare come out. And then she threw herself down on the
bed and cried and howled!”
“Oh, Adela, do keep still!” cried Frances.
Jean was staring at Adela, her blue eyes growing black. She despised
crying, but now and then homesickness combined with some trouble of the
day would bring the tears, and alone in her room she would break down,
and with the sobs would come wild raging against the fate which kept her
at school. Such a storm had swept over her yesterday, brought on by a
sharp reproof for carelessness from Miss Sargent, teacher of mathematics
and strict disciplinarian of the younger girls.
“And then she got up and began to write her novel,” Adela went on, and
broke off with a scream, while Frances shot clear across the room.
Suddenly transformed into a fury, Jean sprang from the horse and flung
her Indian club to the floor with a crash. Adela could not retreat fast
enough, and Jean caught her by the shoulders and gripped her like a
vise, saying in a voice quivering with anger: “You’re a hateful,
dishonorable girl, Adela Mears! It’s contemptible to spy on people!”
“Jean, please don’t assassinate Adela!” It was Carol Armstrong who
spoke. She had left the piano, and now she drew Jean merrily but
forcibly away from Adela and held her with a firm arm. “What _are_ you
quarreling about, children?” she asked. “Jean Lennox, what _is_ the
matter?”
But Jean, utterly humiliated, jerked herself free without replying, and
ran from the gymnasium. She fled across the campus to the main building
of the school, and up to her own room in West Wing. There she sat
brooding until Cecily Brook and Betty Randolph entered. Betty was a
round-faced, rosy-cheeked maiden, cheery and good-natured. Cecily was
fair, and dainty, and sweet. The girls called her “Saint Cecilia,” and
her fluff of sunny hair, “Saint Cecilia’s halo.”
“Jean,” said Cecily, taking her hand pettingly, “will you do Betty and
me a favor? We need you dreadfully. We’re trying to get up some kind of
an entertainment for my birthday next Saturday. We’ve thought of
charades and lots of things, but they’re all so stale, and we think
_you_ ought to be able to think up something new, because you write such
splendid compositions. You have more ideas than all the rest of us put
together. Won’t you help us, please?”
“You’re only saying that to make me feel better,” answered Jean,
gloomily.
“No, we’re not!” said Betty. “We really do need you, and you mustn’t
feel so badly. Adela and Frances didn’t mean any harm, and Adela’s
_really_ ashamed of herself now. Carol’s been giving her a regular
blowing up.”
Betty coaxed and purred, and Cecily soothed and comforted; and it was so
good and so new to feel herself claimed and needed that Jean’s troubled
look gave place to a bright, grateful smile.
“I’d love to help you, if I can,” said she. “I love to plan things. But
I’ll have to have a good long _think_, and then I’ll tell you if I’ve
thought of anything.”
They left Jean to take counsel with herself, and she walked round and
round her room till the bell rang, dreamed at table, and—luncheon
over—slipped away, no one knew where. Early in the afternoon she
presented herself at the door of the “Orioles’ Nest,” as Cecily and
Betty had named their room, because Betty had a brother at Princeton.
“The Tigers’ Den,” first thought of, seemed less appropriate to young
ladies than the “nest” of the orange-and-black oriole.
“I’ve thought of something, but I don’t know whether you’ll like it,”
she announced. “It isn’t just an entertainment, but it’s something that
maybe will last all our lives.” And thereupon a meeting was held in the
Orioles’ Nest.
CHAPTER II.
AT HOME IN THE ORIOLES’ NEST
Miss Elizabeth Edith Randolph,
Miss Cecily Vernon Brook,
At home from four to six.
Invitations in this form were distributed on the next Saturday among the
classmates of the hostesses. The cards were enticingly illustrated with
water-color sketches by Cecily,—two Baltimore orioles on the edge of a
nest, each perched on one foot and holding a tea-cup in the other. The
guests one and all accepted, and at the appointed hour the whole class
gathered in that coziest of rooms.
“Oh, what a gorgeous cake! And I’m starving!” cried Frances. She wisely
seated herself next to the pretty little table on which stood a frosted
birthday cake with fifteen lighted candles, all rose-pink, and also pink
paper baskets filled with bonbons, a tall pitcher of lemonade, and a set
of dainty glasses. Cecily, as queen of the day, cut her cake into twelve
generous slices, while her sister oriole poured the lemonade.
“Now don’t take too long to eat, girls,” said Betty, hospitably. “We
have a scheme to tell you about when you’re through.” But no coaxing
could induce the hostesses to divulge their secret while there was a
crumb of cake or a sip of lemonade to be enjoyed.
“Now for your scheme,” said Phyllis Morton, when the feast was over.
“You tell it, Jean,” said Cecily. “You thought of it.”
“Why, we want to found an order,” said Jean, impressively.
“An order! What on earth do you mean?” asked Mildred Carrington.
“I mean an order like the Knights Templars,” said Jean. “Don’t you know
we read about them in French history? Now don’t laugh, this isn’t just
for fun. We’re in real sober earnest. Why shouldn’t we found an order,—a
society that will bind us together, maybe for all our lives, and anyhow
will help us all through our school life? Don’t you remember that time
in the literature class, when we were studying about the legends of King
Arthur, and Miss Carlton gave us that talk about the battle of life, and
girls fighting like true knights in it?”
“I remember,” said Thekla Hoffman. “You started it up, saying you wished
you’d lived in the days of chivalry. You thought all the battles and
sieges would have been so nice and exciting.”
“I know, and I felt like a goose after I’d said it,” Jean admitted. “But
Miss Carlton said we didn’t need to go back to the days of chivalry for
our battles. She said life was a great long warfare, and we had battles
to fight every day! And don’t you remember she said the girl that always
stood up for what was right, and was always high-minded and honorable,
was a true knight, and she wanted all the Hazelhurst girls to be true
knights? Well, we thought we’d better do what she said, and be knights,
and found an order like the Round Table. Of course, we can’t go on
‘quests’ as they did, but there are plenty of things we can do in
helping to straighten out troubles for one another, and Miss Carlton
says we _can_ right wrongs and better the world.”
“My senses, Jean! Have we got to dress up in armor and cavort on
horseback?” laughed Maud Perry.
“If you please, how are we school-girls going to better the world?”
asked Phyllis. “Be missionaries, and one take America, and one Europe,
and one Asia, and one Africa?”
“Oh, I don’t mean this in a preachy way!” said Jean. “But if life’s one
big war, with battles every day, we’ve got to keep fighting, haven’t we?
Just look at Carol Armstrong and her basket-ball team; don’t they have
to fight _hard_ if they want to win? Well, we can fight hard to stand
well in our lessons, and to help each other, for love of Hazelhurst,
just as the basket-ball teams fight. We can be _girl_ knights.”
“Girl knights! I never heard anything so babyish!” Adela observed to
Frances. “Let’s buy tin swords and rocking-horses!”
Jean colored hotly. “I don’t want to _play_ King Arthur any more than
you do, Adela! I’m not five years old!” she declared. “I haven’t had a
chance to explain. We really _can_ be girl knights. There’s a legend
about a girl knight somewhere; my father told me about her when I was a
little bit of a thing. He said she was a beautiful princess and she
became a knight and she had a magic spear that would overthrow all her
enemies, and a wonderful shield. I used to make up stories about her.”
“Oh! Just tell them that story you told me,” Cecily interrupted.
“Oh, Cecily, no!” Jean protested. “They don’t want to hear my silly old
stories!”
“Yes, they do. Don’t be so shy,” said Cecily.
“Of course we do!” said Maud. “I know _I’ll_ never feel too old for
fairy tales if I live to be eighty.”
“Well, then,” began Jean, twisting her handkerchief nervously, and
looking down, “I made up a story, once, about how the princess came to
be a knight. One day she slipped into the council-hall where her father,
the king, was in council with his knights, and she heard them take a
solemn vow to ride forth on a quest, and right all the wrongs of the
kingdom. And the princess said to herself, ‘I’m going to be a knight,
too!’ But she didn’t have any armor, and when she went to the king and
told him she wished to be a knight, he laughed at her and said she was
only a girl, and girls weren’t strong enough to fight, and there wasn’t
any armor in the whole world that would fit a little slip like her; and
he told her to go and learn the new court dance with her maids of honor,
and embroider some golden tapestry for the council-hall, and let the
knights do the fighting. But the princess was too unhappy to dance, and
she was sick and tired of stupid old tapestry. So instead she ran off
and tried all the suits of armor in the palace, but they were all too
big and heavy,—every one of them. At last she gave up in despair and
went out to her bower of roses, and threw herself down on the ground and
cried. And she said, ‘I’m only a girl, and girls can’t do anything!’ But
while she was crying she suddenly realized that the bower was growing
bright, and she looked up and saw, standing before her, a knight in
white armor. He had a spear that flashed like lightning and a shield
shining like the sun; and he told the princess to kneel down and he
would make her a knight, too, and that though she was only a girl she
should be the greatest knight in the whole kingdom. So she knelt down
and he knighted her, and then he gave her the spear and the shield, and
told her that she would always conquer with that spear, and that while
she carried that shield she couldn’t be wounded. Then he told her to go
and conquer all the king’s enemies; and so she rode out on her quest and
fought and was victorious. At last she came back to her palace in
triumph, and as her father was dead, they made her queen, and at her
coronation the knight in white armor suddenly appeared again, and
crowned her with a crown that shone like the sun; and she became the
greatest queen that ever lived!”
Jean’s head was raised now; there was a flush in her pale cheeks and her
eyes were shining. “There—that’s just a babyish fairy-story, I know,”
she apologized; “but it gave me the idea for our order.”
“There was a real girl knight in history, too,” said Cecily. “Joan of
Arc wore armor and fought and saved France. I’m sure she looked just
like you, Jean. I’m going to call you Joan of Arc! Miss Carlton says we
can fight _our_ troubles and other people’s too. So we’ll help to
conquer the trouble and unhappiness in the world, and that’s the way
we’ll _better_ the world.”
“And we’ll form a society of girl knights,” Jean went on, “and we’ll
have a sword that’ll conquer all our enemies, like the magic spear in
the legend. I like a sword better than a spear, don’t you? It sounds so
victorious! You think of a general leading on to victory with his sword.
Well, we must bind ourselves to love each other always, you know, and
Miss Carlton wants us to be on the lookout to do all the kind things we
can. So our sword will be the sword of love and kind-heartedness. We’ll
have it a silver sword. Father told me that silver is the symbol of love
and gold the symbol of truth. We can call ourselves the Order of the
Silver Sword.”
“Order of the Silver Sword! That sounds splendid!” cried Phyllis.
“And you know King Arthur’s sword was named Excalibur,” said Jean.
“Well, we’ll name our sword Caritas; that’s the Latin for love.”
“Why, _amo_ means to love, child,” Mildred corrected. “_Amo, amas, amat,
amamus, amatis, amant!_”
“_Amo, amas, amat_ means the falling-in-love kind of love,” Jean
explained, “but _caritas_ means the other kind: the higher sort of love.
It means charity and kind-heartedness. I studied it out and then I asked
Miss Carlton. Well, if you like the idea, we’ll be the Order of the
Silver Sword. And the head of the order will be the Queen, and we’ll
elect a new queen every year.”
“Then she’ll be a _president_,” observed Maud.
“Yes, of course; but you have to say _queen_ to make it old-timey. The
president and her knights would sound too funny! And the officers will
be the princesses. The secretary can be the Princess of the Scroll, and
the treasurer can be the Princess of the Treasure. And the rest of us
will be the maids of honor, but we’ll all of us—Queen and all—be girl
knights, warrior maidens.”
“That’s just the thing for me!” broke in Hilda Hastings. “My name means
_battle maid_.”
“Does Hilda mean battle maid? Oh, but that’s just perfect!” exclaimed
Jean. “Battle maid sounds ever so much better than girl knight. Let’s
call ourselves _battle maids_, shall we?”
“But you haven’t said anything about the badges, Jean,” said Betty.
“We’re going to have the darlingest badges!”
“Yes,” said Jean. “You know we must have a shield as well as a sword,
and the two together will make a lovely badge. And don’t you think it
would be beautiful, if the sword’s silver, to have the shield gold?”
“Lovely!” said Thekla.
“So we’ll have the golden shield of truth,” continued Jean. “That will
mean that we’re going to be true to each other, and true to what is
right. And truth is _veritas_ in Latin,—I looked it up. So we’ll name
our shield Veritas. And our badge will be a golden shield with a silver
sword across it; and the motto will be ‘Caritas et Veritas.’”
“Don’t you think it’s a terribly solemn kind of a society?” ventured
Mildred.
“Oh, no, because we’re going to have lots of fun in it, too!” declared
Jean. “We’ll have meetings every week and always get up something jolly
to do. And we can give entertainments for charity. We might act a play
some time!”
“And we must have initiations,” said Betty.
“Initiations are loads of fun,” said Frances. “We can play all sorts of
tricks and scare each other to death!”
The gleam of silver swords and golden shields, the martial tone of the
enterprise, and the prospect of initiations and entertainments kindled
the zeal of the company in general, and from frisky Frances to ponderous
Blanche every one expressed her readiness to enlist.
“Now,” said Cecily, when the recruits had been enrolled, “first of all
we’ll have to call a meeting to elect our officers. Oh, and Jean, do get
us your list of rules! Jean’s written out a beautiful set of rules.”
“I haven’t had time to finish copying them. I’ll do it right away. It
won’t take me five minutes,” said Jean. She whispered something in
Cecily’s ear and left the room.
“I’m going to give out my birthday souvenirs while we’re waiting,” said
Cecily, and she and Betty took from the table the dainty candy baskets
and distributed them among the guests. To the handle of each basket was
tied with a pink ribbon a card bearing the name of the girl who received
it, and an accompanying bit of verse.
“Why, I didn’t know you could write poetry!” exclaimed Phyllis, looking
up from her card.
“P’raps I can and p’raps I can’t,” replied Cecily. “P’raps I promised
not to tell who wrote them!”
“I know who wrote them!” said Hilda. “It was Jean, so you might as well
own up. She’s the only one of us all who could do it.”
“Yes, it was Jean,” said Betty. “_I_ didn’t promise not to tell.”
“She asked me to give out the baskets while she was out of the room,”
said Cecily, “so she wouldn’t have to listen to her own poems.”
“My, isn’t she funny! I should think she’d be so proud she could write!”
said Phyllis. “Just listen to mine, girls, it’s too dear for anything!”
And she read:
“Airy and high,
Under the sky,
Is the nest where the orioles flit and fly.
Sweet Phyllis, rest,
And be a guest
At the afternoon tea in the Orioles’ Nest.”
“Cecily ought to have read hers first, because it’s her birthday,” said
Betty. “Read yours now, Cece,” and Cecily read:
“Saint Cecilia, hail to thee
On this happy day!
May’st thou sorrow never see,
But from every care be free!
May thy life all sunshine be!
Storm-clouds, keep away!
“May the birds their sweetest sing
On this birthday bright!
May good fairies on the wing
All their gifts most royal bring,
And, to crown their offering,
Joyous dreams to-night!”
“Now listen to mine,” said Betty:
“Oh, good Queen Bess, in days of yore,
A shocking temper had!
She stamped her foot upon the floor
Whenever she was mad.
“She frowned a most terrific frown,
And tore her hair so red,
And brought her golden scepter down
On Walter Raleigh’s head!
“But here we have a good Queen Bess
Who rules us with a smile,
Her heart is full of gentleness
And sunshine all the while.
“She ne’er was known to box our ears;
She never pulls our hair.
Then let us give three hearty cheers
For _our_ Queen Bess so fair!”
“Why, that’s simply fine!” exclaimed Maud.
Rhyme after rhyme was read and received praise that would have set the
poet’s pale cheeks glowing again, could she have heard.
“Why don’t you two read _your_ poems?” Cecily demanded of Frances and
Adela, who had sat whispering over their cards without joining in the
applause.
“We Mouses are too ashamed,” said Frances. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’m
really and truly ashamed of myself! I made Jean hopping mad yesterday; I
illustrated her composition with giraffes—giraffe’s my name for her, you
know,—she’s so tall and lanky! And now just hear what a duck of a thing
she’s given _me_! I’m going to call her Giraffe the Generous!” And she
read:
“Oh, welcome, bright-eyed Frisky,
You brown and tricksy Mouse!
Come in and nip and taste and sip,
At tea in the Orioles’ house.
“We need you at our party
To frolic and frisk and play,
For the merriest treat would be incomplete
If the Brown Mouse stayed away.”
“Mine’s a dear, too,” said Adela. “Listen:
“O lily-white Mouse, we are glad to see
You have crept from the Mouse Hole to come to our tea!
We know your fondness for sugar and spice
And birthday parties and all things nice.
So nibble your candies; no cat will molest
The Mouse that is safe in the Orioles’ Nest.”
“I’ll tell you why she’s so nice to you,” said Cecily. “It’s because
she’s using the sword Caritas! And you’ll have to stop teasing her after
this if you wish to belong to the order! I’m going to tell her we’re all
through; and please everybody be nice to her when she comes back.” She
left the Orioles’ Nest and went upstairs to Jean’s room, “Castle
Afterglow,” as Jean had sentimentally named it while gazing out at a
sunset. Cecily walked in, stopped short and stared, the spectacle which
met her astonished gaze banishing all thought of battle maids and their
silver swords.
“Why Jean!” she exclaimed, “what on earth are you doing? Are you
house-cleaning?” For Jean was sitting on the floor of Castle Afterglow,
surrounded by all her worldly goods. Dresses and school-books,
petticoats and writing pads, shoes and ribbons, Sunday hat and tennis
racket, all lay in one chaos. Bureau drawers were tilted forward, empty
and threatening to fall out. The desk had been emptied and a snowfall of
papers was sprinkled about the room. Jean met Cecily’s amused look with
a glare.
“I’ve been robbed!” she said, in a tragic tone.
“Robbed?” cried Cecily.
“Yes, robbed, robbed, _robbed_!” Jean repeated. “And I know who did it,
too!”
“Who?” asked Cecily, thinking of the new housemaid.
“That contemptible Adela Mears!”
“Jean, are you crazy! The idea of any girl at our school stealing! You
ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
“_I_ call it stealing, to come into my room when nobody’s here and take
away my book!”
“Oh, is that all? She borrowed a book?”
“_Borrowed!_ She _stole_ it to torment me, and I’ll never forgive her!”
“What book was it?”
“The book with all my writings,” moaned the authoress of fourteen.
“The book she saw you writing in when she hid in your closet?” asked
Cecily.
Jean nodded disconsolately. “I’d scribbled the rules for the order in
the end of the book, and I hadn’t quite finished copying them out nicely
to read to the girls when I had to go down to the party. And when I came
upstairs just now, to finish them, I found the book was gone.” Then she
started to her feet. “I’m going for Adela this very minute!”
Cecily caught Jean and held her tight. “Wait, _please_ wait!” she
begged. “I don’t believe she’s taken it at all. It’s probably under some
of your things.”
“No, it’s not,” answered Jean, as Cecily began to fish in the
conglomerate mass on the floor. “I’ve hunted through everything. And I
know it’s Adela, because she’s been simply crazy to find out what’s in
my book. I’d _die_ before I’d show it to _her_. Oh, the mean, hateful
thing! I’m going for her!”
But Cecily caught her again. “Please! Jean, please!” she begged. “You
don’t want to spoil our party, do you? Let me go for you, and if she
_has_ taken it I’ll make her give it back. But if _you_ fly at her and
then you find she hasn’t, you’ll feel so silly.”
“She _has_ taken it.”
“Well, any way, let me go for you, and you pick up your things. Miss
Sargent will give you a big scolding if she finds your room like this.”
Jean knelt down again amid the chaos, but she asked anxiously: “_You_
won’t look at my book if you find it, will you?”
“I should think not!” answered Cecily, indignantly. “But why are you so
afraid to have anybody see it?”
“Why, Cecily, it has all my most secret thoughts!” replied Jean
tragically.
“What do you mean? Is it a journal?”
“I began it as a journal,” said Jean. “But I kept forgetting to write it
up. So I began putting in all kinds of stuff; rhymes and stories and
lots of nonsense; and I’ve written some things that I wouldn’t have
anybody see for the world. To think of her reading it all and making fun
of it!”
“Oh, she couldn’t be so mean! And I don’t _much_ think she’s taken it,”
said Cecily, refusing to believe in such villainy; but Jean picked up a
little linen handkerchief.
“Look there!” she cried. “It’s _Frances_!”
Cecily examined the innocent bit of white and saw on the hem “Frances E.
Browne” marked in indelible ink. She looked at it in dismay.
“It was both of them! I’ll speak my mind to them now!”
“No, no! Go to their _room_ first. They must have left it there,” said
Cecily.
“Yes, that’s what I’ll do!” exclaimed Jean. “I’ll get it first and then
I’ll settle them!”
They went down together to the floor below and invaded the Mouse Hole,
searching in every nook, but that precious volume was nowhere to be
seen. “I’m going _now_! I’ll _make_ them give it to me!” Jean’s eyes
flashed fire. She turned and found peeping in at the door, Frances and
Adela.
CHAPTER III.
A TORNADO
There had been two uneasy consciences in the Orioles’ Nest as the
minutes went by and Cecily and Jean did not appear. Adela peeped out
into the hall and announced: “There go Jean and Cecily into our room!
Frisky, do you suppose—?”
“Fury! she must have found out!” said Frances.
“Found out what?” asked Phyllis.
“Look here!” said Betty. “You two are up to something!”
“Ah, tell us, can’t you? Quick! before they come back!” begged Mildred.
“Shall we?” asked Adela.
“I don’t care,” said Frances.
“Go on! hurry up!” Mildred urged.
“Why, girls,” said Adela, “this morning Frisk wanted to make up an
‘apple-pie bed’ for Blanche, so we sneaked up into her room—”
“Well, you hadn’t any business to!” said Blanche.
“Don’t get mad, old maid, we left your ‘apple-pie’ bed for another
time,” said Frances. And Adela went on with the confession.
They had found on the table in “Castle Afterglow” the book in which
Adela had discovered Jean writing when she had hidden in her closet. In
their mood of thoughtless mischief the temptation to look at the
mysterious volume had proved irresistible, and honor was forgotten.
“And it’s the queerest thing you ever saw!” said Adela. “She’s written
the greatest lot of poems and stories, and _odes_ to—whom do you think?
Somebody she’s in love with!”
“A boy?” asked Blanche.
“No, it’s a _girl_. It’s Carol Armstrong! She’s dead in love with her!
Well, we thought it was a shame for Carol not to know Jean was in love
with her, and we knew wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of _Jean_, so we
wrapped it up in white tissue paper and tied it with red ribbon, and
wrote on it, ‘Miss Carol Armstrong, with love from Jean Lennox’; and we
left it on Carol’s bureau.”
“Well! You’re nice girls to belong to the Order of the Silver Sword!”
cried Betty, indignantly. “That was a dreadfully mean trick!”
“We didn’t mean any harm. It was only a joke,” said Frances, looking
troubled.
“Come along. Let’s go and see what she’s doing in our room,” Adela
proposed, as the suspense grew unbearable. The guilty twain left the
Orioles’ Nest and crept down the hall, an excited procession tiptoeing
after them; and peering in at their own door they brought up face to
face with Jean.
“Frances Browne, you’ve stolen my book!” Jean rushed forward and panic
seized the culprits. Frances pulled the door to, shutting Vengeance
inside the Mouse Hole, and clung to the door-knob with all her might.
“You stole my book! I’ll never forgive you—never!” cried Jean,
furiously, struggling to open the door. Adela whipped a key from her
belt. She had carried it to the party, intending to run home first and
lock her room-mate out; but now she used it to lock Jean and Cecily
_in_. Then she darted away and fled upstairs. Jean rattled her end of
the knob till she almost wrenched it off, and beat upon the door, crying
wildly: “Let me out! Let me out!”
“Let us out this minute,” Cecily commanded.
“I can’t,” Frances called back. “Whitey’s run off with the key.”
“We’ll catch her, though!” said Betty. “Come girls!”
There was a sound of feet hurrying away, but Blanche lingered to soothe
her room-mate. “Jean, don’t make such a fuss. Miss Sargent will hear
you,” she called. “They gave your book to Carol Armstrong for a joke,
that was all. You can get it back as soon as they let you out.”
“Frances, you and Adela are cruel, wicked, dishonorable girls!” cried
Jean, passionately. “I’ll never forgive you as long as I live, and I’ll
never forget!”
But Frances hurried away to join the hunt for the White Mouse, and Jean
flung herself down in despair on Adela’s bed, and buried her burning
face in her enemy’s pillow. She knew Carol was giving a tea to the
senior class, of which she was the President. No doubt she was reading
the book at that very moment to her classmates, and they were laughing
together over those sentimental outpourings. The idea was unbearable!
“I wish you wouldn’t feel so badly,” said Cecily. “I don’t believe
Carol’s reading your book at all. I wonder if I could make her hear if I
put my head out of the window and screeched. I’d tell her not to read
it.”
“We can get out by the window!” cried Jean. She was across the room in
an instant and raising the sash. “Come on!” she said, and scrambled upon
the sill.
“No, thank you,” replied Cecily, gripping her fast. “I don’t care to
break my neck, and you shan’t break yours, either!”
“Fiddle! we won’t get hurt! I’ll go crazy if I stay locked up any
longer!” Jean twitched herself free and let herself down to the sloping
piazza roof. The bow-window of Carol’s room was open. In it a girl was
sitting, and though her back was turned, Jean recognized Nancy Newcomb
by the copper-red hair shining in the sun. The sound of laughter came
through the open window.
“Cecily,” she said, “I simply _must_ find out if those girls are reading
my book.”
Deaf to her friend’s pleading, she made her way slowly and cautiously
along the roof and safely reached the bow-window. The curtain sheltered
her, and peeping over Nancy’s shoulder, she looked in. There on the
divan was Carol, flushed and laughing, and struggling to rise, while her
room-mate, Eunice Stanley, held her down and Marion Gaylord sat in her
lap, fettering her with arms around her neck. Helen Westover, standing
behind, pressed a fat sofa cushion down on the prisoner’s head, and
called out: “Now, Nan, go ahead while I have her smothered!”
Furtively Jean craned her neck and saw the lost book open on Nancy’s
lap. That was the moment to speak, but she felt paralyzed; and Nancy
began slowly and impressively:
To Carol
My love has a forehead broad and fair,
And the breeze-blown curls of her chestnut hair
Fall over it softly, the gold and the red
A shining aureole round her head.
Her clear eyes gleam with an amber light,
For sunbeams dance in them swift and bright!
And over those eyes so golden brown,
Long, shadowy lashes droop gently down.
“Take away that cushion, Helen,” said Marion. “I want to measure her
shadowy lashes. Hold up your head, Beauty. Let me see if your eyes
really are _yaller_.”
Oh, pale with envy the rose doth grow
That my lady lifts to her cheek’s warm glow!
Nancy continued. “Imagine Carol sentimentally lifting a rose to her
cheek! She probably presented it to the botany class for dissection.
But for joy its blushes would come again
If my lady to kiss the rose should deign.
“Girls, we’ve discovered the rising genius of the twentieth century! I’m
sorry the last verse is scratched out, and she’s written ‘apple’ all
over it, so you can’t read a word.” She turned a page or two and gave a
shriek of glee. “This is the richest yet! Carol is the heroine of a
novel! It’s called ‘Hearts of Gold!’ Listen:
The sun was setting. The western sky was all ablaze, and in the
radiance of the dying day stood Carol on the brow of Rosslyn Hill.
She shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed down the hillside. She
was a tall, beautiful girl, with sunset gleams in her hair.”
“Sunset gleams! Oh, now we know what color Carol’s hair is!” said
Marion. “It’s purple and crimson and gold and pink, with streaks of
green!”
But she was not thinking of the lovely picture that she made. Far
down the green slope she saw, climbing the hill, a tall, athletic
figure; young, handsome, and manly. Her breath came quick; her heart
throbbed. Arthur de Laney was coming!
A peal of laughter interrupted the reader. Poor Jean! She listened, her
cheeks burning. But Carol freed herself at last, and flew to recapture
the prize.
“You wretch, give me back my property!” she cried. “I’m going to have
Jean for my maid of honor when I marry Arthur, and I won’t invite any of
you to my wedding!”
There was a laughing battle, from which she came out victorious. The
next moment there came an unlooked for diversion.
“Jean Lennox, what are you doing on the roof?” The start that Jean gave
nearly made her lose her balance. She looked up and saw Miss Sargent
leaning out of the third story window directly overhead. The girls,
hearing the voice, looked out, and Jean stood revealed to the senior
class.
“You eavesdropper!” cried Nancy. “You scared me to death!”
“Come in, poet laureate!” called Carol; and Jean came in with the
precipitation of a bombshell, and in an equally friendly manner. She was
quivering with excitement.
“Jean Lennox, you’re a genius!” exclaimed Carol.
“Give me back my book!” Jean demanded fiercely.
“Indeed, I won’t! It’s lovely,” said Carol. “Don’t misunderstand, dear.
They were just teasing _me_.”
“Give me back my book!” Jean repeated.
“No, I won’t. It’s too valuable a present,” said Carol.
“It’s _not_ a present!” and Jean snatched the book away. “_I_ didn’t
give it to you. It was Frances and Adela!”
“Frances and Adela! Why, what do you mean!” asked Carol. “Didn’t _you_
leave it here?”
“Do you think I’d be such a conceited idiot?” cried poor Jean. “Frances
and Adela stole it out of my room and gave it to you just to plague me!”
“The wicked little monkeys!” exclaimed Carol. “Won’t I pitch into them
when I catch them! But you needn’t mind our seeing your book. You ought
to be proud of it! I’m sure _I’m_ proud to have such lovely things
written about me. And you mustn’t mind Nan and Marion; they’d make fun
of Shakespeare!”
“Of course we were only teasing Carol,” said Nancy. “We were afraid
she’d get vain with so many compliments! Dear me! I wish I could write
half as well!”
“You must write for the ‘_Hazel Nut_,’ after this, Jean,” said Eunice,
who was editor of the school paper.
But Jean was too deeply wounded to take their assurances in earnest.
Crimson with shame, she turned toward the door. Carol followed and put
her arm over her shoulder.
“You mustn’t feel so hurt, dear,” she began gently. Here the door burst
open and in rushed Cecily.
“Frances and Adela came back and let me out, and Miss Sargent caught
them!” said she. “I’m afraid she’ll be coming after _you_ now, Jean.
Don’t go out or she’ll see you.” And then indignant Cecily told the
story of the book stealing and the locking in.
“Those children always _were_ terrors, especially Adela! This is simply
outrageous!” declared Carol.
“We shall have to see they’re kept suppressed after this,” said Eunice,
with severity in her blue eyes.
“I _intend_ to suppress them!” said Carol, with decision. She stepped
out into the hall, and stepped back again with the warning: “Look out,
everybody! the sergeant-at-arms is coming!”
The next minute Miss Sargent was in the room. She carried herself with
the military erectness that distinguished her, and said sternly: “Jean,
I am astonished! You have done a most dangerous thing. Do you not know
that it is absolutely forbidden for any girl to venture out on the
roof?”
“But she was locked in, poor child!” Carol interposed. “The law doesn’t
say you mustn’t get out on the roof if you’re locked in and can’t get
out any other way, does it?”
“Miss Armstrong, I think you forget yourself,” said the teacher. “It was
most unladylike, most hoidenish, Jean, for a great girl of your age to
climb out there as you did. Do you not know that you endangered your
life? It is a miracle you did not slip and fall. Now, go to your room. I
found it in a most disgraceful state of disorder just now. Put
everything in its place at once. You will remain there till Miss Carlton
returns from New York this evening.”
Jean felt Cecily give her hand a sympathetic squeeze. She started to
leave the room, but Carol’s arm was around her still, and it tightened
and held her back.
“Miss Sargent,” said Carol earnestly, “please don’t send her to her
room. She hasn’t been the least bit to blame. Some of the girls have
been treating her abominably and she’s all excited and upset. Just see
how nervous she is: she’s trembling all over! Let me keep her here with
me and get her quieted down.”
“Carol, I must remind you that it is not your place to interfere with
the teachers,” returned Miss Sargent. “Jean, go to your room instantly.”
Jean obeyed, but as she left the room she gave Carol one grateful look
and saw that the clear brown eyes were flashing.
Then she ran upstairs, slammed her door, and imprisoned herself in
Castle Afterglow.
CHAPTER IV.
CASTLE AFTERGLOW
Jean’s first act on shutting herself up in her castle was to fling her
book across the room. Then she picked it up and tore it into fragments.
Busy with destruction, she forgot to put the disordered premises to
rights, and by the time that a mass of scraps in the wastebasket and a
bent and inky cover were all that was left of the book, Miss Sargent
came in. Finding that chaos still reigned, she made her scolding doubly
sharp. The tired, nervous teacher found her pupil most exasperating, for
Jean would give her only scowls and glum silence, and Miss Sargent left
her with the assurance that her “disobedience and ill-temper” would be
reported to Miss Carlton on her return from the city.
Slowly and wearily Jean put the room in order, tormenting herself over
her grievances as she did so, and hotly rebelling against life.
Suddenly, in collecting the scattered contents of her desk, she picked
up the paper on which she had been copying her code of rules for the
order. Her eyes fell on the heading: “The Order of the Silver Sword.”
The name of that sword was Caritas,—it was a sword of love! At the very
outset of her quest, Jean had forgotten her silver weapon and been
worsted when she might have gained a victory! Her brave resolutions came
back to her: she had decided that her own hot temper should be one of
the enemies she would fight down with the sword of love; and now she had
fallen in her first battle! Cecily had seen her, and all the girls must
have heard her! “I founded the order, and then I got angry the first
minute!” she said to herself. “And I felt as if I hated Frances and
Adela! I said I’d never forgive them! They’ll all think I wasn’t in
earnest in what I said about fighting our battles, and charity, and all
that! I’ve disgraced myself! I can’t ever look them in the face again!”
Then came passionate longing for home. If only she could tell out the
whole trouble in the comforting shelter of her mother’s arms! And the
humiliation of her downfall, and the rush of homesickness, together,
brought the rain after the thunder.
That evening, when the girls gathered in the gymnasium for the Saturday
dance, Carol was missing. She had slipped away in her pretty white
dress, and just as the music was beginning she was knocking at the door
of Castle Afterglow. No answer came. She opened the door and went in.
The room was dark, but the light from the hall showed Jean huddled in a
forlorn bunch on the window-seat. Her head was turned away, and she was
resting her forehead against the pane.
“May I come in?” asked Carol.
Jean started and looked at her visitor.
“You poor little soul, all alone here in the doleful dark!” said Carol.
“May I light up? It’s against the rules to come, I know, but I can’t
help it. I simply _had_ to run up and see you! You don’t mind if I pay
you a call?”
“Oh, no!” said Jean, longingly, for her heart was very hungry just then.
Carol turned on the electric light. “Why, Jean, dear!” she cried, as she
saw the poor girl’s face. It was feverishly flushed, and disfigured with
the burning tears that had been shed.
Jean was ashamed to have her piteous state found out, and bent her head.
But Carol seated herself beside the pathetic little figure, and, putting
her arms around her, drew her close and kissed her.
“You poor little girlie!” she said. “They’ve been martyring you! The
idea of shutting you up in prison like this! It was an outrageous shame!
Never mind! You just wait till Miss Carlton comes back, and she’ll set
things straight! But I’m glad I got the book, any way! To think I might
have gone on to the end of school, and never found you out, you dear!”
Jean listened to the girl who had seemed so far above her, and had
suddenly come so close, and her poor, little, lonely heart began to be
consoled: yet she held herself stiff and erect, for she felt her
self-control giving way under kindness. The tears were rising again,
and, in spite of her efforts to keep them back, down her cheeks they
rolled. She tried to jerk herself away, but it was no use. Carol had
seen the tears, and she drew the tired, aching head gently down on her
shoulder. Then Jean gave up the struggle, and nestling close to her new
friend, had her cry all over again; but all the time there was the sense
of being comforted, for Carol’s arms were holding her fast, and she
heard a soft voice speaking the first loving, petting words that she had
heard in all those dreary months at school. Jean lifted her head at
last.
“I can’t help it!” she said. “I was so homesick, and I
wanted—somebody—so much! And—and—I thought—nobody cared. And I was so
dreadful to-day. I got so angry! I disgraced myself so! Oh, my head! It
never ached so before!” She pressed her hands to her temples where it
seemed as if hammers were pounding.
“Does your head ache so, dear?” Carol stroked Jean’s forehead. “Why, you
poor child! Your head’s burning!” she exclaimed. “Bed’s the place for
_you_.”
“I don’t want to go to bed,” said Jean, too tired to stir.
“Oh, yes, you do! Then we can have the light out and let in some fresh
air. This room’s cooking hot! I don’t wonder your head aches.”
“I’ll go to bed later, but I want _you_, now.”
“Well, you’re going to have me! I’m the one that’s going to put you to
bed. Come along! I’m a terrible boss, you know; and I always get my own
way, so you might as well give in prettily first as last.” Merrily
masterful, Carol took possession of Jean, and a few minutes afterward
the patient found herself in bed.
“I love to play trained nurse,” said Carol, tucking her up. “Now I’m
going to show you the way I cure Eunice when she’s studied herself into
a headache. I’ll have to go and get something first. Will you be a good
baby while I’m gone?”
“I’ll be good,” Jean promised, and she lay still, feeling as if the
world had turned around in a very unexpected way during the last few
minutes.
Carol’s “something” turned out to be cracked ice, and she returned from
a trip to the lower regions with a bowlful.
“Delia was a jewel,” she said. “She’s given me enough to freeze ice
cream. She’s quite broken-hearted because you wouldn’t eat any dinner,
and she says she’s going to bring you up some ‘crame toast’ when she
comes upstairs, to ‘timpt your appetoite.’”
While Jean cooled her parched throat with ice Carol rummaged about for
handkerchiefs, taking tidy Blanche’s when she could not find Jean’s. She
soaked a handkerchief, wrung it out, cooled it in her bowl of ice, and
laid it on the burning forehead.
“Oh, but that feels good!” murmured Jean.
Carol put out the light, raised the window, letting in the crisp night
air, and settled herself in a chair by the bedside.
“Now,” said she, “we’re as cozy as can be, and you’re going to sleep
like a well brought up infant.”
She began to stroke the aching head with a soft, quieting touch. Jean
closed her eyes and lay obediently still; and gradually, as the cold
compresses were renewed and the gentle stroking soothed her, the hammers
in her head beat less and less violently, until only a dull, throbbing
pain was left. But after a while she stirred restlessly; then came a
sigh; then: “How much did you read of that thing?”
“You disobedient baby!” said Carol. “I thought you were sound asleep.”
“I was, almost. But then I got thinking. I feel ever so much better now,
and I’d rather talk. Carol,—you’re _so_ dear and lovely to me!—I think
you’ll understand. I think if I just talk everything out first, then
maybe I’ll really go to sleep.”
“Very well, if you don’t think it’ll hurt your head,” said Carol.
“That’s what I came up for, to talk it all out.”
Jean found Carol’s hand and held it gratefully; but her mind was
troubled. “Tell me what you read,” she pleaded.
“I will. But first I want you to understand that nobody had the least
idea of doing anything dishonorable. I didn’t mean the girls to read the
book at all. But like a goose I left it out on my chiffonnier, and Nan
got hold of it when I wasn’t noticing and the first thing I knew, there
she was, reading away! She’s very sorry now,—we all are,—so you’ll have
to forgive us all round. You would, I’m sure, if you’d heard us praising
you this evening. Promise me you’ll let me have a copy of those poems.”
“I tore the old book up,” the poet confessed.
“Jean! You Goth, Vandal, and Hun! How could you!” exclaimed Carol,
reproachfully. “Where are the pieces? In the scrap-basket?”
“Yes, but please don’t get them out! I don’t want ever to see that
miserable old stuff any more. Please, Carol!” And, as Carol rose, Jean
pulled her back.
“No, dearie, I won’t tease you when you have a headache. Only it was
wicked of you,” said Carol. “Promise you won’t let the scraps be thrown
away till I’ve fished out what I want. I’m going to compile all the
lovely things you said about me, and send a copy to my family. Then
perhaps they’ll really begin to appreciate me at last! No, dear, I’m not
making fun of you,—indeed I’m not! Honest Injun! Now I’ll tell you what
I read. I read all there was of the novel—”
“Oh, that idiotic old novel!” groaned Jean.
“It’s a fine old novel, and you must finish it! I’m wild to find out if
I marry Arthur de Lancy! Oh, Jean! Now I know who’s been leaving me
presents of candy and flowers all winter! It was Arthur!”
“Yes, it was Arthur,” said Jean laughing, and she hid her face in the
pillow.
“You rogue!” cried Carol. “Please tell him the flowers were perfectly
lovely, and he always picked out my favorite kinds of candy. I read the
_odes_ to myself, too,” she went on, “and my head’s so turned I’ll never
get it straight again! And I read most of the poems; and, dearie, I
never heard anything so pathetic as some of them! Jean, dear, have you
really been so lonely and homesick all this time?”
“Oh, I’m dreadfully homesick! You see I never was away from mother, even
for a night, till I came to school.”
“You poor little thing; it must be fearfully hard for you! And coming
all the way from Brazil! It’s very different from being able to go home
every vacation like the rest of us! We ought to have a good shaking,
every one of us, for not joining together and petting you. But you
sha’n’t be lonely any more—no, you sha’n’t! Now, dear, tell me, for I’m
puzzled to death. How did you ever come to choose _me_, and talk as if I
really were your best friend, and write all those beautiful things to
me?”
“I did want a friend so,” Jean answered. “I mean a real intimate friend.
Every girl in school has one except me, and it hurts so to be left out!
I don’t mean the girls aren’t friendly enough, but they all have their
own chums, and I don’t like to push myself in. I _can’t_ make friends
somehow! And so I thought if I couldn’t have a real friend, I could play
I had one, anyway. And I thought I’d rather have _you_ than any one else
in the world. You’re so beautiful, and—”
“Jean! You have the _wildest_ imagination!”
“But you _are_ beautiful; all the girls think so.”
“They _don’t_.”
“They _do_. And then you’re so—so sort of splendid, you know!”
“Oh, mercy!” gasped Carol. “No, I _don’t_ know! I’m anything but
splendid!”
“Well, you _are_ splendid. And I just imagined you were my best friend.
You know if you imagine hard enough, you can make anything seem true.
And,—please don’t think me a perfect goose,—sometimes I pretend we’re
having lovely times together. I can stop homesick fits that way.”
“Jean, darling,” said Carol. “Why didn’t you come right to me? Then we
really would have had lovely times together. But how was I to know you
wanted me, when you never came near me?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to bother with a little snip like me. You’re
so high up, you know!”
“Please just where between heaven and earth do I hang?” Carol inquired.
“Oh, well, you know what I mean. You’re president of the senior class,
and you’re so popular; everybody just adores you! Carol, do you think
I’m terribly crazy and queer?”
“I think you’re a darling,” said Carol, and kissed her. “And I think we
were a set of horrid, old, blind bats not to see you needed looking
after! And I think I want to have you for my friend just as much as you
want me for yours, so we’ll turn the make-believe into real, won’t we?
Just you come right straight to _me_, whenever you want me. Will you,
dear?”
For answer Jean raised herself in bed and flung her arms around Carol’s
neck.
“The real _me_ isn’t half as nice as the make-believe,” said Carol, “but
I’ll do the best I can.”
“You’re a million times nicer!” declared Jean. “But won’t you get tired
of me?” she added. “I’ll want to be coming to you all the time.”
“Very well, come all the time,” said Carol. “Come and tell your ‘best
friend’ all your troubles, and I’ll pet you up. I think everybody needs
some one to tell troubles to.”
“I’m sure _I_ do,” sighed Jean. “I always had mother at home; but
here,—why, I can’t even write them to her, because she’s such an invalid
now, and she’d worry. Oh, I’m so glad I can tell _you_! I have such
stacks of troubles, all the time! Something goes wrong about every day.
I have such a dreadful temper!”
“Nobody else ever had one, you know!” remarked Carol.
“Nobody ever had such a dreadful one. I get so furious, I don’t know
what I’m saying or doing,—as I did to-day!”
“Shake hands, Jeanie, I’m a terrible pepper-pot, myself!” said Carol.
“Carol! I don’t believe it! I _know_ you’re always perfectly lovely.”
“‘Distance lends enchantment,’” quoted Carol. “Wait till you know me
better.”
“Do you really mean you have a quick temper too?” asked Jean, delighted
to find this link between herself and Carol.
“Indeed I have! Why, Fräulein Bunsen named me the ‘Storm Child,’ the
first year I came here.”
“Storm Child?” exclaimed Jean.
“Yes. I was only fourteen when I came, and I skylarked straight through
my first year. I used to get into tempers, too; and once there was a
blizzard raging out-of-doors, and little Carol Armstrong was raging away
indoors, and Fräulein Bunsen came out from her German class just then,
and she said: ‘You are like that tempest, liebchen! I shall call you the
_Sturm Kind_—the Storm Child.’ She said it in the cunningest way. But it
made me feel so ashamed of myself that I did try to hold my tongue after
that.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t call you that now,” said Jean.
“Oh, yes, she does! It’s her pet name for me. And I call her ‘Bunny.’
Little Fräulein and I are regular chums.”
“I think you’d better call _me_ Storm Child. It exactly suits me,” said
Jean.
“I’ll name you ‘Storm Child the Second,’” replied Carol. “Now, Storm
Child the Second, next time you feel tempestuous, just come and pay
Storm Child the First a visit; because, you see, I know just how hard it
is to keep from blazing out.”
“I will!” and Jean squeezed her friend’s hand tight.
“Well, have we talked it all out, or are there any more troubles that
want to be told?” asked Carol, as Jean lay silent.
“There’s a great big trouble.”
“A great big trouble! Well, let’s hear it.”
“Why, one reason I felt so terribly was because we were getting up an
order. I started it. It was the Order of the Silver Sword.” And won to
confidence Jean poured out the story of the band of battle maids who
were to conquer by love, and of her own miserable defeat.
“Oh, just think of my talking so hard about Caritas, and then being so
bad and wicked the next minute! I’ll have to give it all up! I’ve ruined
everything,” she ended, with a choke in her voice. “I won’t dare to say
a word about the Silver Sword again, ever! They’ll think I didn’t mean
what I said! Oh, dear! I wish I needn’t ever see the girls again!”
“Why, Battle Maid, are you going to cry ‘Quarter’ as easily as all
that?” said Carol, cheerily. “You’ve only been unhorsed in the first
fight, and that was always happening to the knights, wasn’t it? They
were unhorsed, and then they got up again and fought on foot, didn’t
they? That’s what you’ll have to do. Now, you’re up! Now go for the
enemy again with your silver sword. You’ll beat him next time!”
“But they won’t want me in the order after the way I behaved,” said
Jean.
“Won’t they? You ought to see how the girls are all up in arms for you!
I pity those poor Mice when they come out of their hole! Why,
everybody’s on your side!”
“I thought I’d spoiled the whole order,” said Jean with a sigh of
relief.
“No, indeed, you haven’t. And Jean, dear, I’m just as sure as sure can
be that you’ll conquer in the end, with Caritas for your sword.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Jean wistfully.
“I _know_ you will. And I know your order is going to do ever so much
good in the school. It’s a splendid idea of yours: the sword of love and
the shield of truth! They’re just the things that are needed, I’m sure.
And I’m sure a girl like you, who can think of an order like the Silver
Sword, can be a fine influence in her class. You don’t know how much
good you can do, Jean!”
“Carol! not really! Do you think there’s a _chance_?”
“Indeed you can,” said the president of the seniors. “You have no idea
what an influence one single girl can have if she stands up steadily for
what’s right.”
A step sounded in the hall just then. The door opened,—and there stood
Miss Carlton herself.
“Jean, my little girl!” she said softly. “Why, Carol—are _you_ here!” as
Carol turned on the light.
“Miss Carlton, Jean’s sick with a bad headache,” Carol explained.
“My poor child! It often ends so, doesn’t it?” said Miss Carlton. She
bent down and kissed Jean, then took Carol’s place by the bedside.
“I’m sorry I broke the rules,” said Jean. “I lost my head when I found
we were locked in.”
“I’m sorry you could not control yourself better, dear,” said Miss
Carlton. “If you had waited quietly as Cecily did, this trouble would
not have come. Now tell me exactly how it all happened.”
Jean began to explain, but her vague remarks about looking for something
in Frances’ and Adela’s room, and her hesitation and distress made Miss
Carlton turn to Carol and ask her if she could finish the story. Carol
could and did, with no qualms of conscience about bringing the Mice to
justice.
“My child, you have had a hard trial to-day,” said Miss Carlton, when
she had heard it all. “Frances and Adela have done a very wrong and
dishonorable thing, and one which they will be heartily sorry for. And
when they come to make their peace with you, as they will have to do,
you must meet them more than halfway, as we say, and treat them like the
warmhearted, generous girl that you are.”
“I told them I’d never forgive them,” whispered Jean, penitently. “I was
so angry!”
“Ah, little girl,” said Miss Carlton, “we can never unsay the things our
bad tempers make us say. But cheer up, now, for I am trying to help you
fight your battle, and I fancy Carol is too.” Bending over the tired
girl for a good-night kiss, she added: “And wait till the house is on
fire before you let your nervous fears send you on the roof again. Poor
Miss Sargent is trembling still, I’m afraid.”
“I _am_ going to be good, now; I _will_ be good,” answered Jean softly,
with a grateful kiss in return.
While Jean rested contentedly on her pillow, Carol followed Miss Carlton
into the hall.
“Miss Carlton, I ought to confess,” said she with more glee than
repentance in her face, “I’m here without permission.”
“I thought so, Carol,” replied Miss Carlton. “But I understand. I know
your loving heart could not resist going to comfort that poor little
lonely girl. Carol, you have won Jean’s admiration and love, and I
believe you can help her a great deal in the battle she has to fight.
Will you take her for your little sister for the rest of the year?”
CHAPTER V.
THE QUEEN OF THE SILVER SWORD
Jean awoke on Sunday morning conscious that she was making a fresh start
in her life at Hazelhurst with the real Carol Armstrong for her friend.
She found Carol waiting for her as the girls were going to breakfast,
and they entered the dining-room with their arms around each other.
Breakfast over, the Mice made for their hole with speed. They had seen
Miss Carlton’s eye turn ominously in their direction.
The Orioles drew Jean into their nest. “Joan of Arc,” said Cecily, “what
do you think we girls did last night? We held a meeting and elected
officers for the Silver Sword! And Betty’s to be Princess of the
Treasure, and I’m Princess of the Scroll, and _you_’re the Queen!”
“Me!” exclaimed Jean, astonished quite out of good English.
“Yes, you! You’ve been unanimously elected.”
“But I’m not good enough! I behaved so dreadfully!” stammered Jean. “I
shouldn’t think you’d want me to belong to the order at all! _You_ ought
to be the Queen, Cecily; you’re so sweet and good all the time! You’d
make a splendid one.”
“I wouldn’t at all, and I’m not sweet and good a bit!” declared St.
Cecilia. “You’re the Queen and you can’t help yourself!”
“You’ll make the best queen of all, Jean. You know how to plan things so
beautifully. If we don’t have you, we won’t have anybody! We’ll give up
the order! There now!” This was Betty’s ultimatum.
Jean looked at her friends as if she could not believe that it was
true,—this honor after her wrathful outburst. Then she dropped her eyes
to hide a gathering mist, and while she stood silent, with bent head,
she took a strong resolve to prove herself worthy of her crown.
In the afternoon, as Jean was sitting at her desk writing her “home
letter,” Frances and Adela came to her, fresh from a penitential half
hour in Miss Carlton’s study. Adela drummed on the desk, her cheeks
crimson. Frances took up Jean’s pencils and examined them one after
another as if she found them very interesting. It was Jean who spoke
first.
“Girls, I said hateful things to you, yesterday—I was so angry! I’m
very, very sorry. Won’t you please forgive me?”
“Good gracious! You’re the one to do the forgiving!” burst out Frances.
“It was perfectly horrid of us to go and take your book! I’m terribly
sorry! Won’t you please forgive _me_?”
“Of course I will!” Jean raised her face as Frances bent over her, and
they marked the victory of Caritas with a kiss of peace.
“I’m sorry, too, Jean! I didn’t think you’d mind so. And I wouldn’t have
locked you in, only you seared me to death. Will you forgive me too?”
asked Adela.
“Of course!” answered Jean. She took Adela’s hand, gave it a hearty
squeeze, and held it fast.
As they were going away Frances dropped a kiss on the back of Jean’s
neck, and Adela said thoughtfully, “You’ll make a fine queen!”
The initiation ceremony of the order took place on the following
Saturday evening. The maids of honor trooped into the studio to find a
royal trio awaiting them. There, in an armchair for a throne, sat their
sovereign, in her hand a real sword, a revolutionary heirloom lent by
Miss Carlton. The princesses of the Scroll and the Treasure stood beside
her, Cecily holding a roll of paper and Betty a white silk bag tied with
yellow ribbon, as their symbols of office.
The queen rose and welcomed her maidens in a little speech, carefully
prepared. Then she called the two princesses to receive the accolade.
They knelt before her, and Jean struck Cecily lightly on the shoulder
with the blade that had been drawn for liberty, saying, “I dub thee
battle maid of the Order of the Silver Sword. Be always faithful to the
sword of love and the shield of truth!” Then she pinned on Cecily’s
breast a badge painted by the princess of the Scroll herself,—the sword
of silver on the shield of gold. “Rise, battle maid!” she said, and
Cecily arose, the first warrior maiden of the order. The princess of the
Treasure was next given the accolade, then each maid of honor in turn,
and last of all the queen herself received it, the two princesses, one
after the other, touching her shoulder with the sword.
When every girl in the room had become a battle maid, with the gold and
silver badge on her breast, Cecily opened her scroll and read aloud the
laws of the order; and the initiation over, Jean said, “Princesses and
maids of honor, welcome to our royal banquet!”
Betty and Cecily removed a screen and displayed the painting-table
festooned with smilax, upon it a feast of cake and lemonade. The banquet
was beginning when there was a knock at the door, and Frances ran to
open it. “Ice cream!” she cried, and in came Carol and Eunice, each
carrying a tray with saucers of ice cream in the form of fruits and
flowers. “An offering to the noble Order of the Silver Sword!” said
Carol. She and Eunice set down their contribution; then, curtseying low,
they retired amid cheers for the president of the seniors and her
room-mate.
The order had an auspicious beginning, with such allies; and among the
battle maids there awoke that evening a spirit of firm loyalty to the
queen, to one another, and to the sword and shield.
* * * * *
Some good fighting was done between the initiation night and
Commencement week. If a pupil or a teacher was ill “Caritas” was sure to
be drawn in her behalf, and she received a cheery present of flowers
“with best wishes from the Silver Sword.” And from the founding of the
order Miss Carlton dated a marked improvement in the standing of Jean’s
class. To be sure Adela’s Latin exercises were faultier than they had
sometimes been, but they were at least the work of her own brains.
No one fought more valiantly than Jean herself, for when she least
expected him that fiery old enemy of hers was certain to challenge her
to combat. Sometimes the sword was not drawn in time; but whenever she
was overthrown, there, ready to help her to her feet again, was Carol,
who had been through many a hard battle and knew just how to encourage
the disheartened queen. And little by little the enemy was mastered;
more and more easily he yielded; less and less often the battle maid had
to own defeat; and another and another victory was gained.
The Easter vacation was a season of sunshine, when Jean was so happy
that it seemed as if the foe had declared a truce. Not the least of her
trials was her great-aunt, Mrs. Pyncheon, with whom her holidays were to
be passed. The Christmas at Adamsville might as well have been spent in
a grave-yard, she declared. But Carol saved her from a gloomy
Easter-tide by taking her off to New York to spend the vacation in the
Armstrongs’ home. Jean never forgot that delightful visit, and refreshed
by the glorious holiday she came back to school to work with new
enthusiasm for prizes at Commencement.
The battle maids toiled hard for love of their Alma Mater, but still
they had time to give a play for the benefit of their society. Early in
May they acted a dramatization of “The Rose and the Ring.” Jean made a
captivating Prince Giglio in a white suit trimmed with cherry-color, a
mantle bordered with swan’s-down and a cap with a snowy ostrich plume.
Cecily was the Princess Rosalba; and whether in peasant dress, serving
as the housemaid Betsinda, or in her pink court robe with flowers in her
hair, standing in her true character as a maiden of royal blood, so
lovely was she that no magic rose or ring was needed to help her conquer
the hearts of the spectators. Betty, in her great-grandmother’s blue
brocade, was the Princess Angelica, haughty and capricious; weighty
Blanche, in the role of Prince Bulbo, looked her part to perfection; and
Frances, who had insisted on being the severe Countess Gruffanuff,
brought down the house again and again. The play was pronounced by the
enthusiastic audience a brilliant success; Prince Giglio and the fair
Rosalba were acknowledged to be the brightest stars in the whole troupe;
and at the end of the evening the battle maids found themselves rich
enough to order the gold and silver badges which they had determined
should replace the paper ones.
And now Commencement was less than a month away. One afternoon, as Carol
and Eunice were studying for their senior examinations, Jean came into
their room, bringing a bunch of wild violets for her “Big Sister,” as
she loved to call her friend. Carol stole a minute from the classics to
enjoy the bit of spring freshness, and Jean dropped down beside her on
the divan.
“Carolie,” she said, “isn’t it just too bad! Cecily’s had the biggest
disappointment!”
“What’s happened?” asked Carol. “I _thought_ she looked like a funeral
to-day.”
“Why, she can’t go to Halcyon Lake this summer. They have to rent their
camp. She’s just had a letter from her mother.”
“Where’s Halcyon Lake? I never heard of it,” said Carol.
“It’s in the Adirondacks,” answered Jean. “It’s way back in the woods.
They have the loveliest camp there, right on the edge of the lake! They
sleep in tents! It used to be a boys’ camp. Her father was a minister,
you know, and he used to take up youngsters from Philadelphia. And since
he died Cece and her mother have gone up just by themselves; but now
some people want the camp for the summer, and her mother says she’s got
to let them have it, because she needs the money so much.”
“Why, I didn’t know the Brooks were poor!” exclaimed Carol.
“Yes, they are. And Cecily says Miss Carlton’s educating her for
nothing, because she was her mother’s best friend. Oh, dear! I think
it’s a real shame they have to rent their camp! An uncle of hers has a
little camp there too, and she has such fun with her cousins! They canoe
all day, and have picnics and camp-fires and everything!”
“I’d like to go there, myself, for the canoeing,” interrupted Carol. “I
have the dearest little canoe! Poor little St. Cecilia! I don’t wonder
she looked ultramarine! It’s too bad she can’t go! Camping out’s the
only proper way to spend a summer, _I_ think.”
Her eyes wandered to the stretch of sunny landscape that could be seen
from her open window. Suddenly she whistled; then she sprang up and
clapped her hands. “Queenie, I’ve hit it!” she cried. “My mighty brain
has evolved a scheme. The fortunes of the Brooks are made forever! We’ll
have a _girls’_ camp!”
“Carolie, what do you mean?” Jean was on her feet too, all excitement.
“A girls’ camp it is!” said Carol, “Una, wake up! You’ll get blind if
you fuss over that Greek any longer! The cream of Hazelhurst Hall
is going to camp out all summer at Halcyon Lake,—sleep in
tents,—fish,—hunt,—canoe!”
“What _are_ you rattling on about?” asked Eunice, looking vaguely up
from her Greek.
“Una, put down that book this instant!” Carol commanded. “Do you hear
me? Obey your president! I’m not going to let you study any more; you’ll
be valedictorian anyway, so what’s the use of working yourself into
nervous prostration! Now listen,—don’t put on that patient expression!”
“Go ahead! Chatter away! You won’t keep still till you’ve said your say
out, I suppose,” Eunice answered resignedly.
Carol repeated the story of Cecily’s disappointment. “Now,” said she,
“Mrs. Brook has to rent her camp because she needs the money. Well, if
she gets the money and stays there too, so much the better. Now it’s all
settled! The whole senior class and all the other _nice_ girls are going
to board at her camp all summer. Let’s telegraph to her; ‘Don’t rent.
Your fortune’s made!’”
“Oh, Carolie, how perfectly glorious!” screamed Jean, with a jump of
delight.
“Well, you certainly are an inventive genius!” said Eunice. “I suppose
there’s not the slightest chance our families will want us to be with
them this summer!”
“Our families will be only too glad to be rid of us,” replied Carol.
“Now, don’t talk about visiting your married sister, Una. If she knows
you as well as I do, she won’t want you. You’re not to be trusted with
your baby niece. You’d carry the poor darling around as if she were a
dictionary, and absent-mindedly stuff her into a bookshelf.”
Eunice laughed. “I think it’s a perfectly ideal plan,” she said. “But
I’m afraid we couldn’t collect enough girls.”
“We can, we must, we shall, we _will_ collect them!” declared Carol.
“We’ll boom ‘Camp St. Cecilia-by-the-Lake’ so hard we’ll fill it in less
than no time. There won’t even be standing room left! You’re coming, you
know, Jeanie.”
“Oh, oh! I’d love to go!” cried Jean. “Then I’d be with _you_, all
summer! If only I can get off from visiting Aunt Lucretia!”
“She’ll _have_ to let you off,” said Carol. “I’m going to steal you for
the summer, wherever I am. But we’ll get to camp. We’ll have shoals of
girls,—don’t you worry!”
“I wonder how many we could get together,” said Eunice.
“Well, there’s Marion,” said Carol. “She’d love to go! It would be such
a chance for her to sketch. And there are Nan and the wild, woolly
Westover—we can count on them, they’re so daft about fishing. That’s six
already. Let’s call a class meeting this evening, Una, and start the
Halcyon Lake boom.”
The camping project was advertised with signal success. Miss Carlton,
herself, favored the plan, and she as well as radiant Cecily wrote to
Mrs. Brook, whose answer was an offer to take as many girls as the tents
would hold, and the assurance that she would give up all thought of
renting her camp. If parental consent could have been gained by all the
damsels who had caught the camping fever, Mrs. Brook would have found
nearly the whole school begging for accommodation, but many were doomed
to disappointment. At last, however, seventeen girls were enrolled, with
Miss Hamersley, the teacher of athletics, and Fräulein Bunsen, as the
chaperones of the party. There were Carol and Eunice and four more
seniors, six juniors, and four “sophs.” Last on the list came Betty
Randolph, she and Cecily being the only members of the order as yet
represented. Jean still waited to know her destiny. She had sent an
eloquent appeal to her mother and father imploring them to allow her to
go to camp, but the letter had to travel all the way to Brazil, and
while in a fever of impatience she watched for the answer to come, she
was haunted with the dread of spending the summer with Aunt Lucretia
Pyncheon.
Commencement Day arrived, bringing diplomas and prizes. The battle maids
reaped a rich harvest after their months of hard fighting, and wore for
the first time their new badges, tiny gold and silver clasp-pins, in the
form of shields crossed by swords and bearing the motto “Caritas et
Veritas.” On that day of triumph Jean won both the English and the Latin
prizes, but there was a cloud upon her happiness, for still no word had
come from Brazil.
The play of Romeo and Juliet, given by the older girls, brought the
Commencement festivities to a close. Eunice was the golden-haired Juliet
of the evening, and Carol, in cloak and tunic of deep red velvet, was
the dashing Romeo. The play over, the actors reappeared on the stage to
bow to the audience and to receive their bouquets. Jean brought Romeo a
bunch of Jacqueminot roses as a love-token, and what was her
astonishment when he dropped on one knee before her, and, doffing his
plumed cap to the ground, presented his sword, on the point of which he
had just placed a bouquet of pink sweet peas and—a _cablegram_! The
message was from her father and said, “Jean may go to camp.”
CHAPTER VI.
CAMP HUAIRARWEE
Early one bright, fresh morning, a fortnight after Commencement, the
Albany station was invaded by a troop of girls, laden with a variety of
outing gear. Nancy Newcomb and Helen Westover, who headed the band,
carried bundles of fishing rods. Marion Gaylord was armed with a
canoe-paddle, and Eunice had a field-glass slung over her shoulder. Hope
Lamont, Ruth Whitney, Dorothy Stone and Olive Spencer carried kodaks.
Gladys Pearson, Winifred Russell and Ethel Merryman had caddy bags.
Katrina Van Horn and Louise Phillips each had a guide-basket, and Grace
Gardner, Pamela Kirkland, Betty and Jean swung tennis rackets. As for
Carol, she had evidently taken up the professions of troubadour and
musketeer, for in one hand she bore a mandolin case and in the other a
rifle. She seemed to be acting as body-guard to little Fräulein Bunsen,
who, with Miss Hamersley, had brought the merry maidens by the night
boat from New York.
Five minutes later another traveler entered the station, a little gipsy
in a jaunty suit, followed by a dignified looking gentleman, no doubt
her father.
“Frisky!” “Frances!” Betty and Jean rushed to meet the newcomer.
“Ach, but we shall have a summer of pranks, if the little Mouse is to go
to camp!” exclaimed Fräulein Bunsen in some dismay.
“Shall I fire?” Carol demanded. “We’d better nip her pranks in the bud.”
Frances dashed straight for the girls and proclaimed triumphantly, “I’m
going to camp! It’s because of the whooping-cough!”
“Good gracious, child! Go away from _me_, then!” cried Nancy, and there
was a general backing away from the Mouse.
“Oh. I’m not catching!” said Frances. “I was away visiting when my small
brother came down with it, and I can’t go home for fear I’ll get it. So
Daddy telegraphed to Mrs. Brook, and I’m going with you! Isn’t it too
jolly! My! but I had to scramble to get off! Dick only began to whoop
day before yesterday. Wasn’t he a lamb to catch it? Oh, isn’t it
splendid I can go!”
“Perfectly fine, Mousie!” said Jean. “It’ll be stacks of fun to have
you! Now there’ll be four of us battle maids together all summer.”
A few minutes more and they were all in the parlor-car, rolling out of
the station on their way to the Adirondacks. They left the train in the
cool of the afternoon, and the mountain-wagons sent to meet them carried
them miles away from the railroad to the shores of Halcyon. It was in
the rosy light of sunset that they had their first glimpse of the
beautiful lake, with its fringe of woods and its encircling hills. But
it was only a glimpse, for the next moment they turned into the darkness
of the forest road again.
“Carolie!”
“Madam!”
“I’m thinking up a poem about the lake,” said Jean, “and I want to know
if it sounds right.” And she recited softly to her confidant:
Light-winged clouds in the blue arch o’er us,
Mirrored in sapphire depths below;
Yonder forest-crowned isle before us,—
Merrily over the lake we go!
“That’s a darling verse,” said Carol. “I thought genius must be burning,
you kept so quiet.” Encouraged by this, Jean went on:
A fire-opal, the lake at sundown,
Wrapped round by velvety sable firs.
Fleet-footed fawns the hillsides run down,
To drink of the water that no wave stirs.
“Magnificent, Jean! But why don’t you make it gray squirrel?”
“Gray squirrel?” Jean repeated, wonderingly.
“Yes, you dressed your lake up in sable fur, didn’t you? And I thought
gray squirrel wouldn’t be so extravagant.”
“Carolie! how hateful of you! Oh, pshaw! it _does_ sound as if my lake
had a muff and a boa! I’ll have to fix it. You don’t mind ‘_run down_,’
do you? I do. I hate it, but I had to get something to rhyme with
_sundown_.”
“Oh, I like ‘_run down_,’” said Carol. “It shows the fawns were
athletic.”
“You needn’t make fun of it! It’s terrific, trying to make poetry when
you’re going jigglety-bounce every minute,” said Jean. “Wait a minute!
Let me think.” A pause, and then, “How’s this?” she asked:
“A fire-opal the lake is gleaming,
Lit with flame from the golden skies.
It burns while nature is hushed and dreaming,
This gem that deep in the forest lies.”
Carol considered that this might be handed down in American literature,
but before Jean could introduce the fawns gracefully there came a
surprise that sent rhyming out of her head.
Suddenly a light shone out in the gloom; a sharp bark was heard, and a
large dog bounded into the road and rushed almost under the wheels of
the first wagon.
“Rod! Rod! come here!” called a familiar voice, and the leading
carriage-load saw standing at the side of the way a girl in white
holding a lantern.
“Cecily! Cecily!” chorused six glad voices. There was a medley of happy
greetings, and before the horses could stop Jean had made a daring
spring from one side and Frances from the other. The next minute Betty,
Carol, Eunice and Nancy were with them; Cecily was flying from one to
another, and the whole seven were laughing and talking at once.
“Roderick Dhu and I have been waiting perfect ages! I thought you’d
never come! Oh, it’s so lovely to have you here!” cried Cecily.
“It’s so lovely to _be_ here!” returned Jean. “You darling, beautiful
old doggy! Stay still and let me pet you!” And she went down on her
knees to fondle the shaggy collie.
“Now I’m going to take you up through the labyrinth,” said Cecily, when
the other divisions of the party had joined them, and she had welcomed
every one. “The carriages have to go way around and you’d be joggled all
to pieces. Roderick, old boy! lead the way!”
“What’s the labyrinth?” asked Jean.
“It’s the foot-path up to camp. We call it that because the trail winds
and winds all sorts of ways and tangles you all up,” Cecily explained.
She parted the overhanging boughs by the wayside, and disclosed a path
leading, so it seemed, into the very heart of the forest.
“Oh, how good the woods smell! Isn’t it delicious!” The girls sniffed
and drew deep breaths as they set out on the trail.
“It’s just like going through a tunnel! I love the labyrinth!” said
Jean, delighted with the winding, perplexing path.
“But where _is_ the lake?” asked Betty.
“And where’s the camp?” asked Frances.
“Just a little way ahead,” said Cecily, flitting on like a
will-o’-the-wisp with her lantern, “but if I ran away from you, you
wouldn’t find your way if you tried all night.”
“Where _are_ we? Where _are_ we?” cried girl after girl.
“Where _are_ we?” mimicked Cecily. “That’s what everybody always says.
We’ll come out on Camp Hide-and-Seek in just a minute.”
“Is that its name?” asked Betty.
“I call it that,” said Cecily. “It’s real name is not a bit appropriate
now,—‘Black Bear Camp!’ The boys we had here named it that because once
a bear really did come into our woods, but we’ve never seen one from
that day to this. I wish somebody would think up a new name.”
“Call it ‘Camp Where-are-we,’ if that’s what everybody says,” Carol
suggested.
“That’s just the thing!” cried Cecily.
“And spell it some crazy way,” proposed Jean.
The new name met with general approbation, and by the time that it had
been decided to spell it “Huairarwee,” the trail ended. The girls
stepped out of the thick woods and found themselves in a grove of
birches on a little bluff above the lake. A camp-fire was blazing on a
great rock and in its light they saw a line of white tents, a bungalow
built of logs, and, below, a rustic boat-house and a dock.
“Mother! Mo-ther! Here we are!” sang Cecily.
“Welcome to camp!” answered a clear, sweet voice, and Mrs. Brook came
out of the bungalow and gave the girls a motherly greeting.
“Come and have a peep at the tents,” said she, “and then we’ll have
supper. It’s just ready.”
“Isn’t it fun!” said Cecily. “We’re to sleep three or four in a tent!”
There were eight tents, built on platforms well raised above the ground,
and connected by a narrow veranda. The furniture consisted of cots and
camp-stools, and chintz-covered boxes for wash-stands and
dressing-tables.
“Cecily has planned out just how you girls are to sleep,” said Mrs.
Brook. “She says Miss Armstrong and Miss Stanley and Miss Newcomb are
inseparable friends, so we’ll put them together in this first tent.”
“Jolly!” said Carol. “But please, Mrs. Brook, don’t ‘_Miss_’ us,—except
when we’re away.”
“No, please call us by our first names. We want to be your summer
daughters,” said Eunice.
“And so you shall be,—all of you,” answered Mrs. Brook heartily.
She had not forgotten her own girlhood, and was ready with quick
sympathy to win the love and confidence of her young guests.
“I’ll let you call her Motherling,” said Cecily. “It’s my pet name for
her.” And Mrs. Brook was adopted as mother by the whole camp.
“Now for the four maids of the ‘Silver Sword,’” said she, when Carol,
Eunice, and Nancy had taken possession of their tent. “I’m going to put
you next door.” She led the way to the second tent in which were four
cozy cots.
Hardly had the travelers been installed in their tents when a horn
sounded, calling them to supper in the bungalow. Japanese lanterns,
hanging from the stag’s head over the door, shed a soft light over the
bungalow veranda, and a brighter glow welcomed the girls as they entered
the “living-room” where a magnificent fire of spruce-logs leaped up the
rough brick chimney. They found themselves in what might have been the
interior of a hunter’s lodge. Antlers and deers’ heads adorned the walls
here and there, fox skins and a bearskin lay on the floor, and in one
corner a stuffed raccoon glared at the company with his yellow glass
eyes. Weather-stained fence-boards, beautiful with silvery lichen,
formed the mantel-shelves, which were decorated with bright-colored
fungi and balloon-like hornets’ nests, a stuffed blue heron, with wings
outspread, presiding over the whole. The living-room was parlor and
dining-room combined, and there stood the table decked with ferns, and
beside it a pretty, dark-eyed French-Canadian waitress smiling
hospitably on the guests.
Nothing had ever tasted so good as that delicious supper of broiled
chicken, waffles, crisp lettuce, and strawberries and cream; and it was
followed by an enchanting twilight hour down by the water’s edge. The
girls gathered around “Camp-fire Rock” and fed their cheery blaze with
logs, a cloud of golden sparks shooting up whenever they threw on more
fuel. The lake grew black; the stars came out to laugh with the laughing
group below; the weird cry of a hoot-owl kept piercing the evening hush.
A sense of possession thrilled the girls. This camp was theirs, the lake
was theirs, those dark, mysterious woods were theirs; they were far away
from the outer world, hidden in their own forest fairy-land.
Drowsiness came at length, and drove the campers back to their tents,
and the last murmurs of conversation and the last sparks of the fire on
the rock died out at about the same time.
“Isn’t it too perfect for anything to sleep in a tent, just like
soldiers!” said Jean from her cot.
“It’s just the thing for battle maids!” said Cecily. “Oh, dear!
Mammykins said we mustn’t stay awake talking!”
“All right, good-night!” cried sleepy Frances. “Larks to-morrow, girls!”
“Good-night,” said Betty, yawning. “Oh, Cece, just tell me,—_Halcyon_’s
Indian, isn’t it?”
“No, ma’am! It’s poetical for kingfisher. There are lots of kingfishers
here,” answered Cecily.
“And ‘halcyon days’ means happy days, doesn’t it?” said Jean, “and this
is just the happiest, loveliest place in the world!”
“It’s the right place to live,” said Cecily. “You’ll be as roly-poly as
Betty before you go home! But you’re looking perfectly fine, now! Do you
know you’re getting real pretty?”
“Pretty!” Jean repeated in amazement.
“Yes, indeed you are,” said the young artist. “You have such a dear
little color in your cheeks! It’s ever so becoming. That two weeks with
Carol did you ever so much good.”
“I had such a splendid time! The Armstrongs are just too dear,—and
Carolie’s the dearest of all!” said Jean, whom her Big Sister had once
more rescued from a visit to Aunt Lucretia Pyncheon. Cecily’s compliment
put the climax to her felicity, and murmuring drowsily, “Oh, I’m so
happy!” Jean lay with the cool sweet air touching her forehead with a
good-night kiss.
CHAPTER VII.
HOW THE QUEEN SAVED A HALCYON’S LIFE
A glorious mountain day, clear as crystal, breezy and cool, greeted the
girls as they stepped out of their tents next morning. After the merry
breakfast in the bungalow, Frances and Betty seized their rackets and
joined Pamela Kirkland and Grace Gardner in a game of tennis on the
court which Cecily said that her cousins, the Hamiltons, had laid out
for the campers. Most of the older girls turned to their unpacking as a
tiresome business to be rushed through as early as possible; but the
spell of the woods and water was on Carol and she sallied forth leaving
her trunk to be emptied at a more convenient season. She found Jean
sitting on the veranda with only Roderick Dhu for company:
“What’s the matter, Jeanie?” she asked. “Have your friends forsaken
you?”
“I’m waiting for Cece to get through helping her mother, but she’s so
busy I don’t believe she’ll be ready till dinner-time!” said Jean. “What
are you going to do, Carolie?”
“I’m going to steal a canoe and explore the lake. I can’t stay on shore
a minute longer,” answered Carol. “I’ll take you aboard if you’ll
promise to obey the captain’s orders.”
Jean was up in a flash. “Oh, Carolie, teach me to paddle!” she begged.
“I’m dying to learn!”
“All right, but I’ll have to teach you to stay still in a canoe first,
Miss Perpetual Motion, and when you’ve learned _that_, I’ll teach you
the stroke.”
They helped themselves to paddles from the boat-house. Carol chose a
gaily painted canoe and settled Jean in it luxuriously on the scarlet
cushions; then she took her place in the stern, and by her vigorous
strokes sent the little craft shooting away up the lake, over wavelets
that flashed with myriad suns and rocked them delightfully. Jean had
never been in a canoe before, and this swift gliding and gentle rocking
seemed the very poetry of motion.
Camp Huairarwee stood in one of the loveliest spots on the whole lake,
for there the broad sheet of water bowed out into a great emerald bay
set in a border of white and golden birches, spicy balsams, and towering
pines. Passing out of this wide basin the explorers discovered miniature
capes and inviting little coves, and found fresh beauty at every turn.
[Illustration: CAMP HUAIRARWEE.]
“Let me paddle now!” Jean coaxed, when lying at ease in the canoe had
lost the charm of novelty. “I’ve learned to sit still, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I think I could trust you to sit still even if a sea-serpent
bobbed up,” said Carol. “Wait, and I’ll paddle in toward shore; it’s too
rough out here.” They were abreast of a point of land and, as they left
it behind them, she swung the canoe around to enter the bay beyond.
“Oh, look!” cried Jean. “There’s a boy standing up in a canoe! Won’t he
go over?” Just ahead of them they saw a boy standing in his canoe,
balancing himself easily in spite of the wind-whipped water.
The lad looked about fifteen or sixteen. He was tall and slight,
fair-haired, but with arms as brown as an Indian’s. They passed his
canoe within a few paddles’ lengths, and the girls saw a well-bronzed
face, bright and frank and keen.
Carol and Jean glided into the little bay. The boy sat down in his canoe
and let it drift. As they neared the beach, they saw a kingfisher rise
and fly chattering away. The lad saw it too. He picked up a rifle from
the bottom of his canoe and took aim. His action was quick, the
“halcyon’s” flight was quick, and Jean’s righteous indignation was
quick.
“Don’t shoot that bird!” she screamed, and started as she screamed. Just
what else she did she could never afterward explain, but the next
instant she and Carol took an unpremeditated dive! Over went the canoe,
and into the cold water they plunged and made sudden acquaintance with
the bottom of the lake. Happily they were within their depth, and though
the water closed over their heads it was only for a moment. Carol
clutched Jean and tried to drag her up. Jean clutched Carol and in the
shock and fright pulled her under again. But they managed to struggle to
their feet, gasping, choking, coughing, spluttering. Their heads were
out of water, but Jean had to stand on tiptoe to keep her chin above the
surface. She could hardly have held herself up but for Carol’s arm
supporting her, and she clung to her friend’s neck, making it impossible
for her to move. But the boy who had started the mischief came to their
relief with lightning speed.
“Catch hold!” he cried, bringing the bow of his canoe up to them. They
caught it and raised themselves.
“Hold on tight!” he commanded, and Jean clung fast.
Carol, now free, struck out for herself, and swam and waded ashore, and
the young rescuer paddled with all his strength, and brought Jean safely
to the strip of beach. He jumped out and stood watching the girls
anxiously as they wrung out their skirts and regained their breath.
“Get our canoe—quick!” panted Carol.
“That’s right! I’m an old duffer!” said the boy, recalled to his duty.
Satisfied that the shipwrecked mariners did not require artificial
respiration, he reembarked and brought back their canoe, with the
paddles and cushions which had gone floating up the lake.
“I d-d-d-didn’t know the w-w-w-water was s-s-so cold!” said Jean through
chattering teeth. “H-h-how did it happen, anyway?”
“You took a flying leap, you crazy! Whatever possessed you?” returned
Carol wrathfully. “A little farther out and we’d both have been drowned,
with you pulling me down!”
“It was all _my_ fault,” said the boy penitently. “I’m awfully sorry!”
“We’ll have to go right straight back or we’ll catch our deaths,” said
Carol, shivering.
“You get into my canoe and let me paddle you back. We’ll tow yours,” the
lad proposed.
“Oh, thank you ever so much!” replied Carol. “But it would be too bad to
trouble you. We can go back alone perfectly well. We’re at Mrs. Brook’s
camp. That isn’t far. You’re not Dr. Hamilton’s son, Mrs. Brook’s
nephew, are you?”
“No, but I know the Hamiltons,” he answered, with a bright, winning
smile. “Look here! Let me take you there,—it’s just round that first
point, and Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Rose will give you some dry things.
Won’t you please? You’d better. That’s where I was just going, myself.
We’ll have the wind with us, and so you won’t get so chilled.”
“Oh, thank you,—I believe that’s the best thing to do,” said Carol.
“They’ll think we’re mermaids gone insane, but I can’t help it! We’ll
freeze if we try to go all the way back!”
“Oh, you mustn’t think of it! You’d be icicles by the time you got
back,” said the boy, and he tied the girls’ canoe to his.
“Well, I don’t care! I’m glad I stopped you from shooting that poor
bird, even if I did upset the canoe!” cried Jean.
“Why, I wasn’t really going to shoot,” he answered, with laughter in his
gray eyes. “My rifle wasn’t even loaded.”
“_Wasn’t_ it?” gasped Jean, and felt desperately foolish.
“There,—Queen of the Silver Sword!” laughed Carol. “You _have_ begun the
summer with a valorous deed!”
“I was only fooling. I’m awfully sorry I scared you!” the owner of the
rifle apologized. Anxious to make amends, he helped the girls into his
canoe and paddled hastily farther up the lake toward the Hamiltons’
camp.
“We forgot all about thanking you for saving us,” said Carol. “But we
_do_ thank you ever and ever so much. I don’t know what we should have
done without you!”
“You wouldn’t have capsized without me!” he replied with a chuckle.
“Oh, yes, we would; she’d have jumped overboard for something else!
Wouldn’t you, Queenie?” said Carol.
“But I don’t think I did anything,” poor Jean protested. “I just called
out, and the canoe went over.” And she did not know whether to enjoy the
thrill of adventure or be wretched with cold and mortification.
“Oh, dear! My beautiful new hair-ribbons!” she wailed, as she pulled off
two dripping wet strings,—a few minutes before, broad satin bows.
“Oh, my poor wig! it feels just like seaweed!” moaned Carol, wringing
out her sopping curly mop.
“Oo-ooh! I’m so cold!” Jean complained. “Why are you so much colder when
you go in all dressed than when you’re in your bathing-suit?”
“Maybe because it’s so unexpected,” replied Carol.
“What do you suppose they’ll say when we get back?” asked Jean, with
countenance forlorn.
“Oh, Jean, let’s not borrow trouble!” sighed Carol. But their thoughts
were soon diverted from the melancholy future.
Passing the next point, they saw on a breezy elevation—a tent with a
flag flying above it, and a bungalow. “There’s the Hamiltons’ camp,”
said the boy. “They call it Camp Hurricane.”
CHAPTER VIII.
DOUGLAS GORDON
Carol and Jean almost forgot their drenched plight in the interest of
seeing Camp Hurricane, as the boy who had rescued them headed the canoe
for the Hamiltons’ landing. Kneeling on the dock was a lad, whom they
guessed to be Jack Hamilton, busy giving an overturned skiff a fresh
coat of blue paint. Jack’s father, they knew, was a clergyman; and high
up the slope, above a dot of a bungalow, they saw the tiny chapel where
Cecily had told them that her uncle held service during the summer. In
contrast to the chapel the white tent near by, with “Old Glory” flying
over it, lent a military air to the place, and it looked as if a cavalry
manoeuver were going on in the clearing fenced off from the rest of the
grounds. Trotting briskly down the enclosure came a fine black horse, a
tall young fellow holding his halter and running beside the spirited
creature.
“Oh, what a beauty!” exclaimed Jean. Then she gave a cry of delight,
for, grasping the horse’s mane, the athletic six-footer had vaulted
lightly onto his back.
“He must belong to a cavalry troop—or a circus!” cried Carol.
“You’d think so, to see him!” said their new friend. “There isn’t
anything he can’t do with horses! He broke Cyclone, himself. That’s
Court,” he added. “He’s the older son. He’s a senior at Yale.” Then he
called to the boat-painter, “Hello, Jack!”
The boy turned, saw the canoe-load, and sprang to his feet. “Hello,
Douglas!” he called back.
“Say, Jack, these young ladies have been capsized, and they’ve got to
get some dry things. Can your mother help them out?”
“Surely! Come right up,” said Jack cordially. He was a sturdy fellow
about fifteen, with a pleasant, sunburned face.
“We’re from Mrs. Brook’s camp, and we’ve had the most ridiculous upset,”
laughed Carol, as the canoe touched the dock. “But we hate to trouble
Mrs. Hamilton. If she could let us have some wraps—we’re slightly cool!”
“Oh, Mother’ll fix you up—she loves to take care of people!” Jack hauled
in the canoe. “Say, Court!” he shouted, “here’s a ducking accident!”
His brother, now riding Black Cyclone bareback, had caught a glimpse of
the visitors, and had already slackened his pace. At Jack’s call he
dismounted, knotted the halter-rope around the horse’s neck, turned him
loose, and jumped the fence. Without stopping, he snatched up his coat
which lay on the grass, and came down to the dock at a double quick,
slipping on the coat as he ran, preceded by a rough Irish terrier and an
extremely loose-jointed and clumsy St. Bernard puppy, both dogs barking
a turbulent welcome. He collared the obstreperous puppy, as he joined
the girls, while Jack arrested the terrier.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Have you had a spill?”
“I should think we had!” said Carol. “But we’ve been heroically rescued
and our rescuer insisted on bringing us in here.”
“He brought you to the right port,” said Court heartily. “I’m sorry
you’ve had an upset, but I’m glad you came straight to us. Come up to
the bungalow. Are you staying with the Brooks?”
“Yes, we are,” answered Carol, “and so, as we’ve succeeded in almost
drowning ourselves by way of celebrating our first day here, we thought
the Hamiltons might take pity on us.”
“The Hamiltons are delighted to. We’re a regular Red Cross hospital. Go
ahead, Jack, and tell Mother to get ready for us.” Jack ran on and his
brother escorted the girls up the long steep slope.
“That darling horse,—just see him!” cried Jean. “He looks as if he
wanted to jump the fence and come to us.”
“He tries to squeeze into the bungalow sometimes. He follows me around
like a dog,” said Court. “I must apologize for the hurricane-like way I
came down to you just now,” he added with a laugh. “I’m afraid you
thought there was a Wild West show going on up there.”
“Oh, we enjoyed it immensely,” said Carol. “I never saw any one but a
cavalryman mount the way you did!”
“I was just having a little fun with Cyclone,” said the young man
modestly. “I broke him last summer, and he’s having a post-graduate
course this year.”
“Is he named Cyclone because he lives at Hurricane?” asked Jean.
“Yes. We’ve had him since he was a colt,—he’s a three-year-old. He came
from a stock farm up here—the owner’s a grouchy old chap, but Father won
his heart going to see him when he had a close call from pneumonia once,
and he gave us one of his colts in return.”
“He’s perfectly magnificent!” exclaimed Carol enthusiastically. “You’ll
have to introduce him to us before we go home. We love horses, don’t we,
Jean?”
“Yes, indeed,—and dogs, too,” said Jean, who was petting the puppy and
the terrier by turns. “What are the dogs named?”
“This one’s Blarney,” said Court. “He’s a paddy, and he knows how to
blarney, too, when he has a point to gain. And we call that fellow
Blunder, because he’s constantly mistaking our best shoes for
dog-biscuit.”
They had nearly reached the bungalow; beyond it was the chapel, and they
saw a sunny-haired young girl mounted on a ladder, training honeysuckle
vines to clamber around its one stained-glass window.
“There’s my sister Rose,” said Court. “Rose, come here!”
Rose turned her head, and seeing visitors, descended nimbly and hurried
to meet them. “Why, what _has_ happened? You’ve been upset!” was her
greeting. “Come right indoors and get warm. I’m so glad we have a fire
going!”
Just then a motherly-looking lady stepped out of the bungalow. “You poor
drowned children!” she exclaimed. “Come in and let me take care of you.”
She gave a hand to each bedraggled guest, and Carol and Jean found
themselves whisked into her bedroom.
“It’s ever so good of you to take us in,” said Carol. “It’s perfectly
disgraceful,—two saturated solutions of us coming down on you like this!
Please don’t think it’s a sample of the way we’re going to behave this
summer!”
“Oh, I know what girls are; they’re as hard to take care of as boys,”
said Mrs. Hamilton, laughing.
Before long Rose had fitted both girls out with dresses of her own, and
the shipwrecked maidens were sipping hot lemonade and toasting
themselves before the blazing pine knots in the bungalow.
When they came out again they found Court waiting to introduce them to
Cyclone. The black horse was really a splendid creature. He was full of
spirit and fire, but he condescended to show himself as gentle as a
zephyr to the two girls who stroked his velvet nose, and held his right
fore-hoof when at his master’s word he offered to “shake hands.”
Next Dr. Hamilton came out of his chapel to greet the visitors.
“I’m glad to welcome some of my sister’s guests so early,” said he. “You
had a narrow escape, didn’t you? but I’m glad to see you don’t look any
the worse for it. Come in and see my little church.”
He led them into the tiny building, which might have been the chapel of
the hunter-hermit, Saint Hubert, himself. But in striking contrast to
the bare boards of the walls and floor was its beautiful stained-glass
window. It showed a young crusader with the red cross on his shield and
his sword unsheathed in his hand. He was gazing upward at a beam of
pearly light breaking through the clouds, and his face was bright with a
look of victory. The morning sun poured through the window, the pearly
beam was dazzling, the cross shone ruby red, and the sword gleamed with
an almost blinding light.
“He’s finished his fighting, and has conquered, and now he’s going to
get his crown—I think he sees it in the heavenly light up there,”
thought Jean, and Dr. Hamilton noticed her earnest face.
“That’s a memorial to Cecily’s father,” he said. “Cecily puts fresh
flowers in front of it every Sunday.” He told her a little about the
noble life of the man in whose memory the crusader shone there, and he
glanced from the sword in the window to the silver one on Jean’s badge.
“You and Cecily each wear a sword, too, don’t you?” said he. “The sword
Caritas on the shield Veritas. I’m sure _you_’re each going to fight a
good fight with that sword and shield, too, and win the victory just as
that young crusader has won.”
Jean was too shy to do more than murmur a bashful, “I hope so,” but the
crusader with his shining sword had spoken his message, “Go forward,”
and the young queen turned away, carrying his memory in her heart.
It was now high time for the runaways to go home, and they went down to
the dock where Douglas and Jack were waiting. Court claimed the
privilege of paddling both girls back to the camp, but he was obliged to
share the honor.
“Douglas,” said Dr. Hamilton, “we’ll postpone your lessons and let you
take Miss Lennox home in your canoe.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Douglas.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll upset you?” asked Jean.
“No, because I sha’n’t scare you any more,” replied the boy. “I’m going
to leave my rifle here.”
“Douglas wants me to keep it for him,” said Jack. “He says Tony Harrel
hooks it when he’s out of the way.”
“Tony’s breaking the game laws, is he?” said his father. “He’ll get
himself into trouble. See that the law doesn’t get interested in _you_,
Jack!”
“Your name’s Douglas, isn’t it? What’s your last name?” asked Jean shyly
as, the good-byes over, they glided away from the landing.
“Gordon,” the boy answered.
“Douglas Gordon! My, but that sounds Scotchy! Are you Scotch?”
“Father was.”
“My father’s Scotch too, and my name’s _very_ Scotch—Jean Lennox.”
“That’s pretty,” said Douglas. “You’re from New York, aren’t you?”
“No. Guess where my home is.”
“Scotland?” Douglas suggested.
“No.”
“England? or Ireland?”
“No, indeed! I’m American.”
“Dawson City, Alaska?”
“I should think not! You didn’t ask _which_ America I live in.”
“Why, you don’t mean you’re from _South_ America?”
“Yes, I do,” laughed Jean. “My home’s in Rio Janeiro, just now.”
“Great Cæsar! Brazil!” Douglas looked at her with reverence.
“But I had to come back to the United States to boarding-school,” Jean
explained. “Where do you live?”
“Over here, this summer. I used to live at Algonquin, about twenty miles
from here. I’ve lived up in the Adirondacks since I was a little chap.”
“How old are you now?”
“Fifteen. How old are you?”
“Fourteen. I’ll be fifteen next October. Father’ll be home in time for
my birthday. He’s coming to New York on business.”
“I’ll be sixteen next Christmas,” said Douglas.
“Does your birthday come on Christmas?” cried Jean. “What fun! You ought
to get double presents.”
“My father died _last_ Christmas,” said Douglas quietly.
“_Died_ on _Christmas_! Your _father_—and it was your birthday!” Jean’s
great blue eyes grew dark with distress, and the sympathy in her face
stirred the boy to confidence.
“It was pneumonia,” he said. “He was taken sick while I was away at
boarding-school, and I couldn’t get home till just two days before he
died. And he didn’t know me—he was out of his head all the time. Only
Christmas Day he knew me just a few minutes, and then—he died. He bought
that rifle for me for Christmas,” he added. “He talked about it while he
was out of his head. Dad and I were great old chums!”
Douglas plunged his paddle into the water and worked with all his
strength. Jean watched him sorrowfully, wishing she knew what to say to
comfort him, and wondered if he were an only child like herself.
“Have you any brothers and sisters?” she asked anxiously.
“No—haven’t anybody.”
“Oh, dear! You don’t mean your mother’s dead too?”
“Yes, I can hardly remember her. She died before we left the city.
Father was a doctor and we used to live in New York, but he came down
with lung trouble and had to give up his practice there and come up to
the mountains.”
“But you’re not all alone, are you?” asked Jean. “Haven’t you a
grandfather or an uncle—or anybody?”
“No, I’m all alone in the world. I’m striking out for myself now. I had
to go to work after Father died—that’s why I’m over here. I thought I
could get some work at one of the camps. I did, too. I’ve been working
for the Clintons at Big Pine Camp, while their man was laid up. I want
to earn enough in the summers to pay my board through the winters, and
then I can go to High School in Albany.”
“Oh, Douglas, I think that’s perfectly fine of you, to go to work like
that! You’re really seeking your fortune, aren’t you?” said Jean.
“That’s about the size of it,” Douglas agreed. “After I’ve been through
High School, if I can scrape up the tin, I want to study engineering and
go out West as a mining engineer.”
“Isn’t Dr. Hamilton giving you lessons?” asked Jean. “I heard him saying
something about it.”
“Yes, I lost the whole of last term at school, and he’s coaching me so I
can make up what I’ve missed. Tell you what, he’s been good to me!”
“And you’re working at a camp too,” said Jean. “My, but you must be
busy!”
“Oh, I’ve lost my place at the Clintons’. Their man came back
yesterday.”
“How mean of him! What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know yet. Dr. Hamilton spoke for me up at the Inn, but they
told me to-day they didn’t want me.”
A bright, eager look come into Jean’s face. “Here’s a chance to use my
Silver Sword!” thought she. “I know!” she said. “Mrs. Brook says we have
to have a boatman for our camp. The man she engaged disappointed. I’m
going to ask her to engage _you_!”
“Oh, thank you!” Douglas stopped paddling in his surprise. “That would
be fine! But I don’t believe she’ll take me. She’ll want a _man_.”
“Oh, no, she won’t!” said Jean confidently. “It’s only to take us out on
the lake and look after the boats.”
“Well, I ought to know something about boats,” said Douglas. “I was
brought up on a lake.”
“Is that your canoe?” asked Jean.
“It was till a few minutes ago. I brought it over from Algonquin to
sell, and I’ve just sold it to Court Hamilton. I’ll never sell my rifle
though!”
“Douglas, who’s Tony Harrel, that Jack said kept hooking your rifle?”
“He’s old George Harrel’s son. I’m boarding with them. Poor old Tony,
he’ll be quite cut up when he finds my rifle’s gone for keeps!”
“I think it was horrid of him to take it,” said Jean. “Dr. Hamilton said
he was breaking the game laws. What did he mean?”
“Killing game out of season. But please don’t say anything about it,
will you? I don’t want to get him into trouble.”
“All right, I won’t,” Jean promised, and she had forgotten Tony Harrel
long before they reached the Huairarwee dock.
The canoes having put into port, Douglas took his leave and paddled back
to his lessons. The girls and Court went up the bank together, and the
runaways found that the moment of confession could no longer be delayed,
for there were Mrs. Brook and Fräulein Bunsen on the tent veranda.
“Here we are, Auntie! I’ve brought them back safe!” called out Court.
“Why, girls! What does this mean? What _have_ you got on? And how in the
world have you and my nephew become acquainted already?” exclaimed Mrs.
Brook.
“Meine kinder, at last you come back!” cried Fräulein. “I look for you
all over! De girls haff gone to valk, dey could not vait for you. Where
_haff_ you been?”
“We’ve been to the bottom of the lake,” said Carol. “Bunnie, dearest,
don’t scold us! Cherish us. We might have been swept away from you
forever under those seething billows! Mrs. Brook, _will_ you forgive us
for playing hooky, and not send us back to-morrow? It was all my fault—I
led Jean into the scrape. I ought to have known better.”
“No, it wasn’t her fault one bit,—it was mine! I upset the canoe,” Jean
interrupted, and together the delinquents recounted their adventures.
The camp-mother laughed merrily, but she threatened to lay down
stringent rules on the subject of canoeing.
“Oh, come now, Auntie!” Court put in coaxingly, “don’t make your camp
unpopular. Miss Armstrong’s equal to shooting rapids,—I know she is! If
you won’t enact any painful laws, I’ll lend you the canoe I’ve just
bought.”
“Court Hamilton! what are you buying another canoe for?” cried Mrs.
Brook.
“Oh, well, Douglas Gordon wanted to sell his, and I thought I’d like to
help him out.”
“Court! Court!” said his aunt, laughing, “You’ll be bankrupt as usual
before the end of the summer.”
“Don’t worry about me, Auntie,—the legacy’s sure,” said Court.
“Whenever Court’s been seized with a fit of charitable mania and given
away everything he possesses, it always turns out that his great-aunt,
Miss Van Courtlandt, is about to make him her heir,” explained Mrs.
Brook. “She’s a very convenient excuse, Court, but you’d better be
careful how you talk about her. She’s a very old lady and she may die
suddenly and really leave you a legacy, and then think how
conscience-stricken you’ll feel!”
“I’ll feel worse if she doesn’t leave me one,” replied Miss Van
Courtlandt’s saucy young namesake.
Jean looked up at the frank, manly face and the merry blue eyes, and
felt that here was a kindred spirit. Now was a propitious time to plead
for her new friend.
“Mrs. Brook, can’t you take Douglas Gordon for your boatman?” she
suddenly demanded. “He’s an orphan and his father died last Christmas,
and he hasn’t any home, and he has to earn money so he can go to school
and be an engineer and go out West, and he’s lost his place, and he
knows all about boats,—and _won’t_ you please take him?”
“Poor boy!” said Mrs. Brook, “my brother has told me about him.”
“Oh, Mrs. Brook, _couldn’t_ you take him?” pleaded Carol. “Mr. Hamilton
says he’s such a nice boy!”
“I wish you _would_ take him, Auntie,” said Court. “I’m sure he’s all
right.”
“My heart does go out to the poor boy,” said Mrs. Brook. “And I don’t
know of any one else to hire. But I should have to have a talk with your
father first.”
It began to look as if Caritas would win. The walking-party soon
returned, and the other battle maids ardently took up the cause of
Douglas Gordon; and when Jack came in bringing the mail, he gave his
friend an enthusiastic recommendation.
“Now, boys and girls,” said Mrs. Brook, before the brothers went home,
“I wish one thing to be understood. We are all one big family party
here. Girls, you are my summer daughters, and my nephews are running in
and out all the time on some errand or other, so you’ll see plenty of
them. I propose that you drop titles; I don’t wish to hear a ‘Mr.’ or a
‘Miss’ all summer. I hope you will take Cecily’s cousins for _your_
cousins, as you have taken me for a ‘mother’.”
CHAPTER IX.
JASPER BROOK
The second day at Halcyon was celebrated by a picnic at Jasper Falls.
After breakfast the girls busied themselves in preparing their luncheon.
Jean came out of the kitchen with a small guide-basket on her back, a
frying-pan in one hand and an iron spoon in the other, followed by
Cecily with a fishing basket.
“Jean Lennox, what on earth are you doing with that frying-pan?” called
Betty.
“Ask Cece,” said Jean.
“Don’t you wish you knew what I’ve got in here?” said Cecily, and when
Betty and Frances tried to peep through the opening in the cover Jean
whacked them with her spoon.
“We’re going to have flapjacks!” guessed Betty. “Cecily has the flour
and Jean has the maple-syrup.”
“Which she will proceed to spill down the waterfall, while composing an
ode to Jasper Brook,” added Carol.
“There’s lettuce inside there; I saw it through the hole,” said Frances.
“We’re going to have lobster salad!”
“You don’t catch lobsters in lakes, or fry salad, my dear,” returned
Cecily. “And you might as well stop guessing, for I won’t tell you a
thing about it.”
“Oh! My rifle! I must have it to fire salutes from the top of the falls!
I’d better carry it loaded, in case we should meet a catamount,” said
Carol, mischievously, as she picked up her treasure under the very nose
of Fräulein Bunsen.
“Nein, Carolchen! You leave dat gun at home,” said Fräulein with
decision. “Mrs. Brook, please lock up dat weapon where she cannot find
it. She vill kill us all and herself too!” Carol laughed and
good-naturedly laid down the alarming instrument of destruction.
With Cecily and Roderick Dhu as guides the campers started on their walk
along the wooded edge of the lake. At every step there was something to
make lovers of nature look or listen with delight. Green velvet cushions
of moss and “hairy-caps” bordered the trail. Wild strawberries, nestling
among the cool leaves, kept the girls swooping down like birds of prey.
Tiny hats and umbrellas of fungus, red, yellow, creamy and brown, dotted
the way; and even every old decaying stump was in gala dress, decked
with scarlet-tipped Cladonia, or its sister with the fairy goblets.
Overhead the thrushes were in glorious voice, and the air was full of
sweet bird-calls.
After skirting the lake for about a mile they came to a blazed
beech-tree with a sign saying, “To Jasper Falls.” The trail which ran
from the foot of the tree led deep into the woods away from the lake.
Following the little path they came to the most winsome and enchanting
brook that ever parched one’s throat by the mere sound of its rushing.
The girls filled the tin cups which hung from their belts and drank, or
lay on the margin and put their lips to the swift-flowing stream; and
the pure cold water would have been worth a journey through the desert
of Sahara, Eunice said.
Jasper Brook had won its name from the polished rocks that glowed ruddy
and golden brown in its bed. Sometimes these formed a path of
stepping-stones, and sometimes they broke the stream into little rapids
that eddied and foamed and swirled. Sometimes they lay, smooth and
shining, at the bottom of a mirror-like pool, and sometimes they rose in
boulders over which the girls had to scramble as they made their way up
the brook.
Beyond a bend the falls stood revealed in all their beauty. First and
lowest of all, a miniature Niagara, the color of jade where it slipped
smoothly over a great rock, and a cloud of sparkling foam where it
broke. Then, above, a ledge of the living rock, over which the brook
glided clear as glass. Higher yet, a cascade, hanging in a shimmering
silver veil over a cliff at the right—a Swiss Staubbach, as Fräulein
called it. This was Jasper Brook, as it descended over a natural
staircase of rock. With much scrambling and slipping and laughing the
trampers made the ascent along the very edge, and sometimes, indeed, in
the stream itself.
“Isn’t it beautiful! I’d like to stand right under those darling falls
and let them come down on top of me!” cried Jean, climbing upon a rock
near the “Staubbach.” “Come up here where you can feel the spray! It’s
as good as a shower-bath!” From the ledge above, the cascade fell in a
shower of mist to the pool at her feet, the cool drops sprinkling her
face. The rest of the vanguard scrambled up beside her.
“What are you tying a knot in your handkerchief for, Joan of Arc?”
Cecily asked presently.
“‘Curiosity killed the cat,’” quoted Jean.
“I know what it’s for,” said Carol. “That knot’s a reminder to write a
poem on the ‘Staubbach.’ I knew the Muse was awake when I asked Jean if
she wasn’t getting soaked in the spray, and she smiled seraphically and
dreamily answered, ‘Um!’ I haven’t had the honor of _two_ visits from a
poet without learning to read the signs. Excelsior! Let’s scramble on!”
“Let’s name all the different falls and rocks and things we come to,”
Jean proposed. “Let’s name _this_, ‘Silver Sword Falls,’ and _that_ can
be ‘Golden Shield Pool.’ It’s quite a goldy color, and it’s shaped like
a shield.”
“I think it’s shaped much more like a dishpan,” said practical Cecily.
“Let’s name the places for ourselves,” Betty suggested, resuming the
march up the stony path.
“All right! We’ll call this ‘Betty’s Toboggan Slide,’” replied Cecily.
For Betty suddenly slipped backward on the slippery incline.
“This is ‘Carol Cascade,’” said Jean, as they stood on a flat rock
watching a wild little cataract foaming and boiling.
“It _does_ look like her,” said Eunice. “That’s just the way she rushes
pell-mell into things. Those little curly rapids do for her hair—it’s
always in a wild fly.”
“We’ll name that puddle ‘Una Pond.’ It’s so absent-minded, it’s
forgotten to move down the brook! It’s _you_ all over, Una,” returned
Carol.
“What’s the use of lugging this basket myself when I can hitch it on
Roderick?” said Frances. Charmed with this idea she lashed her basket on
the chieftain’s back, at which act of oppression he showed his
resentment by worrying the strap until he had slipped his badge of
servitude off into a small whirlpool, and the Mouse returned from
crawling into a cave in time to see her pretty new basket spin round and
round and then sail down the waterfall.
“Catch it! catch it! Frisky’s basket! It has _all_ our Saratoga
potatoes!” shrieked Betty to the girls below. But the runaway swept past
the hands that snatched for it till it reached a quiet pool, from which
Marion Gaylord rescued it. The basket was intact, but Frances mournfully
spread out upon a stone its once crisp contents, now water-soaked and
limp, and fit only to nourish the minnows that lived below the falls.
“You’re a horrid old thing, Roderick Dhu!” said she, slapping the dog,
as he applied an interested nose to the ruined delicacy. “Go away! You
needn’t think _you’re_ going to have any, just because you’ve spoilt it
for _us_!”
“Well, Frisk, it was your own fault!” said Cecily. “Rod isn’t used to
carrying baskets, are you, old petsy?”
Adventures, mishaps and frolics all along the climb were commemorated in
the names chosen for boulders, pools and rapids. There was “Roderick’s
Roll,” where the collie charged a chipmunk up a land-slide in a bank and
tumbled down with an avalanche of earth and stones; then “St. Cecilia’s
Organ,” where the rocks looked like slender organ-pipes; and “Nancy’s
Nest,” a little shelf, cushioned with moss, where Nancy found violets
and harebells growing. By the time the top of the falls was reached all
the members of the party had had their names immortalized in woodland
monuments.
A broad, flat ledge of stone at the head of Jasper Falls was selected
for the dining-table.
“Come and see the boiling spring before we unpack our luncheon,” said
Cecily.
“Boiling spring!” cried Pamela Kirkland. “Now, St. Cecilia, you haven’t
a _geyser_ here!”
“Is it a hot spring, really?” asked Gladys Pearson. “Do let’s see it!”
“Hot? It’s a _boiling_ spring!” Cecily declared. She led the way to a
little pool with a sandy bed, hidden away in the woods. A tiny jet of
water bubbled up through the sand, and she dipped in her cup and held it
out to Pamela with the warning, “Don’t burn your mouth!” Pamela blew to
cool the boiling draft and tasted it gingerly.
“Why, it’s icy cold!” she exclaimed. “Cecily Brook,—the idea of your
telling such a whopper! Take off your shield of truth this instant!”
“I told the truth,” St. Cecilia answered serenely. “It _is_ a boiling
spring. It _bubbles_! They always call bubbling springs _boiling_. Oh,
Pam! It was too funny to see you blow!”
“I don’t care—they _do_ have hot springs,” said Pamela.
“Never mind, Pamela. We’ll fool the others when they come up,” said
Gladys.
Three of the girls had slung tin pails on their shoulders, and Helen
Westover had carried a bottle of lemon juice. The boiling spring was
colder than the brook, so here the pails were filled, and going back to
their rock-table the girls spread out their luncheon and brewed their
lemonade.
Then Cecily opened her mysterious basket, and Jean recited in sepulchral
tones:
“They are neither man nor woman,
They are neither beast nor human,
They are—”
“Fish!” cried an enraptured chorus, as Cecily unrolled from the lettuce
leaf in which it had been swathed, a silvery little perch.
“Court and Jack brought them before breakfast,” said Cecily, unpacking
the basketful of fish, each one enveloped in a fresh lettuce leaf. “They
went fishing before sunrise, and they thought we’d like some perch and
bass for our picnic, so they brought us their whole catch. Aren’t they
cousins worth having?”
Court and Jack were given three cheers immediately, and voted the first
batch of candy made at Camp Huairarwee. Then came the fire-building and
fish-frying. The girls collected sticks, and Cecily being skilled in
wood lore, a scientific fire was soon blazing. She dropped little lumps
of butter into the frying-pan, and when they were melted and sizzling in
went the first half dozen of fish, to be deftly turned with the iron
spoon, and sprinkled by Frances with pepper and salt.
The first panful being done to a turn, the fish were doled out upon
lettuce leaves held up by starving maidens. No one missed the saratoga
chips at the banquet. There were those good old picnic standbys,
sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, and for dessert, large, sweet summer
apples, generous slices of maple-sugar cake and ice-cold lemonade.
“This would be a royal spread even if we were eating it in the
Hazelhurst dining-room,” said Nancy. “But there isn’t anything like a
fine old rushing, roaring waterfall for giving your luncheon a flavor!”
CHAPTER X.
THE TRAIL TO THE NORTH POLE
“How would you like to go to the North Pole now?” asked Cecily as,
luncheon over, the girls lolled on the rocks above Jasper Falls.
“I’m ready for North Pole, South Pole, Equator, or anything,” declared
Jean with enthusiasm.
“We’ll have to go to Christmas Cave, then,” said Cecily. “The pole’s
inside it.”
“Is there really something here you call the North Pole?” asked Betty.
“Why, of course there is,” said Cecily.
“Come on, then,—let’s make a dash for the pole!” said Jean. Every one
was ready to march, and Cecily led the party down the hill into the
dense woods at its base to take the trail to the Arctic regions.
That trail, however, seemed to be hidden beyond all discovery.
“I can’t find it anywhere!” Cecily had to admit. “I’ll go a little
farther and see if I can strike it.” She pushed on with Miss Hamersley
and a few energetic explorers.
Jean, Frances and Betty, busy coaxing a chipmunk to be friendly, were
among those who stayed behind with Fräulein Bunsen. Roderick Dhu had
gone off on a hunt, and presently they saw a rabbit shoot across the
path and into a thicket, the collie in pursuit.
“Rod—stop! come here!” called Jean, and she darted after the dog, hoping
to prevent bloodshed. Frances and Betty joined the chase, but the three
soon found themselves barred by the dense tangle that stopped even
Roderick, yet proved a safe retreat for the rabbit.
“Listen, girls! What’s that rustling?” exclaimed Betty.
“A bear probably,” said Frances. “Sick ’em, Rod!” But the collie needed
no urging. He dashed barking around the edge of the thicket.
“Oh, dear! What is it? Let’s run!” cried Betty, and she sped back to the
others with a haste most unworthy of a battle maid.
Jean and Frances followed the dog, and stopped short. Confronting them
stood a man, looking strangely dark in the deep shade,—a man at whom
Roderick Dhu was growling suspiciously. The girls pulled the dog away.
“Come back to the others,” said Jean, and the two valiant amazons
hurried after Betty. A rustling of leaves told them that the man was
following.
“I’m scared!” giggled Frances, and Jean felt as if something eerie were
pursuing them.
“Betty, your bear’s coming after us!” Frances announced as they rejoined
their friends, and a minute later the stranger presented himself.
After all there was nothing uncanny about him: he was, on the contrary,
a most picturesque figure. His swarthy complexion, jet black hair,
restless dark eyes and handsome features, were well set off by his
corduroy suit, blue flannel shirt and wide felt hat.
“Pray, kind sir, know you where lies de Christmas Cave?” asked Fräulein,
who had studied Shakespeare when she was learning English and was apt to
slip into Elizabethan phrases.
“Hey? What, marm?” asked the stranger.
“He understands me not. You ask him, Carol,” said Fräulein.
“You ought to have said, ‘Be thy intents wicked or charitable, thou
comest in such a questionable shape that I will speak to thee.’ You’re
forgetting your _Hamlet_, Bunnie, liebchen,” said Carol. Then she turned
to the newcomer, saying, “We’re trying to find the trail to Christmas
Cave. Do you know where it begins?”
“Christmas Cave? That’s about a mile from here,” the man answered. “I’ll
show you the trail. Come right along this way.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Carol, “but we must wait for the rest of our
party.”
The man seemed quite ready to enjoy repose and a chat, and he lounged
against a tree with a careless grace.
“He’s a French count in disguise!” whispered Betty.
“Yes,” agreed Eunice. “He only said, ‘Hey? What, marm?’ to make us think
he was a country bumpkin.”
“No, he’s a charming villain,” said Carol. “I’m morally certain he has a
dagger hidden in each of his boots.”
“I guess you’re the folks that’s stayin’ with Mis’ Brook down to Black
Bear Camp, ain’t you?” the stranger inquired.
“Yes, are you one of the guides?” asked Eunice.
“Well, kinder. I ain’t a reg’lar guide, but I know the business a good
deal better than them guides at the inn. Their game’s to git the highest
pay for takin’ you the shortest cut. All they care for is to git paid
for savin’ their own shoe leather. But that ain’t _my_ way. I charge
jest half what the reg’lar guides do, and take you the prettiest trail
every time. So I’m your guide whenever you want one.”
The explorers returned just then, and Cecily exclaimed, “Why, there’s
Tony Harrel! How do you do, Tony? Do you know where the trail to
Christmas Cave starts?”
“Jest waitin’ to take you there,” replied the gallant Tony. “I found the
ladies was in a fix, an’ told ’em I’d show ’em the way. I’ll take you
home by the new trail too.”
“Carol,” whispered Jean, “don’t you remember—Douglas said it was Tony
Harrel that stole his rifle! This must be the same man.”
“I don’t like Tony a bit,” Cecily confided to Jean. “He _will_ call me
‘Cissy,’ and he won’t say ‘Miss.’ But I’m glad we met him, so he can
show us the way. His real name’s Mark Antony—isn’t that rich!”
Mark Antony led the way to where a narrow trail branched out from their
path. Then he said to Cecily, who, with Carol and Jean, was in advance
of the rest, “Say, Cissy, your mother’s lookin’ round for a boatman,
ain’t she? I heard Eph Jones disapp’inted her, an’ I kinder thought I’d
like the place, myself.”
“Oh, but I’m almost sure she’s going to engage Douglas Gordon,” Cecily
answered.
“Oh, she’s goin’ to take that kid, is she?” Mark Antony smiled
scornfully. “Well, I guess after she’s tried him for about one day,
she’ll be lookin’ for somebody else.”
“Douglas has been very well recommended,” said Cecily with her most
grown up air.
“Oh, well, he’s a mighty fine gen’leman, of course,” Harrel
acknowledged. “Great on readin’ books, an’ that sort o’ thing; but when
it comes down to doin’ chores, the work _he_ knows how to do ’s to keep
his hands clean. He’s boardin’ with us, so I know. I guess the folks at
Big Pine Camp thought he was a little _too_ much of a dude!”
“They didn’t at all!” burst out Jean. “He worked as hard as he could,
and he only left because their man came back. And he doesn’t care one
bit about keeping his hands clean! He’s in earnest, and he wants to
work!”
“He’s a gen’leman, all right, though,” said Tony. “He’ll take good care
never to _kill_ himself workin’.”
“You don’t know anything about it!” cried Jean. “He’s too proud to
depend on anybody. And a _real_ gentleman is never ashamed to work!”
The man laughed, but his dark eyes shot a sneering glance at Jean.
“Well,” he remarked, “he seems to know how to git around the girls, all
right!”
“He _doesn’t_ try to get around us!” began Jean indignantly.
“Hush, Jean, be careful!” With her low voice and warning look Carol
checked the warrior-queen. Then turning to Harrel, she said, “_Miss
Brook_ will show us the way now, herself. We thank you for showing us
the trail, but we prefer not to trouble you any longer. Good-afternoon.
Girls, we must go back to the others.” Very quietly she spoke; but she
looked unusually dignified and stately, and there was something in those
clear eyes of hers that changed Mark Antony’s sneer to a stare of
surprise, followed by an angry glance, and then caused him, shrugging
his shoulders, to turn away without a word. They heard him whistling
carelessly as they retraced their steps.
“The horrid, old, sneering thing!” exclaimed Jean. “I wanted to tell him
gentlemen didn’t steal other peoples’ rifles! Why did you tell me to be
careful, Carol?”
“The less you say to such a person, the better,” answered Carol. “I
didn’t like his manner from the first.”
“I’m glad you called me ‘Miss Brook,’ and sent him marching,” said
Cecily. “You _can_ look like an empress, Carol! I don’t wonder he turned
and fled. My, but you made him angry, though! Did you see how his eyes
flashed? They say he has Indian blood.”
“He looked about ready to scalp me,” said Carol.
They joined the others, and then Cecily led the way along the trail to a
mass of rock in which they saw the opening of a cave. “That’s Christmas
Cave,” said she. “Wait here till I come back.” She vanished inside the
cavern, reappeared, and threw something at Jean which hit her in the
chest and burst as it struck.
“Snow!” gasped Jean. “Good gracious me! A snowball!”
“Yes, it was a snowball,” said Cecily. “Merry Christmas! Come and hang
up your stockings.”
As many girls as could crowd in followed her into the cave and found
themselves shivering in the chilly air of Jack Frost’s impregnable
fortress. Patches of snow, the relics of last winter’s drifts, lay in
crevices in the rocks. In the farthest recess was an accumulation of
rough ice, and planted in its center stood a miniature Indian totem-pole
with grotesque figures carved upon it and painted red, white and blue. A
tiny American flag was fastened at the top of the pole.
“Hooray! There’s the North Pole, and it belongs to Uncle Sam!” cried
Jean.
“He’ll own both poles before he’s done with it,” said Carol. “The stars
and stripes forever!”
“Jack made the pole,” said Cecily. “Isn’t that a fine iceberg? It never
melts all the year round.”
“Let’s have a snowball fight,” Frances proposed, and a battle ensued.
The ammunition was scarce, but the girls kept remoulding their shot,
every one who could find a bit of snow joining in the fray.
When everybody had enjoyed a taste of freezing, the campers trudged home
to Huairarwee. They found Douglas Gordon on the veranda, talking with
Mrs. Brook, and just as the supper-horn sounded, he came down and broke
the good news to Jean.
“She’s engaged me for the whole summer! I’m going to get six dollars a
week, and I start to-night. I’m going to build your camp-fire.”
That evening Douglas built a royal fire, and around it the merriest of
revels took place. The girls of the Hazelhurst glee-club led the others
in an open air concert, to the accompaniment of Carol’s mandolin. All
the best-loved college songs were given, and the favorites of the
school, ending with “Hazelhurst Hall forever!” set to the tune of the
Eton Boating Song, and now rendered with an added verse in which it was
“Halcyon Lake forever!” and “Cheer for the best of camps!” Charades
followed and then good old-fashioned _twenty questions_.
“I decline to do any more guessing!” Carol declared, when Jean and
Cecily, leagued together, had put the rest through mental gymnastics.
“The Silver Sworders go too deep into history for the brains of an
_alumna_! I remember that ‘King Arthur made a bag-pudding,’ and the
immortal George chopped down a cherry-tree, but beyond that I’m rusty.
And when it comes to having to guess the one hundred and first hair that
turned gray on Oliver Cromwell’s head—that’s altogether too violent a
cerebral strain!”
“I agree with you,” said Nancy. “Let’s drop _twenty questions_ and tell
an alphabetical story. Some one gives a sentence—or as much more as her
brains are equal to—with all the words beginning with _A_; then when she
breaks off, some one else takes up the story all in _B’s_, and so we go
on down the alphabet. It’s better not to go around in turn,—but to
answer up as our names are called,—then we sha’n’t know beforehand what
letters we’re to have.”
“Worse than Oliver’s hair!” groaned Carol. But Jean cried eagerly:
“Let’s play it!”
“I’ll call out your names,” said Miss Hamersley. “Dorothy!”
“Give me time!” gasped Dorothy Stone. “Let me see:—a—a—Oh, wait! I’m
getting it! An attractive—amiable—athletic—assembly—ambled artlessly
along a—a—I’m stuck!”
“Along a what, Ethel?” asked Miss Hamersley.
“Babbling brook. Blushing boarding-school
beauties—bounded—blissfully,—brandishing birch-bark boomerangs! Bouncing
Betty,—I’ve given out!”
With sighs, and petitions to the audience to “Wait a minute!” the
rigmarole was spun out, sentence by sentence.
“Helen,” said Miss Hamersley, “what did bouncing Betty do?”
“Crept cautiously, clutching Cecily. Carol, chanting cheerily, climbed
cliffs, crags,—crossed cataracts,—cleverly caught crabs,—I’m exhausted!”
“Ruth!”
“Dauntless Dorothy daringly darted down dark dangerous declivities.”
“Marion!”
“Eunice, eating eels, eschewed elegant edibles.”
“Nancy!”
“Frances frisked fairy-like, following fleeing fawns. Fräulein
frantically fished for frogs.”
“Winifred!”
“Giddy Gladys glided gleefully, gyrating gracefully. Grace Gardner
gloatingly gathered great, green grasshoppers.”
“Katrina!”
“Haughty Helen hallooed hysterically: ‘Help! help!’”
“Indicating irate Indian invaders,” said Hope La Monte, as her name was
called.
“Gladys!”
“Jolly Jean jumped joyously, jesting jocosely.”
“Frances!”
“Katrina killed kittymounts,—catamount cubs, I mean,” said Frances.
“Pamela!”
“Louise liked luncheon-time, loving liquid lemonade.”
“Olive!”
“Mad Marion marched merrily ’mid mirthful mandolin music.”
“Carol!”
“_En_chanting Nancy Newcomb _en_countered ninety-nine noxious gnats.”
“Carol, you cheat!” cried Nancy. “Pay a forfeit immediately.”
“_I_ spell phonetically,” Carol replied calmly.
“Jean!” called Miss Hamersley.
“Omnivorous Olive ordered oysters, omelet, oatmeal,
owl-on-toast,—_olives_.”
“Louise!”
“Pamela preferred perch,” Louise Phillips responded.
“Eunice!”
“Queenie quavered querulously: ‘Quinces, quails, quartered cucumbers!’”
“Cheating again! Betty!”
“Roderick—running rabid—rushed raging—round Ruth!”
“Grace!”
“Strenuous Silver Sword Sisters, slaying, slashing, slaughtering—.”
“Traced the terrible Tony through the tangled thicket,” said Cecily, the
last of the twenty girls. “Now, Douglas, you’ll have to finish the
alphabet.”
“U. V. W. X. Y. Z.—all of them?” asked Douglas, with a wry face. “I
ought to have a dictionary. Let’s see.” He meditated. “Will this do?
Ugly, underhanded villain wandered wobbling, _ex_citedly yelling,
‘Zoological zigzag zebras!’” The camp boatman had acquitted himself
nobly and was applauded.
“Now let’s play some writing-games; we have plenty of light,” Winifred
Russell proposed.
“Winsome Winnie wishes we would write wise witticisms,” said Carol.
“Impossible, Win,—but we can perpetrate some more nonsense.”
Pencils and paper were brought, and “gingerbread poetry” and _verbarium_
were played by the firelight.
“Now _I_ am going to beg for the old-fashioned game I used to love when
I was Cecily’s age,” said Mrs. Brook. “First you each write the
description of the hero of your story, fold it over and pass it on to
your neighbor. Then you write the hero’s name; then how the heroine
looked, and her name; then, where they met, what he said, what she said,
what they did, the consequence, and what the world said. And each time
you fold over what you’ve written and pass it on.”
Pencils flew busily, and when the papers were read aloud, the campers
found themselves figuring as heroines in the most thrilling situations.
“Here’s a tragedy!” said Cecily, and she read the last paper.
“The raven-haired, fiery-eyed, French count, Douglas Gordon, and the
dashing new woman who has made a world record in her racing
automobile, Fräulein Bunsen—”
“I? Racing in automobiles?” cried Fräulein.
“Met at the bottom of Halcyon Lake, their canoes having capsized. He
said: ‘Where are you going, my pretty giraffe?’”
Jean boxed Frances’ ears.
“She said: ‘Don’t shoot that kingfisher!’ and leaped. Then they
mounted the winged horse, Cyclone, and flew madly over the
Adirondacks. The consequence was that Mark Antony Harrel immured
them in Christmas Cave till they froze to the iceberg, and then made
his fortune by exhibiting them as fossils of the glacial period. And
the world said: ‘What else could you expect at a girls’ camp!’”
“You are very naughty girls to treat me so!” said Fräulein. “For
punishment you must bring apples to roast and de kettle—vat you call
him,—de Villiam?”
“The Billy,” laughed Carol.
The apples and the Billy were brought, and while the company feasted on
chocolate, boiled over the camp-fire, and roast apples, a story-telling
contest went on. Here Jean was in her element and told a blood-curdling
tale of an Indian chief who in days of yore had pitched his wigwam where
the bungalow now stood, had scalped his enemies wholesale, and finally,
while kidnapping a beautiful squaw, had himself been tomahawked on
Camp-fire Rock by the maiden’s betrothed. Since that time, Jean assured
her hearers, his ghost had haunted Huairarwee.
“Enter the ghost!” Carol suddenly announced in a sepulchral voice. The
other girls started, half a dozen screamed, and Roderick Dhu awoke
barking. A dark figure was gliding stealthily through the trees on the
bluff, with the noiseless tread of an Indian. Douglas ran up the bank to
investigate.
“It’s only Tony Harrel!” he said. “Say, Tony, I’ll be home soon. Don’t
lock me out!”
Mark Antony deigned not to reply. He vanished as noiselessly as he had
come.
CHAPTER XI.
MERMAIDS
“Girls, put on your bathing suits. It’s so much warmer to-day we can
take our morning dip.” Miss Hamersley issued the order from her tent at
half-past six, and a few minutes later a troop of girls in bathing suits
gathered under the trees before their teacher, who was also dressed for
a plunge. “We are going to start our routine of camp life this morning.
We’ll begin with the ‘setting up’ drill,” she said. She made her pupils
form in line, and led them through a series of calisthenic exercises
which sent the blood tingling through their veins.
The drill over, the girls went down to the lake. Morning clouds still
hung about the distant hills, but the mist had lifted from the calm
water, and the basin on the edge of which Camp Huairarwee stood flashed
in the early sunlight.
“Ugh! It’s cold! I’ll never screw up my courage to go under,” said
Betty, as she dipped her hand into the ripples, while Frances sent
Roderick Dhu dashing in after a stick. Carol, Nancy and Helen rushed
past them, waded far into the water, dived under, and bobbing up again
struck out in a swimming race.
“Forward march!” cried the queen of the Silver Sword. Wading boldly out,
with Frances after her, down she dipped, over head and shoulders, and
rose laughing and gasping from the shock. “Whew! It takes your breath
away, but it’s fine! Cece, you’re a splendid swimmer!” she called, as
Cecily shot by her through the water. “Teach me, will you?”
“All right,” said Cecily, stopping her swim. “Throw yourself out _this_
way, and go _so_! I’ll hold your chin up.” She gave an object lesson in
the jump and the strokes, and Jean, nothing daunted, tried again and
again, thrashing the water furiously, while Betty splashed and shivered,
and Frances, almost as amphibious as Cecily, floated peacefully till she
collided with Roderick Dhu.
“Come out now!” called Miss Hamersley.
“But we’ve only been in a minute!” the bathers complained.
“You’ve been in quite long enough for the first time. You may take a
longer dip to-morrow,” was the reply.
Douglas arrived soon after breakfast to begin his first day’s work as
camp boatman. Jean ran to meet him. “Did you find out what Tony Harrel
was doing around here last night?” she asked.
“No,” answered Douglas. “He said it was none of my business. He was as
mad as a hornet about something or other.”
“I know why he was mad,” said Jean. “He wanted to be our boatman
himself. He spoke to Cecily about it yesterday.”
“Whe-ew!” whistled Douglas. “I didn’t know I was cutting him out! I
don’t wonder he’s grouchy!”
“You _didn’t_ cut him out at all,” said Jean. “Mrs. Brook says she
wouldn’t have had him for anything.”
“Maybe he was snooping around to see how badly I was doing my work,”
said Douglas. “He’s a queer chap. He has a habit of sneaking along
softly,—makes me think of a catamount.”
“That must be the Indian in him!” said Jean. “Cecily told me he had
Indian blood.”
“He looks Indianish,” said Douglas. “It must be his instinct to follow
the warpath that makes him sneak like that! Aren’t you sorry you haven’t
got an Algonquin chief for your boatman?”
“No, I’m not! I’m afraid he’d tomahawk us some day!” said Jean.
“_You_ got me the place: I won’t forget that in a hurry,” said Douglas
gratefully. “Let me teach you to paddle, this morning, will you?”
“Let you! I should think I would!” cried Jean: “I’m wild to learn! I’ll
run up and ask Miss Hamersley.”
“Yes, indeed!” was Miss Hamersley’s reply, “if you’ll be _very_ careful,
and be sure to be back in half an hour. You know Mrs. Brook has ordered
the launch from the Inn to take us the round trip of the lake this
morning. It is to be here at half-past nine. We must not keep it
waiting.”
“Oh, let me go too!” cried Frances, jumping down from her perch on the
veranda railing. “I haven’t been in a canoe yet,—only a stupid old
rowboat!”
“No, Frances, three are too many for the canoe while Jean is learning to
paddle,” said Miss Hamersley. “You may come in the boat with me, if you
would like to. I was going to take somebody out, myself.”
Frances looked sulky as she turned away with Jean. “Miss Hamersley’s an
old crank!” she grumbled, when out of the teacher’s hearing. “I think
it’s mean! I haven’t been in a canoe once, and this is your second
time!”
“It’s too bad, Frisk,” said Jean. “Never mind; I’ll just take a short
lesson, and then Douglas will have time to take you.”
“Oh, yes, I know what your short time means!” returned Frances
petulantly. “The launch’ll be here by the time you get back! I don’t
believe I’ll have a chance to go in a canoe for a week,—there’s such a
crowd of us! I don’t care—I think it’s mean! I’m just crazy to learn how
to paddle.” She walked away, preferring to stay self-marooned on shore
than to compromise with the despised rowboat and Miss Hamersley.
“Oh, bother! I suppose I’ll have to ask Douglas to give me only half the
time, and then take _her_. It won’t be any kind of a lesson,—just
fifteen minutes!” Jean said to herself, as she went down to the
boat-house. Douglas was waiting for her at the landing, with a canoe.
“That’s a mighty pretty pin you have on,” said he as she joined him. “A
sword and a shield, isn’t it? Is it a class pin?”
“No, it’s the badge of our society. All the girls of my class belong to
the Order of the Silver Sword,” Jean answered.
“All aboard!” said Douglas, holding out his hand to help her. “You sit
there in the bow.” But Jean’s fingers were on her badge, and she held
back.
“Douglas, I wish you’d take Frances instead of me, this time,” she said.
“I don’t want to be selfish. I was in the canoe yesterday, and she
hasn’t been at all. Won’t you please give her a lesson now, and I’ll
wait till to-morrow?”
“Oh, please come! I want to teach _you_,” begged Douglas. “Yesterday
doesn’t count. We start in to-day, and you have the first turn.”
“No, Douglas, please! You know I’d love to, but I want you to take her.
She wants to go ever so much, and I can wait perfectly well.”
“So can she. Come along. You said you would.”
“I know I did, but I want her to go first. Please take her this time.”
Douglas looked at the earnest, resolute face, and a smile broke over his
own. “All right!” he answered. “I’ll take her, but you stay around the
dock. I’ll give her a lesson first, and then I’ll come back for
you—that’s only square! There’s plenty of time for both. It won’t take
_you_ long to learn.”
“Oh, thank you, Douglas, ever so much! I’ll wait right here for you.”
Light-hearted, Jean ran to call Frances, who was roaming about with a
glum face.
“Frisk! Douglas is going to take you out first and give you a lesson,
and then he’s coming back for me,” said Jean. “He says there’s plenty of
time for both of us.”
The sulky face was bright in a twinkling. “Don’t you really mind if I go
first? Honor bright?” asked Frances.
“No. You go first!”
“You’re a peach!” Frances tossed back a kiss as she flew down to the
canoe. Jean followed her to the water’s edge, and waited there, watching
the lesson.
“Oh, Giraffe, it’s simply grand!” cried Frances, as they came in to
shore.
“There’s ten minutes for you, now,” said Douglas, when the second pupil
embarked. It was a short lesson, for the launch was already in sight,
but it was a successful one.
“Now you’re getting the hang of it! That’s first rate!” said Douglas, as
she toiled away at the paddle. And he called to Cecily, as they passed
her canoe, “Miss Jean’s going to beat everybody on the lake, pretty
soon!”
“Douglas,” said his pupil, “please don’t call me _Miss_ Jean. I don’t
like to be called ‘Miss.’ It makes me feel queer. I’m only a little
girl, if I _am_ tall! Please say _Jean_.”
“That isn’t right for the man-of-all-work, is it?”
“I don’t care if you _are_ the man-of-all-work,—you’re a gentleman!” she
answered. “You must say _Jean_!” And Douglas laughed and said, “All
right, Jean!”
That afternoon the first swimming lesson took place, Miss Hamersley and
a few girls who were expert swimmers teaching the “freshies,” as they
dubbed those who had not yet learned to be aquatic. Before many days
were over one would hardly have recognized the pale Jean of Hazelhurst
Hall in the brown and rosy head pupil of Carol’s swimming class. A dip
in the lake before breakfast; later on, boating and swimming; a tramp
every other day, and at least twice a week a picnic, in which Camp
Hurricane usually joined,—that was the rule at Huairarwee.
“I’m going to have my girls taught how to be capsized without drowning,”
said Miss Hamersley, one day. “Mrs. Brook has arranged for Douglas and
Jack to take you out in canoes and show you how to go overboard. They
will take care that you are within your depth, of course.”
So at the close of the swimming, Douglas and Jack in their bathing suits
gave an object lesson with Cecily. They took her far out in a canoe, for
she was a mermaid well used to exploring the green depths of the lake.
Suddenly Douglas stepped upon the gunwale. The canoe went over
instantly, and all three vanished under the waves. The water was stirred
as if giant fishes were disporting themselves, but no heads reappeared.
“Oh, dear! They’re not drowning, are they?” wailed Betty. But just then
Cecily’s head popped up about a rod from where she had gone down. Then
Jack, then Douglas looked out of the water, an amazing distance farther
out. They swam back, however, and recovering the floating bowls which
they had taken with them for bailing, they quickly emptied their craft;
then climbed in over the bow and stern, and paddled back to shore.
“Did we scare you?” said Cecily. “We had a little excursion under
water!”
“Who wants to be spilled now?” asked Jack.
“_I_ don’t!” said Betty.
“I _do_!” cried Jean.
“I’ll let Giraffe go first. It’ll take deep water to drown _her_!” said
the Mouse magnanimously.
Douglas paddled Jean out, while Jack launched another canoe. “Now, when
you feel yourself going,” said he, “just keep your mouth shut and let
yourself go easy, and then strike out and swim.”
Jean shut her mouth and watched his mischievous face intently. The canoe
kept giving disconcerting wobbles, but it was just when the boy had
assumed a look of the utmost innocence that the upset came. Jean let
herself go, and go she did with a mighty splash. Striking out boldly,
she swam till she found herself panting heavily, then let her feet touch
bottom and stood up, head and shoulders out of water.
“Good work!” said Douglas. “No use trying to drown _you_!”
“It’s as easy as going to sleep!” Jean declared.
Douglas gave her a lesson in bailing out while supporting herself in the
water; and then one in reëmbarking, which she found far more difficult,
though after tipping the canoe over several times, she scrambled in
successfully at last.
“Now let’s get Frances, and I’ll swamp you both together,” said Douglas.
The Mouse was emboldened to take her turn, and giggled and squealed as
the boy tipped the canoe from side to side to make it fill.
“Oh, Douglas! Let’s act Jean saving the kingfisher’s life!” Frances
proposed.
“All right!” And with his paddle for a rifle Douglas took aim at Jean.
“Don’t shoot that Giraffe!” shrieked Frances, and lurching forward the
frolicksome maid of honor flung her arms wildly around her queen. The
canoe, already half full, went over like a flash.
“What was it, anyway,—a whale or a tidal wave?” Douglas inquired as they
righted themselves in the water.
“It was nothing but a bad little Mouse, and I’m going to drown her!”
said Jean. She made a pounce for Frances.
“Shoo! Get away! I tried to save your life, when I saw all was lost! You
went down clasped in my arms, Giraffe!” said Frances with reproachful
tenderness, as she protected herself behind Douglas.
“Well, you’ll go down clasped in _my_ arms, this time!” Jean retorted.
She caught Frances at last and ducked her well.
By ones and twos the candidates were initiated; and the lesson was
repeated from time to time, until every girl in camp might have been
trusted to show presence of mind even should she be upset in the middle
of the lake.
CHAPTER XII.
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.
CHAPTER XIII.
PHILANTHROPISTS
“I BELIEVE this summer at Halcyon’s going to beat the one I spent in
France!” Helen Westover made this assertion, as, ringed about a flat
rock, the campers were beginning a beach-tea at Fairy Cove, where a
bight of silver sand held in its embrace an emerald bay. “Just think of
the short time we’ve been here, and all the fun we’ve squeezed into it!”
she continued, “boating, and bathing and tramps and picnics, a jolly
fishing excursion yesterday, and a _beach-tea_ this evening!”
“Don’t forget the straw-ride by moonlight,” said Marion Gaylord.
“Nor the Glorious Fourth, and the fireworks at Hurricane,” added Carol,
who was busy stirring cocoa in the billy.
“I’m so rushed having a good time, I hardly get a chance to look at my
letters,” said Nancy, pulling an unopened envelope from her belt. “I’ll
read this one after tea,—it isn’t polite to read at table.”
“Here comes the scrambled egg!—Hold out your plates,” said Grace
Gardner, advancing, chafing-dish in hand. She and Winifred Russell were
the _chefs_ on this occasion.
Tin plates were held up for their doles of scrambled egg, and tin cups
to receive the steaming cocoa. Cecily and Betty served the lettuce
sandwiches, and Jean and Frances the jumbles; and a delightful supper
party went on while the sun sank low.
“Now, Nancy, read your letter,” said Mrs. Brook, when the last jumble
had disappeared.
“I’ll dish-wash for both of us, Nan,” said Carol. She gathered up
Nancy’s plate, cup and spoon, together with her own, and carried them
down to a convenient spot by the water’s edge, where she was joined by
the rest of the dish-washing squad.
Nancy opened her letter. “Girls, listen to this,” said she to Helen and
Marion, who with Jean were employed near the rock-table, collecting
egg-shells and Japanese doilies. “Here’s my deaconess aunt at me again
to try to make me good! I know she’s worried about me, because she
thinks I’m going to be a giddy butterfly all my life! Now, Motherling,”
she added, turning to Mrs. Brook, “you’ll have to tell me how to answer
this.” And she read:
_My dearest Nancy_,
You were a good girl to write to your auntie and send her such a
vivid description of the happy life at Halcyon. Of course it set me
to thinking how I could make use of my niece. Now, Nan, please look
about and see if you cannot find a kind, motherly woman, who would
take a little girl of six to board for the summer. She is a little
Irish child. Her name is Nanno Donohoe, and I must tell you how she
comes to be a protégée of mine.
The first time I saw her she was fighting with a small Italian boy,
who had taken away her stick of candy. He was a year or two older
than she, but Nanno was having the best of it when I separated them.
I calmed the baby fury, and was rewarded by a most cherubic smile;
and the next time I came that way Nanno flew to meet me. Poor little
mite! She has a wretched home, and a worthless, intemperate father;
and her life is spent on the streets, where she roams at her own
sweet will. I am most anxious to take the child out of her miserable
surroundings for the summer. She needs to be with some kind-hearted
woman who could give her a mother’s care; and if such a person is to
be found at Halcyon, I will bring Nanno up there myself, for I start
next Monday for Lake Placid, where I am to spend part of my
vacation. I am hungry to see you again, Nan dear, and I am sure that
if you see my little Nanno she will win your heart. I am going to
ask you to help me, next winter, by interesting yourself in her.
I must say good-by, now, and go out on my round of visits. But you
will let me hear from you early, will you not?
Your loving aunt,
MARY NEWCOMB.
“No, Auntie, dearest, I will _not_ do charity work next winter! I’ll be
entirely too busy _coming out_!” Nancy protested. “But I’ll try to hunt
up a kind, motherly somebody. Do you know of such an article, Mrs.
Brook?”
“Poor little Nanno! I wish I did!” said the camp-mother. “But you see
there are so few farms around here, and I know there’s no good place for
her in the village. Mrs. Penfield is the only person I can think of whom
I would trust to take proper care of the child,—and she has her hands
full with her own big family and her invalid mother. But we won’t give
up hope. I shall make every inquiry.”
“I should hate to tell Auntie I’m no good, as usual,” said Nancy. “Oh,
dear, if there ever was a lazy, selfish, good-for-nothing little brute,
it’s Nancy Newcomb!”
Jean had stopped clearing the premises to listen to the letter. “Why
can’t we have her _here_ with us?” she asked impetuously.
“Oh, Jean, don’t crowd any more of us on poor Mrs. Brook!” said Nancy.
“Jean, dear,” said Mrs. Brook, “if I were alone here with Cecily, I
would take the child myself gladly. But, you see, I have twenty
daughters to look after. I shouldn’t have a minute left for the care of
Nanno!”
“But _I_ could take care of her!” said Jean.
“_You_, liebchen!” Fräulein exclaimed. “I tink all de care vould come on
_me_. I should haff to keep your baby and you, too, from falling into de
lake!” She laughed and patted Jean’s hand.
Jean colored and said no more. Presently she strolled off along the
beach, deep in thought. When she returned, the dish-washing was over,
and the girls had drawn up in a circle for games and songs.
“Dreamy Queenie, what is it,—a new poem?” asked Carol, as the lone
wanderer threw herself down on the sand, with her head in her Big
Sister’s lap. But Jean did not care to discuss her thoughts before so
large an audience.
A merry hour was passed, while the sun went down and twilight fell; and
when the evening star shone forth the boats were launched and the
campers glided back in the gloaming.
That night, as they were preparing for bed, Jean opened her heart to her
tent-mates about Nanno Donohoe. “Now, girls,” she said, “I have a
perfectly fine plan! I’ve been wild to tell you all the evening! Let’s
adopt Nanno as the Silver Sword baby, and have her come here, and take
care of her all summer! She can sleep right here in our tent,—there’s
plenty of room for an extra cot. And we’ll do everything for her
ourselves, so your mother won’t have any bother at all, Cece.”
“Let’s do it!” cried Frances. “It’ll be lots of fun!”
“Oh, no! She’d be always tagging,” Betty objected, wrinkling up her nose
in distaste. “And we couldn’t possibly make her mind. I tried to manage
my little cousin, once, and that was enough, thank you!”
“But all four of us together,” began Jean.
“My, dear, we couldn’t do it!” Betty declared. “What do _we_ know about
bringing up children? Why we’re not much more than children ourselves!”
Cecily looked doubtful. “It would be ever so nice if we _could_ do such
a thing,” said she. “I love little tots! But I know just how it would
end. Mother’d simply take all the care herself. She wouldn’t trust us to
manage right, and she’d worry for fear we were losing our vacation, and
she’d insist on doing it all, and it would tire her out!”
“But we wouldn’t let her, Cecily,” cried Jean. “_We_’d insist on doing
it all. We wouldn’t let her tire herself one bit!”
“We couldn’t help ourselves,—she’d do it just the same,” said Cecily
positively. “You don’t know Mammykins as I do.”
The argument lasted till they were in bed, but neither could sympathy be
awakened in Betty, nor could Cecily, already beginning to share her
mother’s household cares, be brought around to her queen’s point of
view.
“We could do it perfectly well, without your mother having any bother at
all, if you and Betty had any gumption!” was Jean’s last remark as, much
disappointed, she settled herself to sleep. “I’m going to talk about it
to Carol in the morning, anyway,” she thought, refusing to give up all
hope of carrying out her cherished project.
But next day, before Jean found a chance to consult her, Carol, with
several other girls, drove off to Crystal Lake Junction to get some
necessary materials for the forest festival. After the swimming hour,
Jean caught Frances making up her favorite “apple-pie beds” for her
tent-mates, and chased the Mouse out of doors and into the woods. There
the two climbed into a tree where Douglas had set up perches.
“I don’t care!” said Jean, as they rested among the green boughs. “I
think it’s too mean of Cece and Betty not to be willing to have that
poor little Nanno!”
“I think so too,” agreed Frances, drawing a cookie from the front of her
sailor blouse.
“She must be so dear,—just six!” Jean went on. “We could take care of
her perfectly well. I could do it all myself,—I know I could. I don’t
care what Fräulein says! I’m going to talk it up with Carol. I’ll tell
her I’ll take all the care if she’ll help get her up here, and I’m sure
she will—she’s so fond of children.”
“You don’t need Carol. _I_’ll help you,” said Frances.
“Oh, will you, Miss Apple-pie Beds!”
“Why, of course I will. You needn’t think _you_’re the only one that
wants to do good, Giraffe! _I_ belong to the Silver Sword just as much
as you do! And I’m going to give up my life to good works. I’ve always
done _bad_ works before, but I’m going to _change_!” said Frances
solemnly.
“Oh, yes! Much _you_’ll change!” laughed Jean. Frances nibbled the edge
of her cookie with her front teeth, trimming off the circumference
neatly, and her face had a new expression—one of serious intent.
Suddenly her black eyes danced.
“Oh, Jean!” she cried. “I have a dandy idea! Let’s club together, just
you and me, and write to Nancy’s aunt to send Nanno up! We’ll pay for it
all, and adopt her between us.”
Jean was suspicious as to the extent of her maid-of-honor’s earnestness,
but she needed a helper; and to persuade Frances to do any Silver Sword
work at all would be in itself an achievement.
“Frisk, we can! Let’s do it!” she said. “I know you just want to for a
lark, but _I_’m in dead earnest!”
“So am I,” said the Mouse gravely.
“Well, if you’ll club together with me, we can do it as easy as
anything,” said Jean. “We can manage her perfectly, if you’ll behave
yourself.”
“Look here,” said Frances. “We must keep it a dead secret till we have
her here, and then we’ll spring her on the crowd!”
“We mustn’t do anything of the kind. We’d get ourselves into an awful
scrape! We’ll have to ask permission, of course. I’m going to speak to
Mrs. Brook about it as soon as she gets back from the Hamiltons’. Now
let’s count up and see if we have money enough. I have four dollars, and
I get five more the first of August.”
“I’ve spent all my allowance,” said Frances. “But I have the money for
my fare home again. I’ll use that. They’ll have to send me some more
then,—they can’t leave me up here all winter!”
“Then I’ll have another five in September,” said Jean. “Why, Frisk,
we’ll have a bouncing fund! Now let’s get the letter written. I’ll get
some paper and a pen, and we can do it all up right here!” Jean lowered
herself to the ground, and when she re-climbed the tree Carol’s fountain
pen was in her hair, and a pad of note-paper between her teeth.
“I don’t believe she’ll mind pad paper, do you?” said she. “It was all I
could find. I’m sure deaconesses don’t care about silly little things
like that.”
“No, she’d _rather_ have it plain,” said Frances. “You’ll have to write
it,—you’re an author!”
“Oh, dear! How do I begin?” sighed Jean. “I don’t know whether you ought
to say, ‘Dear Deaconess,’ or ‘Dear Miss Newcomb,’ or ‘Dear Sister Mary.’
Aren’t deaconesses _Sisters_?”
“You ought to say, ‘Right Reverend,’” said Frances.
“You say ‘Right Reverend’ to _bishops_, goose!” laughed Jean.
“I never spoke to a bishop,” said the Mouse.
“Well, I’ll say, ‘Dear Deaconess.’ Here goes!” and Jean wrote it down.
“Um-m! What now? We ought to tell her who we are, oughtn’t we?”
“Say ‘We are a Mouse and a Giraffe,’” said Frances. Jean shrieked, then
groaned. “Oh, pshaw! The old pen’s leaked all over my fingers! Now,
Frisk, behave yourself! This is _serious_. If we don’t express it right,
she’ll think we’re babies, and she won’t trust us.”
Jean frowned over her page, but was soon ready with—
_My dear Deaconess_,
We are two of the girls of Mrs. Brook’s camp. We are very sorry for
poor little Nanno Donohoe. We wish to have her come here, and we
will keep her all summer. We will take all the care of her and pay
her expenses, and I, Jean, will be responsible for her.
“Say, ‘And I, Frances, will make her my heir,’” said the Mouse.
“I won’t!”
“I’ll put it in myself, then!”
“You sha’n’t! Let go of the pen! Oh, now, look! You made me blot it. Now
don’t cut up, but _think_! Let me see,—‘We send ten dollars for her fare
up.’”
“No, child! That isn’t business-y a bit! Say, ‘Enclosed please find.’”
“That isn’t bad,” Jean assented, and she wrote:
Enclosed please find ten dollars for her fare up. Please be sure to
let her come, for we promise to do our very best to take good care
of her.
“How shall I finish it up? ‘Yours sincerely?’ That doesn’t sound right
to a deaconess. I’ll say, ‘Respectfully yours.’”
“No, say, ‘Your obedient servants,’” Frances advised.
“No, ma’am! Stop making fun of everything, will you! There! Sign your
name, and don’t write ‘Frisky Mouse.’”
“I _will_.” But instead, the Mouse discreetly added, ‘Frances E. Browne’
to the ‘Jean Lennox.’
“Now for the address,” said Jean. “I saw the letter from the deaconess
on Nan’s bed when I went for the pen, and the address was stamped on
it.” They went down together to examine the envelope, and Jean directed
her own, refusing to put ‘Rev.’ before ‘Deaconess Newcomb,’ as Frances
insisted was correct. They set aside the ten dollars for Nanno’s
travelling expenses; then, leaving the letter on Jean’s pincushion, they
strolled out, talking over their plan.
“There’s Motherling now, and Rose Hamilton. I wonder what Rose has got
in that big basket,” said Jean.
“Here’s my contribution to the festival,” called Rose. Jean ran to meet
her, and together they went into the bungalow to unpack the basket.
Frances, meanwhile, returned to her tent. Half an hour later Jean came
out and found Frances swinging in the hammock.
“Frisk,” she said, “Let’s ask Motherling right away.”
“No use speaking _now_, because I’ve _sent_ it!” replied Frances.
“Sent the letter! Frances Browne! What do you mean?”
“Yes’m, I’ve sent it,” said the Mouse. “The grocer’s boy was here just
now, so I put in the ten dollars and gave it to him to mail. We can’t
get it back now—he was going right down to the village.”
“Frisky,—you sinner!”
“We’d have been stopped off if I’d waited for you to tell,” said Frances
calmly. “I corrected the address—I put in the ‘Rev.’”
“Oh, Frances! You’ve spoiled it all! She’ll think we’re idiots!”
For a moment Jean stared in dismay at her colleague in good works; then
she dropped down on the grass in a spasm of hysterical laughter. “I
don’t care! I’m glad it’s gone!” she declared. “They can’t have the
heart to stop her, now she’s invited!” Suddenly she grew serious. “We’ll
have a nice time, now, owning up, Miss Mouse!”
“If we have any sense we won’t own up till she gets here,” the
diplomatic Mouse responded.
“If we have any sense we’ll own up right straight off!” said Jean. “We
_must_ tell.”
“Oh, priggy! you make me sick and tired!” said Frances. “We’re in the
scrape, and for pity’s sake let’s get a little fun out of it! _I_’m not
going to tell, anyway; and if you go and say _I_ mailed the letter,
you’ll be mean!”
“I won’t say _you_ mailed it. I’ll leave you to speak for yourself, if
you’re not too much of a ’fraid-cat! I’ll say the letter got mailed, and
I’ll refuse to tell how.”
“Well, don’t you suppose, if you go and say that, they’ll guess who
mailed it? They’ll know a goody-goody like _you_ wouldn’t do it.”
“This isn’t goody-goody, child,—it’s common sense!” said Jean.
“Well, Nanno won’t get here, then—that’s all there is about it!”
declared Frances, anxious to delay the hour of retribution. “Wait till
she gets here, and then here she _is_, and they can’t pack her off home
again!”
“They’ll pack _us_ off, then!” said Jean. “I can’t help it if they do
stop her from coming,—it would be downright sneaky not to tell.”
“Oh, priggetty-prig!” grumbled Frances, but her sovereign was armed with
the golden shield of Veritas, and there was no altering the royal
decree.
As Jean was turning away toward the bungalow the carriage drove up,
bringing home the party of shoppers. Carol alighted, to find Jean with a
knitted brow.
“What’s happened to you, Queenie?” she asked. “You look as if the cares
of state were too much for you!”
“Carolie, I’m in an awful scrape,” whispered Jean. She drew Carol to a
safe nook under the trees, and her confession, ending with “and the
letter got mailed,” sent her friend off into a peal of laughter.
“Go ahead, Queen of the Silver Sword!” cried Carol. “You’re doing nobly!
There won’t be a corner of the world left to better, pretty soon, if you
keep on at this glorious rate! Bring on your orphan asylum, and put me
in as assistant matron! _There_’s the person that mailed the letter!”
she added, pointing to Frances, who was peeping around a tree.
“I couldn’t think of anything but saving that poor neglected child!”
said Frances solemnly.
“_You_ couldn’t think of anything but scala-waggery!” Carol retorted.
“Well, you’re in a pretty pickle, you two, but I’ll do my best to help
you out of it. Come along and throw yourselves on the Motherling’s
mercy!” She escorted the culprits up to the bungalow veranda, where
their summer sisters and the camp-mother were awaiting the call to
dinner.
“Motherling, we have a confession to make,” said Carol.
“The Queen of the Silver Sword wrote a letter,
All on a summer’s day.
The knave of the Silver Sword stole that letter,
And sent it far away!
“Out with it, your majesty!”
Then Jean and Frances made a joint confession.
“Oh, you monkeys!” exclaimed Nancy, laughing till the tears rolled down
her cheeks. But Mrs. Brook looked grave. “My dear children,” she said,
“didn’t you know you should have spoken to me before you even _wrote_
the letter? Frances, it was a great breach of good manners to send off
an invitation, asking a guest to my house, without my permission!”
Jean turned scarlet, and Frances gazed meekly at her shoes.
“Well, what’s to be done about it?” asked Carol.
“It would be too bad to disappoint Miss Newcomb now,” said Mrs. Brook.
“But if Nanno comes, Jean and Frances must take care of her as they
promised.”
“Of course! That’s what I meant to do,” said Jean gratefully. “You won’t
have one bit of trouble.”
“Oh, my reverend aunt, won’t she be ecstatic!” cried Nancy. “She’ll
dance a horn-pipe and say ‘that sweet Frances and Jean are cut out for
deaconesses!’”
The camp-mother looked at the group of laughing girls. “All the rest of
my daughters will be ready to welcome the little one, will they not?”
she asked.
“We’d be a pack of selfish old maids if we weren’t!” said Carol. “It’ll
be jolly to have a little tottie like that to cuddle! Let’s have her for
our mascot! And let’s organize ourselves into a regiment of nursery
maids and help along. I trust Francie-Prancie not to wear herself out
over her maternal cares, but I’m afraid Queenie’ll work off the one
pound she’s gained. Come now,—all in favor of the Camp Baby—!” Before
she could finish the formula seventeen merry voices came out with a
unanimous “Ay!”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CAMP BABY
“If your majesty thinks Betty and I are going to let you and Frisky take
all the care of Nanno, you’re mightily mistaken,” said Cecily, when the
adoption of Nanno Donohoe had been agreed upon. “We’ll do half the work,
won’t we, Betsy? She’s going to be the Silver Sword baby just as much as
the Camp Baby, isn’t she?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose we’ll have to help along,” said Betty lazily. “We’re
in for it now! But you won’t catch Frisk doing anything except teach her
monkey-shines,—I can tell you that!”
In the afternoon, while the Mouse was listening to a severe lecture from
Fräulein Bunsen, Nancy dispatched a letter to her aunt, endorsing the
invitation, and two days later Jean and Frances received a note
containing thanks that came straight from Miss Newcomb’s grateful heart.
On the following Tuesday, the deaconess said, she and her little charge
would reach Crystal Lake Junction, and before going on to Lake Placid
she would give Nanno over to her niece, who had promised to be there to
meet the Camp Baby.
Tuesday came, and just before tea-time Jean, Betty, Cecily and Frances
were strolling up and down, watching impatiently for the arrival of the
carriage with Miss Hamersley, Nancy and the little guest of Camp
Huairarwee. Presently Jean’s cry, “They’re coming!” brought together a
welcoming group of girls.
The carriage stopped in front of the bungalow. “Here’s your baby!” said
Douglas who was driving. “She’s been asleep most of the way over. Wake
up, Nanno!” He dropped the reins and lifted a bundle which had been
lying half on the front seat and half on his lap. A small face became
visible, and they heard a sleepy sigh and murmur.
“She’s a perfect love!” said Nancy, springing down from the back seat.
“I’ll get down and lift her out,” said Douglas.
“No, I’ll take her!”
“No, give her to _me_!”
“Ah, no, give her to _me_!”
Carol, Eunice and Marion, who stood nearest, all stretched out their
arms at once.
“Here we go, baby! That’s the way!” And Douglas put Nanno into the
nearest pair of arms, which happened to be Carol’s. “I’ll carry her in
for you,” he said, jumping down. “No, no, you sha’n’t have her!”
returned Carol. “Oh, you baby-kitten! You darling, little, sleepy
thing!” She carried Nanno into the bungalow, the other girls following,
and the living-room at once became the scene of homage.
Carol seated herself in an armchair with Nanno on her lap, and Cecily
and Jean went down on their knees before the wicker throne.
“Isn’t she the duckiest!” said Nancy. “Now we’ll have Big Nan and Little
Nan!” and down she knelt too. The others pressed as close as they could,
and there, amid her cluster of admirers, Nanno awoke.
Various had been the portraits of the camp baby drawn by the fancy of
the girls; but no one had pictured Nanno as she really was,—a perfect
little _Mavourneen_. She had long black lashes, and they lifted and fell
and lifted again, showing the company two big Irish blue eyes. Her thick
black hair tumbled about her neck in waves and rings. She had a
bewitching noselet, a wide rosy mouth with dimples at the corners, and a
dimple in her pretty chin. Her cheeks were flushed from her nap, and her
skin had a lovely baby softness,—for not even six years of life in the
midst of dirt and neglect had been able to destroy the bloom of this
little Irish flower. Mavourneen stretched her arms and yawned and sat
up, blinking at the strange world into which she had awakened. The
corners of her mouth went up in the sunniest fashion, her dimples grew
deeper, and then a soft, little, musical voice inquired, “Where’s de
feller?”
“The fellow who brought you here?” asked Carol. “Why, he’s gone to take
the horse to bed, but you’ll see him again to-morrow morning.”
Nanno tipped her head on one side. “He’s awful nice,” she murmured.
“You little coquette!” cried Carol, giving her a squeeze.
Nanno saw people laughing and concluded that this new world was at least
a cheerful one. Her smile broadened, and she gave a chuckle. Then she
nestled her head back in the hollow of Carol’s shoulder, looked up with
her happy blue eyes and asked, “Is you Miss Jean?”
“No, sweetheart, I’m Miss Carol. _That_’s Miss Jean, and that’s Miss
Frances. They’re giving the money so you can be here. Isn’t that lovely
of them?”
“And you’re going to have a fine time, Nanno, and lots and lots of fun,”
said Jean.
“Nanno, you are my daughter,” said Frances. “You must call me Mother
Browne.” But Nanno declined with a gentle shake of her head. “Ah, g’wan!
I’m me own mommer’s goil,” she answered.
“You’re our baby, though, you precious lamb. You’re the Camp Baby!” said
Cecily, and an indignant little voice remonstrated, “I _ain’t_ a baby!
I’m six, goin’ on siven!”
“Where did you get that pretty dress, Nanno?” asked Marion.
“De Sister give it to me. She gimme lots o’ clo’s yisterday. See me new
shoes, an’ me hat,—an’ me cawt, ain’t it lovully!”
“Beautiful!” they assured her.
Amelie, the little Canadian waitress, came in just then with a tray. “I
bring de bébé she’s supper. I tink she lak to have heem now,” said she
in her odd Canuck dialect.
“Let _me_ give her her supper,” said Jean. “I want to make friends with
her.”
“Well, if you give her her supper, I’ll put her to bed,” said Betty, who
had lost her heart the instant those big blue eyes had looked into hers.
“I’ll dress her in the morning,” said Cecily.
“I can dress mesilf an’ me baby too! I don’t need nobody to dress _me_,”
said Nanno.
“Who’s your baby? Your little brother?” asked Eunice, and the musical
voice cried, “Sure!”
Carol set the independent little woman in a chair at the table before
the tray of cream toast, milk, and sugared raspberries; and while the
others went off to prepare for their own supper Jean and Cecily stayed
to wait upon Nanno.
“Wot’s dis?” the little girl inquired, and she looked critically at the
contents of her soup plate.
“That’s nice milk-toast. There’s your spoon. Now see how good it is,”
said Cecily.
Nanno took a generous mouthful and ate it thoughtfully, after which she
plunged her spoon into the raspberries.
“Oh, eat your toast first, dear!” Cecily remonstrated. Nanno peacefully
swallowed her berries almost whole and took another spoonful of her
dessert.
“Don’t you like your toast?” asked Jean.
“Nope,” replied Nanno. Then, with a smile which said “But be consoled,
my friends,” she added, “I like _thim_,” and shovelled up another
spoonful of raspberries.
“But you’ll like your toast with lots of _sugar_ on it!” said Jean, and
the despised dish, thickly snowed over, agreed with Nanno’s palate.
“You want to drink your milk too, dear,” Cecily reminded her, and she
held up the glass invitingly.
“I drink _tea_!” said Nanno.
“Tea!” exclaimed Jean. “Why, Nanno, that’s dreadful for you! It’ll make
you grow all yellow like a Chinaman!”
Nanno did not seem alarmed, for she proudly informed them, “Me baby
drinks tea too.”
“Your baby brother!” gasped Cecily.
“Horrors! how old is he?” cried Jean.
“Five munts.”
“Wive months, and drinks tea!” Jean fairly shrieked. “Why, Cece, won’t
he kill himself?”
“He might as well take poison!” declared Cecily.
“Have you any other little brothers or sisters?” asked Jean.
“Me sister Katy.”
“How old’s Katy?”
“Dunno. She’s dead.”
“Oh, is she dead? Poor little Katy!” Jean was disconcerted to have
brought up a family sorrow; but Nanno seemed to find pleasure in
reminiscence.
“She died of ammonia,” she explained, Jean and Cecily looked at each
other and bit their lips.
“We had a wake an’ candles!” Nanno went on. “It was awful pretty! An’ I
rode in a carriage to the funeral! I like funerals.”
“You cunning thing!” laughed Jean. “_You_ didn’t have ‘ammonia,’ did
you?”
“Nope,” said Nanno regretfully, and added brightening, “But me toofs is
fallin’ out!” She opened her mouth and displayed a hole being filled up
with a coming white tooth. Then she fell into a revery over her toast.
“Do you think she’s getting h-o-m-e-s-i-c-k?” asked Jean anxiously.
“No, I think she’s only sleepy,” replied Cecily.
“I think I’ll get the d-o-l-l, anyway,” said Jean. She ran to their tent
and came back with the doll, to buy which a ten-miles drive had been
taken. It was the largest the shop had afforded,—a staring blonde, in a
scarlet dress and toque made by Cecily.
“Aw! ain’t she lovully!” Nanno jumped down from her chair and received
the gay beauty into her arms. She cuddled it, gazed at it, kissed it,
and talked to it in her soft brogue, her smile stretching nearly to her
little pink ears, and nothing less than love-light in her blue eyes.
“Aw, look at her shoes! Look at her stockin’s! Aw, she’s got a petticawt
wid lace!”
“What are you going to name her?” asked Jean.
“Katy,” replied Nanno promptly. “She’s goin’ to have a wake an’ lots an’
lots of candles!”
But Nanno was too sleepy to hold a _wake_ that night, and the black
lashes were dropping again by the time that Betty and Frances, Nancy and
Carol, came to put her to bed in the tiny bedroom of the bungalow where
Amelie, too, was to sleep and be the night-guardian of the camp baby.
“She’s as good as gold. We’re not going to have a bit of trouble with
her,” said Betty, the Sandman having rendered Nanno a docile cherub.
“She’s a little rascal!” was Jean’s verdict, however, when she and
Cecily had labored for nearly an hour over their baby’s toilet the next
morning. Nanno had awakened with opinions of her own, strongly
prejudiced against the cold sponge bath to which Jean tried to entice
her; firmly resolved to dress herself without assistance, and vehemently
objecting to having a comb brought in contact with her tangled curls.
“Nanno, which would you rather be? A nice, clean, pretty little girl, or
a piggy?” Jean had solemnly demanded, and Nanno’s unhesitating choice
had been the “piggy.” Alas, for the queen of the Silver Sword and her
bright dream of bringing up a daughter of the order! Alas, for the
princess of the Treasure, who had triumphantly robed the camp baby in
her nightgown, and who, before twenty-four hours were over, was reduced
to offering bribes of cookies and fudge to bring Nanno to obedience!
It soon became clear that the one person in the whole camp of whom Nanno
stood in awe, the only one for whose mandates she cared a pin, was Mrs.
Brook. For her own lawful guardians, and the regiment of nursery maids,
she had no reverence whatever. Jean, Cecily and Betty coaxed, pleaded
and threatened. Little Miss Independence listened with her head on one
side, dimpling mouth, and roguery in her eyes, and proceeded to carry
out her own little plans unless withheld by main force. Frances looked
on at the struggles of her friends with the serenity of a Buddha, always
ready to encourage them with: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try
again!” but shamelessly refusing to take her share of the good work,
though Jean scolded, and even shook the faithless co-guardian.
Jean’s cares might have proved too much for even her determined spirit,
if Mrs. Brook had not come to the rescue and provided Nanno with a
companion of suitable age. Little Leila Myra Penfield, who lived on a
farm near by,—received a standing invitation to come to the camp and
play with Nanno. Leila Myra quickly succumbed to Mavourneen’s tyranny,
and acted as if the little Irish witch had cast a spell upon her; for no
matter how often she departed in tears, leaving Nanno victorious after a
quarrel, she was back again the next day. The two children had gone to
housekeeping under the trees one hot afternoon. Eunice, reading in the
hammock near by, heard an indignant “Le’ go! It’s mine!” and looked up
to see the six-year-old hostess and her guest fighting for the
possession of the doll’s go-cart. She went to arbitrate, but Nanno met
her argument that Leila Myra was _company_, with the counter-argument,
“De go-cart’s _mine_!” So Eunice knelt down with an arm around each
claimant and explained the Golden Rule in alluring terms. “And now,” she
ended, “we’ll see which little girl is going to have the pleasure of
giving up to the other.” She returned to her book confident that there
would henceforth be harmony. Presently a pitiful wail, followed by the
rattling of the go-cart, made her glance up again. Leila Myra was
retiring in tears to the kitchen, to be consoled by Amelie, and Nanno
was gleefully cantering along dragging her property after her.
“Miss Unie, dear!” called the camp baby. “Leila Myra’s had the pleasure
of givin’ up to me!”
“Isn’t she as good as a circus!” said Nancy, when Eunice reported her
success as a peacemaker to her tent-mates.
The mist hung over the lake, and the hills were looking out of
cloud-blankets the next morning when, soon after dawn, Miss Hamersley
stood on the shore with the four battle maids, watching Douglas and
Jack, each with a guide-boat, pulling for the dock. They were to row to
the foot of Eagle Cliff and climb the hill in time to see the sunrise.
Miss Hamersley, Frances and Cecily put off in Jack’s boat, and Jean and
Betty followed with Douglas. Jean had just taken up the long green
paddle to steer, when they heard a gleeful little shout from the land.
Looking back they saw a scarlet-robed fairy dancing gaily down the bank.
“There’s Nanno!” groaned Jean and Betty together.
Nanno it was, arrayed in the red flannel wrapper laboriously made for
her by her guardians, and carrying her doll now divested of clothing.
“Hello, Pug-nose!” called Douglas.
“Nanno, go back! Go right straight back to bed again!” cried Jean in
desperation. “Oh, bother! I’ll have to take her back myself!”
“Katy’s goin’ bathin’!” shouted Nanno, trotting down to the pebbly
strand.
“Nanno! Go back! Don’t go into the water!—Oh, there she goes! Douglas,
take me back quick!” Douglas backed water, but before they reached the
shore the mischief was done. Nanno had waded out into the ripples,
letting the skirt of her wrapper trail in the lake as she
conscientiously ducked her child.
“Oh, look at that little rascal! Now I can’t go at all!” said Jean.
“I’ll have to get her dressed as quick as I can.”
“No, I’ll stay home and dress her this time,” said Betty. “It’s my
turn.”
“You sha’n’t do it! I promised I’d take care of the little bother and
I’m going to!” answered Jean.
“We’ll row around a little and come back for you when you’ve dressed
Pug,” said Douglas.
“No—there’s no use my trying to go anywhere, now she’s awake. You’ll
have to go without me,” returned Jean petulantly.
“Katy’s gettin’ nice an’ clean, now,—she was awful dirty!” said Nanno,
as the boat hit the dock.
“You naughty little monkey! I don’t see why you couldn’t have stayed
asleep!” grumbled Jean. “Oh, dear, look at your wrapper! It’s soaking!
And you’ve spoiled your nice worsted slippers!”
“Dey ain’t spiled,—dey’ll dry,” Nanno assured her placidly. Jean led her
up to the bungalow with the air of an irate nursery-maid, but Nanno was
in a joyous humor, and proved it by all sorts of antics while she was
being dressed.
“Now stand still and don’t hop! I can’t button a thing! Nanno, if you
don’t behave this minute, I’ll tell Mrs. Brook!” Jean threatened. Nanno
paused on one foot, her head cocked sidewise.
“Ah, Nanno, if you’ll only be good, I’ll tell you a lovely fairy-story
as soon as you’re dressed,” pleaded Jean. And Nanno yielded to bribery.
Jean soon had her charge dressed and munching gingersnaps. “Tell me the
story now,” said the child as they strolled out hand in hand.
“Yes, yes,—I will,” answered Jean. “Let me see—.” She gazed up at the
sky where the silver mist was giving place to rosy clouds. “I’ll tell
you about the Sunrise Fairies. See that great pink cloud, Nanno! That’s
the house where the fairies of the sunrise live.” And her good humor
returned as she invented a tale about the elfin children who played in
the sunrise palace, and sailed through the sky in beautiful cloud boats.
“Dey sell ice-pie up dere,” Nanno interrupted, with a yearning for the
products of the New York push-carts.
“Oh, no, they don’t! But they have lovely pink cloud ice cream.”
“Me an’ you’s goin’ to live up dere,” said Nanno, when the story was
over. “When we get dere, I’ll give you a pink kiss!”
“Why, Babykins, what’s a pink kiss?” Jean asked.
“It’s de best kind.”
“And you’ll give me one? How beautiful!”
“Yis, an’ I’m goin’ to give Miss Francie a lovully red kiss!” said
Nanno, who had a profound admiration for the Mouse. “An’ I’ll give Miss
Cecy a blue one.”
“And what will you give Miss Betty?”
“Oh, dest a white one,—dat’s good enough for _her_.” Nanno had found
Betty less long-suffering than Cecily and Jean. “I’ll give Douglas a red
kiss, an’ a blue kiss, an’ a yeller kiss,—an’ a _green_ kiss!” she
added, loyal to the color of the shamrock. “An’ I’ll give _Fryline_ a
ugly _black_ kiss!”
“Poor Fräulein!” laughed Jean, recalling the little teacher’s endeavors
to discipline the spoilt pet of the camp. “Aren’t you going to give
anybody but me a _pink_ kiss?”
Nanno shook her head. “Nope; dey’s all for you, ’cause I love you
_best_.” At this Jean hugged the giver of kisses till she wriggled
herself free. It was worth losing the sunrise excursion to find that she
had won Mavourneen’s heart.
CHAPTER XV.
A MIDSUMMER DAY’S DREAM
The Forest Festival came off a few days after Nanno had become an inmate
of Camp Huairarwee. The letters appealing for contributions had been
answered by the arrival of mysterious packages which kept the girls in
constant excitement; and on the eve of the great event two donations
from unexpected sources were handed in.
“Look what Leila Myra’s mother made for us!” said Jean, running up to
Carol and displaying a worsted disk crocheted in various inharmonious
shades of green, and adorned with a woolly border of loops.
“What on earth is it?” asked Carol.
“A lamp mat,” replied Jean. “Isn’t it _excruciating_! It sets my teeth
on edge! Oh, dear!” she laughed. “I nearly broke my shield of truth
trying to send a nice polite message of thanks. I _couldn’t_ say it was
pretty, but I said it was just right for the festival, because it was
green, like moss. That was true, I’m sure!”
“A lamp mat!” Carol repeated. “Lamp capsizer, I should say, with that
hummocky border! Let’s put it on the fern table and label it, ‘Moss from
the Penfield Farm.’”
Limpy herself had been deeply interested in the coming festival, little
suspecting for whom its proceeds were intended. When Jean and Cecily
paid her a call that afternoon she showed them a quaint little box,
covered with small fir-cones interspersed with acorns, and the whole
varnished over till it shone.
“It’s for the festival,” she said shyly. “Douglas made me the box an’
got the cones an’ acorns, an’ I put ’em on. Do you like it?” She looked
up anxiously. Jean and Cecily were able to pronounce the offering “too
dear for anything,” without risk to their golden shields, and Limpy
colored with pleasure at the compliments her handiwork received.
“A Midsummer Day’s Dream”—that was what Dr. Hamilton named the Forest
Festival, to which all the other campers on the lake and the guests from
Halcyon Inn came flocking the following afternoon, and from which they
went away laden with all sorts of woodland trophies. The visitors came
by boat and canoe; and when they had paid their admittance fees to
Douglas, who was stationed on the landing, the first hostesses to
welcome them to the forest fairy-land were two water-nymphs, who sat at
the entrance of a grotto, an inviting little nook in the rocks above the
beach. Both were crowned with wreaths of pond-lilies in full bloom, and
their bare necks and arms were adorned with chains and bracelets of lily
stems. Their hair flowed loose over their shoulders, and the nymph with
the long dark locks and the deep blue eyes wore a robe white as the foam
on the crest of a wave; while her sunny-haired, hazel-eyed sister was
all in sea-green, which surely meant that she had come up from the
waters of Huairarwee bay.
Jean and Cecily had taken nymph-hood on themselves, to serve orange and
raspberry ice and lemonade, and they kept these appropriately watery
delicacies in the cool depths of their grotto. Most beguiling lorelei
they proved themselves. Of the guests that they lured to their retreat
some returned a second, one or two even a third time, and every now and
then a white nymph or a green one would come flying up to the kitchen
(where Marie the cook and her daughters, Amelie and Toinette, were busy
over large freezers) and call “_More ice, please!_”
Two fairies, the Fern Fairy and the Fruit Fairy, held sway on the top of
the bank. Betty was the Fern Fairy; great plumy ferns covered her white
dress, and her rosy face smiled at her customers from under a wreath of
maidenhair. Before her was a rustic table covered with a bank of moss;
and set forth on the green counter were birch-bark ferneries, big and
little, filled with moss and ferns, with scarlet bunch-berries and
partridge-berries to give them a tinge of brightness. Frances, the Fruit
Fairy, was literally overgrown with blackberry and strawberry vines from
her neck to the hem of her skirt; and on her head was a thimble-berry
crown, the fruit itself, ripe and crimson, peeping out from under its
leaves. Like Betty she had a rustic table covered with moss, but her
wares were blueberries, huckleberries, wild raspberries, and even a few
belated strawberries, to be sold in their birch-bark baskets, or served
in saucers with sugar and cream.
The older girls had transformed themselves into trees. In a leafy booth
stood Eunice, Nancy, Grace and Winifred, their peaked caps, their belts
and the trimmings of their white gowns made of the bark of the golden
and the silver birch. Eunice and Nancy represented golden birches.
Eunice, with her fair hair fluffing out from under her shining yellow
headdress, was a tall and stately tree, and Nancy was the breeziest
little sapling that ever grew. Grace and Winifred were the silver
birches. The four girls had charge of a table on which was displayed
every imaginable device in birch bark, from glove-boxes to napkin rings;
and they also carried on a brisk traffic in Mrs. Brook’s home-made birch
beer.
Near by, where the evergreens made a natural bower, stood a table laden
with balsam cushions, a variety of fancy articles and samples of the
girls’ own wood-carving. The pine trees and the balsams presided over
it. Helen and Marion were the pine trees; tufts of pine needles formed
their garlands and, together with cones, trimmed their dresses. Ruth and
Dorothy were the balsams, wearing wreaths and ruffles of spicy balsam
foliage; and it was Ruth, who, having exhibited Limpy’s box and told the
story of its making, sold it to a sympathetic old gentleman for the
extravagant price of five dollars.
Then came a booth of beech and elder boughs. Here were Hope and Olive,
graceful young beeches, and Katrina and Louise, their gowns decked with
clusters of scarlet elderberries. At their table the classic beech leaf
and glowing elderberry appeared, painted by the camp artists, Marion and
Cecily, on dinner cards and blotters, paper folders and picture frames,
and embroidered on dainty pieces of needlework.
Gladys, Ethel and Pamela, with their leafy trimmings and coronets, were
pronounced the sweetest of sugar maples, and very popular was _their_
booth, for their wares were delicious maple-sugar cakes and candies.
But the queen of the whole forest was Carol, the Christmas tree, and to
her all the children made an instantaneous rush, on landing. The top of
a baby spruce reared itself above her sunny chestnut curls; sprays cut
from spruce saplings adorned her bodice and made her broad collar.
Branches rayed out from her skirt just as the boughs of a good old
Christmas tree should spread; and she shone resplendent with chains and
balls of colored glass and showers of tinsel. At her feet was a basket
full of toys and nicknacks wrapped up in red tissue paper, and being a
most ungenerous and mercenary tree, she allowed no gift to be drawn
until ten cents had been dropped into the Christmas stocking that she
held.
Flitting hither and thither, and much enamored of the Christmas tree,
was Nanno, who had changed her name to Black-eyed Susan. She was dressed
in bright yellow paper petals, and wore a gigantic paper
black-eyed-susan for a hat. The basket she carried was filled with wild
flowers—daisies, feathery meadow-rue and early asters; and her
irresistible Irish eyes and brogue, as she announced that her posies
were “foive cints a bunce,” caused her wares to vanish so early that she
ran in tears to the sea-nymphs, and had to be consoled with raspberry
ice.
With fairies and nymphs and lovely tree maidens to welcome them, it was
no wonder that the guests who attended the Forest Festival awoke from
their “Midsummer Day’s Dream” to find their arms full of parcels and
their purses light. Court was destined to awake absolutely penniless. He
bought souvenirs from every table; he would have had far more than his
share of toys had not the Christmas tree warded him off with a prickly
branch; and he kept sending back his sherbet glass to be refilled with
ices till Cecily declared: “You sha’n’t have another spoonful, or there
won’t be any left for other people! You’re worse than Jack!” His sister
Rose, beholding his increasing bundles, ironically inquired whether he
expected their great-aunt, Miss Van Courtlandt, to pay his bills for
him; but her sarcasm only incited him to purchase the Penfield lampmat.
“My, oh, my! That’s the thing to bring a tip from Aunt Sarah!” Court
exclaimed, lifting the woolly green horror from Betty’s fern table.
“I’ll send it to her for a present, and tell her I made it for her! Now
I can afford to spend my last ten cents on the Christmas tree! Hooray!
I’ll be a millionaire!”
Court went home with the lamp mat pinned on his coat for a rosette. He
paid Camp Huairarwee another call, however, as the twilight was falling
and the girls were watching for Douglas to return after his supper to
build their camp-fire.
“Douglas will be a little late this evening,” said Court. “He had
something to attend to, so I thought I’d offer my services to start your
fire. Have you counted up the money yet?”
“Yes,” Jean answered triumphantly, “and we’ve cleared seventy-three
dollars and forty-nine cents! Of course we raised it to seventy-five.”
“Good!” said Court. “Now, when I’m hard up I can borrow from Miss Stella
Olympia.”
To celebrate their success he made alarming inroads on Mrs. Brook’s
woodpile, and built the girls a magnificent bonfire. The flames were
just beginning to leap high, when Jean, glancing out over the lake,
exclaimed, “For pity’s sake what _is_ that _creature_?”
The others followed her gaze. An extraordinary and gigantic monster,
shadowy and mysterious in the dusk, had entered the bay and was swimming
toward their beach.
“What under the moon and canopy!” cried Carol.
“It’s the weirdest thing I ever saw in my life!” said Marion. “It’s
positively scary!”
“It’s alive!” cried Betty.
“It’s spouting fire!” exclaimed Cecily.
“It’s a fiery dragon! It is! It is!” cried Jean. “Look at its snaky
tail!”
“Oh, dear!” Frances, lamented. “I’m going to be gobbled up, and my mammy
and my daddy won’t know what’s become of me! I knew I was too good to
live!”
“It has a dorsal fin!” said Nancy. “Girls, it’s a sea-serpent!”
“Oh, joy!” said Carol. “The plesiosaurus has been sighted at last by
creditable witnesses! He’s a cultured and enlightened plessy, with a
fire in his jaws to roast us nicely before he swallows us.”
“He’s a vertebrate, whatever else he is!” said Eunice. “There’s a spinal
column for you!”
The colossal vertebrate was fully a hundred feet long, and to the eyes
of the girls his jointed tail looked at least twice that length. He had
a superb dorsal fin, and his monstrous head was upreared high above the
water. His eyes shone with red fire, his jaws were thrown wide, and he
was breathing out flames and smoke.
“He’s glaring at us with his fiery eyes!” said Jean.
“He’s a sea-serpent with a vengeance!” said Helen. “Look! He’s turning
this way! He’s making straight for us!”
“A real sea-serpent! How jolly!” cried Cecily. “We’ll get Court to tame
him, and have him for a pet! Court’s so set up by his conquest of
Cyclone, I know he’ll do it for us! Break him to twenty side-saddles,
Court, won’t you?”
“Cease, Cece, babbling Brook!” replied Court. “You little know what this
appearance means for you campers! Don’t you realize that this
sea-serpent proves an underground connection between Halcyon Lake and
the ocean? And now we shall have all sorts of dangerous things coming in
from the Atlantic,—sharks and sword-fish and octopuses! No more bathing
in the lake for you girls! No more boating! We hold your lives too
precious!”
“And you stand there smiling serenely, with your arms folded!” cried
Carol. “Don’t you know your duty is to dive down and stuff up the subway
entrance with the things you’ve been buying to-day? They’d plug it so
watertight the slimmest eel couldn’t get through! You might at least get
that lamp mat to hurl down the monster’s throat and poison him with the
Paris green!”
“I have too much regard for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals!” Court protested. “He won’t bite though. See, he’s wagging his
tail,—he’s pleased!”
With his mighty tail rocking to and fro in the rough water, the
fire-breathing sea-serpent came swimming through the bay with the
evident intention of reposing his snaky form somewhere upon the pebbly
strand. Roderick Dhu, faithful to his duty as guardian of the camp,
rushed up and down in a frenzy of barking.
“Mother must see it!” cried Cecily.
“Call Bunny and Miss Hamersley too!” said Carol.
“Get Marie and Amelie and Toinette!” added Jean.
Cecily ran up to the bungalow and came back with all the other members
of the camp.
The saurian reached the land off Camp-fire Rock, and lay in the rippling
water panting out flames in an exhausted manner, and writhing all down
the length of his spinal column, which, when viewed at close range, bore
a singular resemblance to canoes lashed together and covered with dark
green paper muslin.
“Poor dear, he’s tired out! Let’s help him up on shore and put a collar
and bells on him! He’ll make a lovely pet!” laughed Jean.
“Come and let’s dissect him,” said Carol. “I suspect we’ll find his
brains in his neck instead of in his head.”
Heedless of soaked shoes, the girls stepped into the water to examine
the anatomy of the sea-serpent. The head was mounted on a rowboat, and,
concealed behind the giant cranium, were Jack and Douglas.
“He swallowed us!” Douglas explained. “That’s why I couldn’t get up in
time to start your fire.”
“We stuck in his throat, though,” said Jack.
“I suppose you went down so quick you hadn’t time to catch fire in his
mouth!” said Cecily.
“He’s a noble animal!” exclaimed Nancy, surveying the monster’s head
with its round eyes and gaping jaws, in which the fire was dying down.
“I hope you appreciate the honor of being swallowed by him. What a
stunning fin he has! He’s a regular charmer!”
“He’s an awful blockhead, though,” said Douglas, tapping the wooden
skull.
“Look at his mouth!” said Jean. “It’s an old wash boiler!”
“He’d have got burned up if we hadn’t given him a tin mouth,” said
Douglas.
“Look at those tin pails stuck in for his eyes!” said Betty.
“What is he?” asked Eunice. “What’s his scientific name?”
“He’s a full-blooded megalodonto-bronto-sauriosticos,” replied Jack.
“Rose said you boys were up till midnight yesterday, and were all
late for breakfast this morning,” said Cecily. “Did the
megalo-what’s-his-name have anything to do with it?”
“The _tale_ of last night’s experiences is longer than the
sea-serpent’s,” said Jack, shaking his head reflectively.
“Do make meggy spout some more flames,” said Frances. And at her request
the megalo-donto-bronto-sauriosticos breathed forth the last of the red
fire saved from the Fourth of July.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE BATTLE MAID
Of the Stella Olympia Relief Fund it was decided to place $65 in the
savings bank. The morning after the Festival the campers took Limpy the
remaining ten, the sum of a doctor’s bill, long unpaid. A more
astonished lass and a happier was not to be found in the United States,
but for fear of giving her too much excitement the girls made their
visit a short one, Jean promising to come again on the following
afternoon.
The next day Carol and her classmates went with Miss Hamersley on a
tally-ho party to Deer Lake, as the guests of Mrs. Clinton of Big Pine
Camp. After dinner Mrs. Brook took Cecily and Betty on a marketing
expedition to a farm twelve miles away, Douglas driving them in a
buckboard. While they were gone some of the girls held a tennis
tournament, and Jean watched them, her ears pricked up for the sound of
the coaching-horn, in hopes that Carol would return in time to go with
her to see Limpy.
“Oh, dear! it’s four o’clock! I can’t wait any longer. I’ll just have to
go alone!” she sighed at, last. “Oh, I think Carol might come! Limpy may
get a heart attack, and I won’t know what to do. I just hate to go
alone, but I’ll have to,—I _promised_.” Choosing a story-book to read
aloud she set forth with a downcast countenance.
“Jean, Jane, whar’s you gwine?” Frances called from the hammock.
“To see Limpy,” replied Jean. “I have to go alone, because Carol hasn’t
come back, and Fräulein has such a headache I don’t like to ask her.”
“Why didn’t you ask _me_? I’ll go with you,” said the friendly Mouse.
“I didn’t ask _you_ because I knew you wouldn’t behave.”
“Well, I’m going to be good now, anyway,” said Frances. “I haven’t
anything to do, so I’m going with you.”
“Will you promise solemnly, on your honor, to be good?” Jean demanded.
“You know the least thing might give her a heart attack.”
“Yes, I’ll be good. She’ll like me a great deal better than you.” But as
they crossed the Harrels’ daisy field, Frances said, “Don’t let’s go to
Limpy’s. Let’s go to the _flume_,—I’m crazy to see it!”
Troublesome Path, the nearest way to the flume, was the wildest and most
perplexing trail in the whole region; and it began in the woods that
skirted the daisy field. The Hamiltons had taken Carol and Jean over it
a few days before, and the girls had brought back a thrilling report of
the deep gorge, with the brook roaring through it, and the natural
bridge spanning the chasm.
“Oh, yes. I’d like to see ourselves marching off to the flume!” said
Jean. “We’d get a _nice_ big scolding!”
“Nobody’d know, and nobody’d care,” said Frances.
“Veritas!” And Jean planted the tip of her forefinger on Frances’s
golden shield.
“Oh, shoot Veritas!” returned the Mouse. “Come on!”
“I won’t do it!” declared Jean. “I’m going to Limpy’s and you are too,
so come along! This is Silver Sword work, and it’s time you did a
little, Miss Battle Maid!”
“Oh, Giraffe, you’re such a crank! I did enough silver-swording making
candy for the festival. I’m going to the flume, whether you are or not.
Good-bye!”
“No, you sha’n’t!” Jean caught Frances by the arm. “You’d lose the trail
in two minutes! Ah, Frisk, I think you’re terribly mean! You promised
you’d be good—I knew you were only pretending, though!”
“All rightee, I’ll be good,” said Frances, who was really not at all
anxious to take the long, unknown walk, with only herself for company.
But when she reached the Harrels’ she balked again, and dropped into a
rickety chair under a tree. “I’m going to stay out here,” she announced.
“My daddy sent me to camp to be out in the fresh air all I could!”
“Frances Browne, you’re just trying to be hateful! You _must_ come
in—I’ll _make_ you!” cried Jean, doing her best to drag the Mouse.
“No,” said Frances, “I won’t. I can’t stand that cabbagey smell. I’ll
sit out here and cool off. But I won’t hang around waiting for you all
the afternoon. If you stay too long I _will_ go to the flume!”
“Well, stay out then!” snapped Jean. The vision of a pale, unconscious
Limpy was rising before her, but she bravely went into the house by the
open front door. At the same moment Frances saw Tony Harrel come out by
the kitchen door and walk hurriedly away to the woods.
Frances lolled back, fanning herself with her hat; then she took a light
luncheon from the Harrels’ sparse currant crop. Finally she strolled off
and began to climb the hill near by; and whom should she see coming down
but Bob and Ted Talcott, boys of fourteen and twelve, who were spending
a month under Dr. Hamilton’s care. They had struck up an acquaintance
with her at the festival over berries and cream.
“Hello, Miss Fruit Fairy! Where are you going all by yourself?” asked
Bob.
“Oh, nowhere,” said Frances. “I want to go to the flume. Do you know the
way?”
“Sure. Went there yesterday with Jack.”
“Take me there now, will you?” asked Frances eagerly. “I’m wild to see
it, and I haven’t anybody to go with.”
“Too far for girls,” said Bob, with manly superiority.
“It isn’t at all. Jean went there last week. If you’ll take me I’ll make
you some fudge to-morrow.”
“All right, ma’am. Well take you to the flume, and we’ll come and call
on you too,” said Bob.
“Won’t she squeal when we get her out on the bridge!” said his brother.
“No, I won’t. I never get dizzy,” Frances declared. “Do you dare me to
cross it all alone?”
“Nope.”
“I dare myself, then!” said Frances in high glee. They ran down the hill
and turned into the Harrels’ place on their way to the trail.
“You haven’t got a pencil and paper, have you?” asked Frances.
“There you are!” Bob brought out a small red account book and a stubby
pencil.
Frances tore out a page and wrote: “I’ve waited about three hours for
you, and now I’m going to the flume. Good-bye.” This note she fastened
with a hat-pin to the tree under which Jean had left her, and then set
off with the boys along Troublesome Path.
Jean looked much bolder than she felt as she walked in at the Harrels’
front door. She peeped into the parlor,—no one was there. She went into
the kitchen,—that was deserted too. It was a bad sign, and the horror of
perhaps finding Limpy unconscious almost made her play the coward. But
she rallied her flagging courage and stole upstairs. The door of Limpy’s
bedroom was open and she heard the sound of sobbing. She went in. There
was the poor girl in a heap on the floor beside the bed, her face buried
in her hands, shuddering with convulsive tremors.
“Limpy, what’s the matter?” cried Jean.
Limpy started, stared at her wildly for an instant; then, half raising
herself, she threw her arms around Jean’s waist, dragging her down on
the floor beside her and panted out:
“Where’s Tony? Is he gone? Is he gone?”
“Limpy, dear, please stop crying and tell me what’s happened,” said
Jean, putting her arms around the sobbing girl.
“Tony come back last night. He lost his place,” answered Limpy. “An’
he—he took my—money,—my ten dollars!”
“He stole it?” Jean asked breathlessly.
“No, he made me give it to him. He said—oh, dear! he’d kill me for
tellin’! Shut the door; he might hear us.”
“Whisper; then he can’t hear,” said Jean, closing the door softly; and
Limpy went on in an undertone: “He said he was goin’ away again, an’ he
made me give him the ten dollars. I ain’t had no chance to give ’em to
Doctor. An’ Tony said if I ever told on him he’d ruin Douglas! So I
couldn’t do nothin’,—I just _had_ to give him the money. An’ I got to
give him all the rest. He said if I didn’t have it ready for him when he
come back next time, he’d set the woods afire, an’ burn up your camp an’
the Hamiltons’! An’ he’ll do it! I know he will! He said he’d do it
_now_, if I told on him!”
“No, he won’t!” answered Jean, desperately frightened herself, but
knowing that for Limpy’s sake she must hide her terror. “I’ll tell
everybody about it, and they’ll watch for him so he won’t get a chance.
Wait till I go and get Frances,—she’s waiting outside,—and then we’ll
stay with you till it’s time to go home. Don’t be frightened.”
“Please come back quick then,” begged Limpy. “My heart’s beatin’
terrible bad! I can’t hardly breathe.”
“Oh, dear! Now she’s going to be _unconscious_,” thought Jean. “Come,
Limpy, get on the bed,—quick—and then you’ll feel better,” she urged,
her own heart beating fast with fear. She helped Limpy to the bed, and
sat beside her until the excited girl grew quieter. Then she slipped
softly down stairs, hurried out of doors and found that Frances had
deserted already. She could see her in the distance climbing the hill,
but she was afraid to leave Limpy alone and go after the runaway.
Fighting the terror that gripped her, Jean went indoors again, her hands
icy and her ears alert for sounds of danger. She peeped cautiously into
each room in turn until she had proof positive that Tony was not in the
house. Then she went back to Limpy and forced herself to speak cheerily.
“Frances has gone up the hill and I can’t make her hear,” she said. “But
let’s not worry any more about Tony. I’m sure he’s gone. I’ve brought a
lovely book and I’ll read to you.”
Jean read for an hour or more, and then, though the clock in the kitchen
had stopped, she was sure that it was time to leave. “I’ll have to go
now,” said she. “It must be tea-time. But I’ll ask Mrs. Brook to send
somebody to stay with you. You won’t be left alone long.”
As she went out Frances’ words came back to her: “If you stay too long I
_will_ go to the flume.” Spying the note pinned to the tree she took it
down and read it. “Mercy! She _has_ gone!” exclaimed poor Jean. “Oh,
dear! She’ll lose her way! I’ll have to go after her. She can’t have
gone far. I’ll soon catch up with her.”
Running across the yard and through the fields to the woods, she set out
on the trail to the flume, calling, “Frances!” and “Ooh-ooh!” and
listening in vain for an answer. On she went, following with difficulty
Troublesome Path. She pushed her way through tangled underbrush and
scrambled over rocks, trying to find the trees on which blazes had been
cut. But the trail was so hard to make out that to keep the right course
proved a baffling problem. Pretty soon she was hopelessly perplexed, and
which was north, south, east or west, which way led home and which to
the flume she had not the least idea. It was growing dimmer and dimmer
in the forest; night would fall early in that dense shade, and suddenly
Jean realized that she was lost. Lost! It came upon her like a
nightmare. She was shut up in a vast dark prison; and it would have been
almost as easy to break through the walls of a cell as to find her way
out through that bewildering maze of trees. The fears of the afternoon
were nothing compared with the terror that rushed over her now. She
began to call, “Frances!” again, with all her strength, but deathlike
silence was the only answer. Suddenly she checked herself and shrank
back into the cleft of a rock with a new dread. Tony himself might be in
the woods! His vindictive eyes might even now be peering at her out of
the dusk.
But she must not stay cowering there; she must go on before the night
should blind her; and so she tried again to pick out the way by which
she had come. She wondered whether she and Frances had already been
missed, and whether any one had yet been sent out to search for them;
and she asked herself how, in that vast forest, either of them could
ever be found. Then she was seized with a new alarm. She remembered
having heard of people being lost in forests and becoming crazed with
the horror of it. What if she should go crazy! Though lost, she must
control herself and keep her senses. She gathered up all her will power
and tried to fight down the fear that had mastered her.
How dark it was growing! In some places Jean could hardly see. Wandering
on despairingly, she at last came out on the bank of a brook. This was
next best to seeing a friend. It might lead her out of the woods. It
_must_ lead somewhere, and following it she would have a path that she
could not lose. She walked along the edge of the stream, but before she
had gone far she noticed the smell of smoke. Then the terror that she
had been trying to conquer swept over her again. Tony might have
overheard Limpy telling her of his threat and have set fire to the woods
already! She must escape by way of the brook before he should find her,
or the fire spread. She hurried forward, but suddenly stopped, checked
by a new thought. There had been but little rain all summer, and Douglas
had told her that a fire once kindled in the dry woods might spread for
miles and even destroy the camps at Halcyon. He had said that a fire
once started even through carelessness would smoulder and spread through
the inflammable mat of dead leaves, twigs and moss, the “duff” as it was
called, and at last break out in violence to do its work of destruction.
Danger was near—not to herself alone, but to the homes over which the
fire might sweep. But it was a danger that it might be possible to
avert.
Suddenly it seemed almost as if a voice said, “Battle Maid, take your
sword and conquer!”
“I will!” said Jean. “This is a real battle! I’ll do the best I can!”
She climbed the bank; pushed through the trees, and scrambled through a
windfall. Beyond the heap of boughs she came upon a patch of ground from
which little curls of smoke were rising. Here and there sparks gleamed
under the smoke. Could she do anything to check the spreading fire? The
brook was near, but all she had for a pail was her canvas hat, nearly
water-proof to be sure, but holding scarcely a cupful. Yet the
experiment seemed worth trying. She hurried back to the brook, filled
her hat, returned to the burning patch and poured out the water. There
was a fizzle, and the smoke disappeared from about as wide a space as
her palm could have covered. Back and forth she went between the brook
and the fire, each time a splutter and a few inches conquered,
encouraging her to continue. Her fears were lessening now that she had
work to do, and she toiled on, her path growing more and more obscured.
She had heard of beating out fires, and she struck at the smouldering
ground with a branch; but it was a dead one and broke at the second
blow. She took up her hat again, and this time, as she carried it to the
brook she could find her way only by groping. Returning she caught her
foot in the fallen branches and fell, bruising herself painfully.
Then her utter helplessness overpowered poor Jean. The night had come
down at last, wrapping her around in a cloak of darkness, and she
crouched there among the fallen trees, alone and in pain. The wounded
battle maid could not help one sob of despair and a little low moan. The
moan ended in a prayer: “Oh, dear Lord, don’t let me die here. Make them
find me! Oh, Lord, please help me, and don’t let the woods burn!” And
then the agony of fear and the despair passed away. Suddenly Jean was
strong again and hopeful, though so helpless and all alone. She rose up
and groped her way back to her work again.
CHAPTER XVII.
FOREST AND FIRE
Mrs. Brook came home at tea-time and found Fräulein Bunsen looking
anxious, for Jean and Frances had not yet returned.
“I’ll send Douglas for them,” said she. “Cecily, run and see if you can
catch him.”
Cecily and Betty both flew. Douglas was out of sight and on the way to
the livery-stable with the buckboard by the time they reached the road,
but there they met Frances, Bob and Ted.
“Why, Frances! Where’s Jean?” cried Cecily.
“Poking over Limpy still, I suppose,” said the Mouse. “I was so sick and
tired of waiting for her, I took a walk with the boys. I left a note for
her.”
“Well, you go in and tell Mother we’ve gone to meet her,” said Cecily,
hurrying away with Betty.
Before they returned the tally-ho party arrived.
“We’ve had a perfectly glorious time!” said Carol. “Just as we came to
Deer Lake Mrs. Clinton suddenly decided to go on to Blue Heron Pond and
have luncheon at the Inn. That’s why we were gone such ages. Where’s
that child of mine? I bought this stuffed heron at the Inn for her.”
While Mrs. Brook was telling how Jean had kept her appointment, Douglas
came in, and a moment later Cecily and Betty appeared in great
excitement.
“Jean started—to come back—more than an hour ago!” panted Cecily. “She
must have lost her way, or something’s happened to her!” Carol turned
white.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Mrs. Brook. “We shall find her. We must
send—”
“I’ll start right off,” Douglas interrupted. “Wait till I get a
lantern.” And he dashed away for a light.
“I’m afraid she started out to look for you, Frances,” said Mrs. Brook.
“Yes, I’m sure she did,” broke in Cecily. “What did you say in your
note?”
Frances hesitated.
“Yes, what did you say?” asked Miss Hamersley sternly.
“I told her I was going to the flume,” said Frances faintly.
“To the flume!” exclaimed Mrs. Brook.
“Bob and Ted took me,” murmured Frances, “but she wouldn’t have gone
after _me_.”
“That’s just what she’s done!” cried Carol. “And it will be pitch dark
in the woods soon! She’s certain to lose her way, and she’ll go crazy
with fright!” Carol’s grip on Frances’ arm, her white face, and the fire
flashing in her eyes so terrified the culprit that she burst out crying,
and the rest of her confession came out with sobs.
“I’m off for the flume now,” said Douglas, who had come back with a
lantern.
“Take Rod with you,” said Cecily. “He’ll find her,—I know he will!” She
knelt down, took her collie’s head between her hands, and said: “Rod,
find Jean. Find Jean.”
The dog’s intelligent eyes looked into his mistress’s and answered, “I
promise.”
“Get something to give him the scent,” said Douglas. “Got a shoe?”
Cecily brought one of Jean’s shoes, and the boy and the dog went off
towards the woods.
“Now,” said Mrs. Brook, “someone must go to Hurricane and send one of
the boys to the Inn for guides. We must get search parties started.”
“I’ll go!” And Carol darted away, with Miss Hamersley after her, on the
Hurricane trail.
“Don’t be worried,” said Court consolingly, when the breathless
messengers had told their errand. “She’ll be found soon,—I haven’t a
doubt of it. Jack, go over to the Inn and order out the guides. I’ll
start along Troublesome Path.”
“I’ll go with you, Court,” said his father, as Jack rushed down to the
dock. They accompanied Miss Hamersley and Carol to Huairarwee, and then
with the dogs, Blarny and Blunder, hastened away on their quest.
And now followed a long, anxious waiting.
Frances had run away in the midst of her fit of crying, and was
discovered by Cecily under the platform of her tent, crouching on the
cold earth, a heap of woe!
“Come out, Frances! Don’t cry so dreadfully,” coaxed Cecily, ready to
cry herself. “Come and get your supper.”
“I’m—afraid—she’s tumbled—down a—precipice! I just know I’ve killed
her!” sobbed poor Frances. “Leave me alone! I don’t want any supper!”
And no pleading could draw forth the wretched Mouse.
Carol too was suffering bitterly. All the hopeful words her friends
could offer were powerless to comfort. She paced up and down out of
doors, straining her eyes in the darkness for the flash of a lantern
heralding the wanderer’s return, and working herself into a frenzy by
picturing all the accidents that might have befallen Jean.
No second sight enabled the heavy-hearted watchers to follow Douglas and
Roderick Dhu. From the beginning of the flume trail, onward for some
distance, the dog’s keen nose traced Jean’s course.
“It’s up to us to find her now!” said Douglas. “That’s tight! Go it, old
boy! We must get her before she’s scared to death. She won’t lose her
grit in a hurry though,—you can bet your life on that! Hello! what’s the
matter?” The collie had stopped short. Douglas shouted and hallooed. Rod
ran about sniffing and suddenly grew excited over a fresh scent.
“Hooray! Now we’ve got it! Now we’ll run her down _sure_, won’t we, old
fellow?” The dog ran on, nose to the ground, until the scent failed him
once more. Then he looked up and confessed by his apologetic eyes and
whine that he was nonplussed.
“Stumped, are you?” said Douglas. “Oh, come now! What’s the matter with
you? Can’t you smell out a scent two hours old? Here,—try the shoe
again!” But the poor dog whined and snuffled hopelessly about. “You’re
no good! It’s because you’re a girl’s dog! They didn’t teach you
anything but how to shake hands!” Roderick Dhu’s tail drooped. “Poor old
duffer! You’ll just have to follow me.”
Douglas patted Rod. The dog cheered up and his plume began to wave once
more. He followed Douglas, who was trying what might once have been a
trail. The boy made turn after turn, calling and listening, and casting
his light on every hollow or nook suggesting a pitfall or place of
shelter. All the time it was growing darker, and the farther he pushed
on the denser the woods became.
Clever young woodsman though he was he soon found that he had lost his
bearings.
“Hello! That was a close call!” He had almost fallen over a ledge of
rock. “Suppose she’s tumbled over a place like that!” He set his teeth
as he thought how Jean might be lying injured and helpless after some
dreadful fall; and he pushed on, shouting himself hoarse. At last the
clue came; the dog’s nose had found it.
“Hooray! Good boy, Rod!” said Douglas. The collie led him through a
clump of alders, down a bank to a half dried brook, and along its stony
bed. Suddenly the boy began to sniff too. “Smoke!” he exclaimed. “I’ll
have to see to that next! Hello! Where’re you going now?” The dog had
left the brook and was trotting up the slope. Douglas followed, shouting
Jean’s name, and this time a faint cry answered him. It sounded like,
“Here! Here!”
“I’m coming!” he called, and led by Rod he reached the windfall, through
which the dog bounded. A sharp bark, a joyful cry, and Douglas knew that
Jean was found. He crashed through the fallen trees, and as he stepped
out he heard, “Oh, Rod, you darling, dear old dog!”
There stood Jean, struggling to keep her balance as Roderick Dhu, with
his paws on her shoulders and his nose in her face, showered her with
kisses; and there, almost at her feet, the smoke was rising. The boy
dashed to her side.
“Here I am, Jean! Hooray! I’ve found you! Get down, Rod,—don’t eat her
up!”
“Oh, Douglas! How did you ever find me? I’ve been lost hours and hours,
and I was so terribly frightened! Oh, I’m so glad! I’m so glad!” Jean
clung to him quivering, in the rush of joy and relief.
“You poor little thing!” said Douglas soothingly. “I should think you’d
have gone crazy! It was awful for you! But you’re all right now! I’ve
got you safe, and I’m going to take you right home. What are you
standing in the fire for? Don’t you see it’s burning all around you?”
“Yes, and I’ve been trying to put it out, but I can’t.”
“Great guns! You’ve been trying to put it out? Jean, you’re a brick!
What were you doing? Stamping it out?”
“No. I carried water in my hat!”
Douglas began to laugh.
“It’s a _canvas_ hat,” Jean explained; “but it doesn’t hold much. Can’t
_you_ put it out, Douglas? The woods’ll all get on fire if you don’t.”
“Yes, I’ll stamp it out. I only want to see if you’re all right first.
How did you ever get over here? You’re way off the trail.”
“I don’t know. I was trying to get to the flume to find Frances. She’s
lost too!”
“_She!_ Not much! She was off larking with Bob and Ted. She got back all
right. I bet all the guides are out after you by this time! We’ve beaten
them all to smithereens, haven’t we, Rod? Get down, sir, get down!
That’s right, Jean,—hold on to me. You’re all shaky! What’s the matter?
Didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”
“No, not much.”
“Look here! You’re not going to cry, are you?” asked Douglas in sudden
alarm.
“Of course I’m not going to cry!”
“That’s right! You’re the stuff!” Douglas patted her on the back. “Now,”
he added, “I’m going to beat that fire out. Wait till I get a stick.” He
attacked the smoking ground with a branch from the windfall, and stamped
with his heavy boots. Jean sat on a fallen tree, fondling Rod, and
watching while her enemy was conquered.
“Are they terribly worried about me at home?” she called.
“Seared stiff!” Douglas called back. “Lucky you didn’t pitch down one of
those gullies! I was afraid you had.”
“I was sure you’d come after me,” said Jean, “but I thought you’d
_never_ find me!”
“Rod did it mostly,” answered Douglas.
Jean patted the dog. “Wasn’t he splendid!” said she.
Upturning, beating, stamping, Douglas kept at his work until he had gone
over every inch of ground touched by the fire, and crushed out every
spark.
“It’s out now, every bit of it!” he cried at last. “I wonder how it
started.”
“Tony Harrel did it,” said Jean.
“Great, Cæsar! Tony? What do you mean?”
“I can’t tell you here. He might be around.”
“Well, if he’s around there are enough people out looking for you to
catch him and chuck him into the flume,” said Douglas.
“Oh, hush! Don’t talk so loud,” begged Jean. “Let’s start home quick.
I’ll tell you as we go.”
“Look here! I’m lost myself,” said Douglas. “We’ll have to follow that
brook down. I bet it’s the one that cuts across the flume trail.”
They began the homeward tramp, and Jean told him as they went the whole
story of the afternoon.
“Tony’s a sneak! He ought to be shot!” said Douglas. “He didn’t start
that fire though.”
“Why, how do you know?” asked Jean.
“Oh, he was just bluffing to scare Limpy. That fire hadn’t just started,
either. It must have been creeping through the duff for ever so long.”
It was a rough road down the stony edge of the brook, but they found
that Douglas had guessed right, for it crossed the flume trail.
“We’re on the home run now,” said the boy. But to Jean it looked like a
very long slow run indeed. Suddenly they heard voices; then lanterns
shone out. Dr. Hamilton and Court were coming back from a fruitless
journey to the flume. The weary march ended at once. Court and his
father made a queen’s chair and Jean rode home in triumph.
As they neared the camp Douglas ran ahead and shouted, “Here she is!”
The girls came running to meet her, Carol and Cecily first of all, and
she was caught and clasped in her friends’ arms.
“Douglas found her!” said Court. “She was putting out a forest fire! She
and Douglas have saved the woods! She’s a trump!”
“She’s a brick!” said Douglas.
“She’s a heroine!” said Dr. Hamilton. “She’s proved herself a true
battle maid.”
While Jean and Douglas were having their supper, they told their story
together, their excited hearers interrupting with praises of Jean’s
courage, and giving Douglas and Roderick Dhu their full share of glory.
“Where’s Frances? Isn’t she glad I’m back?” asked Jean. The Mouse had
not come to welcome her, but they found her face downward on her cot.
She would not raise her head till Jean bent over her, saying, “Please,
Friskie, look up. I can’t go to bed till you give me a kiss.” Then she
sat up, displaying tear-wet cheeks, and red, swollen eyes.
“Oh, Jean,” she said, “I didn’t mean to get you lost! Oh, I—I
thought—you were dead!”
“Well, I’m not,” Jean answered cheerily. “Don’t cry, Mousie. I’m glad I
was lost. If I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have found the fire.” She gave
Frances a kiss, but it lighted on the crown of her head, for the poor
Mouse ducked in self-abasement.
Carol did not leave Jean for a moment till she was safely tucked in bed.
When the light was out she knelt beside the cot, put her arms around
Jean, and laid her head on the pillow beside her.
“Shall I keep you awake if I stay here a few minutes, darling?” she
asked. “I want to be sure I have you safe again.”
“I wish you’d stay till I go to sleep,” said Jean. “It’s so good to have
_you_ again, Big Sister, dear! I thought at one time I’d never get home.
I thought I’d just have to die there!”
The clasp of Carol’s arms tightened. “Oh, my precious Little Sister!”
she whispered. “I never knew before how much I loved you!”
CHAPTER XVIII.
CINDERELLA
“I wonder how Limpy is,” said Jean, as she awoke next day to find Carol
at her bedside. “Can’t we go down and see her right after breakfast?”
“Your majesty can’t,” said Carol. “You’re to have your breakfast in bed,
and take a rest cure. Mrs. Brook’s going to see her herself this
morning, so I’ll stay and take care of _you_.”
Jean was quite willing to lie still a while longer, for she was worn out
after the fatigue and excitement of yesterday. When her breakfast was
brought to her, it was a subdued and pensive Frances who carried in the
plate of flapjacks, with which Marie insisted upon regaling the heroine.
She was up and dressed by ten o’clock, but there was no exercise on the
lake for her that morning. Carol settled her cozily in a hammock, with
pillows at her back, and all Jean’s pleading could not induce Cecily and
Betty to forsake her.
“No, your majesty, your battle maids are going to stay and wait on you,”
said Cecily. “I’ll be Court Reader, and Betty’ll be Court Swinger.” She
seated herself on the grass with a book to read aloud; Betty began to
swing Jean gently to and fro; and Frances, who had been condemned to
pass a day of sackcloth and ashes within the bounds of Huairarwee,
proved the sincerity of her repentance by assisting Nanno to hold a wake
for Katy, thus distracting the camp baby from her determination to
“jounce up and down” on the feet of her guardian-in-chief.
“Joan of Arc, can I trust you not to jump out of the hammock and skip
off to better the world the minute my back’s turned?” Carol gave this
parting admonition before going out on the water.
“Yes, Big Sister, I’ll be good,” Jean promised.
“I’ll hold her down,” said Frances, drawing the Navajo blanket over
Jean’s head.
“Frisk is a reformed character this morning,” said Carol, as she and
Eunice and Nancy went down to the landing.
“Poor little soul! She must have cried oceans, last night!” said Nancy.
“I know one thing,” said Carol. “If it hadn’t been for Frisky we
wouldn’t have found out what stuff my Jeanie’s made of! I’m going to
write to Miss Carlton to-day, and tell her what a heroine she is! And
I’ll tell her she’s in dead earnest about trying to make the world
better. Pretty big job she has on her hands! If we three had an ounce of
energy between us, we’d do a little bettering on our own account!”
“I think you and Jean are a pretty good pair,” said Eunice. “But I
really _do_ think I might stir up my lazy bones and do something for
somebody!”
“Come along then!” said Carol. “I have an _idea_. Let’s go over to
picnic island and have a pow-wow.”
The girls came back from their pow-wow to find Mrs. Brook just returned
from her visit to Limpy. They seized her and drew her away to a private
consultation.
Early in the afternoon Douglas drove up in a surrey. He was whistling in
high good humor, and gave Jean a mischievous look when she called from
the hammock, “Why, Douglas! Who’s going out driving?”
“Miss Carol and Miss Eunice,” said he.
“What on earth are you going off alone for?” asked Jean, as Eunice and
Carol came out of their tent.
“Mayn’t I have my chum to myself once in a while?” said Carol. “Jump in,
Una! Bye-bye, Queenie,” and she sprang into the surrey after Eunice.
“Are you going to stop and see Limpy?” Jean asked.
“Yes, we’ll look in on her,” answered Carol.
As they drove away Mrs. Brook said, “Cecily, I think it would do Jean
good to have a row this afternoon. You and Betty take her over to Water
Lily Cove, and bring some lilies for the table.”
The three girls managed to dispose of a good two hours in their visit to
the Cove. They returned with a big bunch of the white and yellow
beauties, and down to the dock to meet them rushed Frances, her spirits
already on the rebound.
“What do you think Motherling and I’ve been up to?” said she. “We’ve
been rigging up a cozy corner! Come and see it!” She hurried them away
to Mrs. Brook’s tent, and they found that a part of it had been screened
off.
“Now you look as sweet as a peach, and sweeter!” They heard Carol’s
voice from the hidden cozy corner, and there came a soft laugh in
answer. Frances pushed aside the screen and revealed a new bedroom.
There on a cot sat a fair-haired girl, in Carol’s pink kimono, which
Carol herself was fastening at the throat with one of her own
brooches,—a tiny enameled daisy.
“Limpy!” Jean and Cecily flew to the pinkrobed girl, who sprang up with
her arms outstretched.
“I’m comin’ to visit! to stay all summer!” said Limpy.
“All summer! How perfectly gorgeous!” cried Jean. “Carolie, that’s what
you and Eunice went off alone for!”
“That was it!” Carol acknowledged. “We went to steal Cinderella and
carry her off to the ball! And wasn’t she surprised when she found what
her fairy godmothers had come for!”
“Now I know why Mammykins sent us off after water-lilies,” said Cecily.
“It was a trick to get rid of us while she fixed up this room and you
brought Limpy. It’ll be lovely to have you here, Limpy!”
“And we’ll take splendid care of you,” said Betty.
“I’m so happy I don’t know what to do!” said Limpy. “But, oh! Jean, I
was so frightened about you last night. Pa come home an’ said they was
all out lookin’ for you. Oh, wasn’t you grand an’ brave!”
“Cinderella, you’ve danced enough jigs,” said Carol. “Let me try on your
glass slippers, and then you must have a nice long rest.” Limpy dropped
down on the bed obediently, and Carol completed the new costume by
adding a pretty pair of moccasins.
“She’s given ’em to me!” said the happy little Cinderella. “An’ she give
me this!” She smoothed out the rosy kimono reverently. “Ain’t it
beautiful! I’m so afraid I’ll muss it. An’ this pin! Ain’t it just the
loveliest! I didn’t think I’d ever have any _jewelry_!” Then she threw
her arms around Carol’s neck and gave her a kiss of passionate
gratitude. “An’ just look at the room they’ve fixed for me!” she added.
Her happy eyes roamed again over her little nest, with its rustic table
fitted up as a washstand, a mirror hanging over it, its green wicker
chair with scarlet cushions, and the snug cot with its flowered chintz
coverlet. “Oh, it’s just too sweet!” she murmured.
Limpy was too tired to be at supper with twenty lively girls all
laughing and talking at once, so a little tea-table was set on the tent
veranda, and there the queen and her maidens entertained the damsel no
longer distressed.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me! I just can’t stop laughin’, an’
yesterday I couldn’t stop cryin’!” said Limpy. “Oh, I’m so happy! I
can’t never tell you how happy I am!”
“We’re just as happy as you are,” said Cecily. “And we’re not going to
let Jean keep you all to herself. We’ll all be your sisters.”
“Oh, Jean, let’s make her a member of the Order!” said Betty.
“Splendid! Of course she must belong!” cried Jean. “I’ll knight her
right away.” She ran to Cecily’s flower bed and came back with a long
spray of gladiolus. Then she made Limpy kneel before her and struck her
on the shoulder with the sword-flower. “Stella Olympia,” she said, “I
dub thee battle maid of the Order of the Silver Sword. Be always
faithful to the sword of love and the shield of truth. Rise, Battle
Maid!” And up rose Limpy, radiant at this overwhelming honor.
Carol, Eunice and Nancy had planned to pay Limpy’s board themselves, but
Mrs. Brook refused to accept a penny. And while from their own wardrobes
they were making up an outfit to take the place of the forlorn little
bundle of clothes with which Limpy had arrived, and of which she seemed
ashamed, Jean, Cecily, Betty and Frances rushed to their own tent, fired
with eagerness to despoil themselves likewise. They found this
self-robbery so fascinating that when Carol looked in upon them, she
declared that the sacrificial pyre reached to the ridge-pole of the
tent. Jean’s contribution included her new organdie with its pink
ribbons, her jaunty white duck suit, and the only warm coat that she had
brought to camp.
“_My_ dresses won’t fit her at all,—I’m such a shorty!” Frances
lamented. “I know—I’ll give her my Sunday hat!”
When Mrs. Brook saw the lavish display she made a small and judicious
selection from it, and insisted that nothing more should be given. The
girls’ faces fell; but when the simple and tasteful outfit was complete,
it had in Cinderella’s delighted eyes all the splendor of a rich bridal
trousseau.
But it was not the new clothes that soon changed Limpy almost beyond
recognition. It was the love and brightness around her that brought out
all the long hidden sunshine of her nature.
“I wish I had a pretty name like you girls have,” she said one day to
Jean. “I can’t bear _Limpy_! I used to like _Olympia_, but I don’t now.
Do you?”
“No,” answered Jean frankly. “But I love _Stella_, and it means a star!”
“Does it? Honest? Ain’t that pretty,—I mean _isn’t_ it?” said Limpy,
whom Miss Hamersley was drilling in the rules of grammar.
“Yes, it’s the Latin for _star_,” explained Jean. “Wouldn’t you like to
have us call you Stella? I wanted to all the time, but I was afraid it
would hurt your feelings if I said I didn’t like ‘Limpy.’”
“Why, I wouldn’t have minded. I’ll be awful glad if you’ll call me
Stella,—it _is_ real pretty, I think.”
“All right, we will,” said Jean. “Now you’ll be our _star_!” And so the
old name was discarded with the old unhappy life.
“But _I_ shall always call you _Limpy_,—it’s the name I’ve known and
loved you by!” said Frances, her black eyes dancing with fun. She
unclasped her pretty coral necklace as she spoke, and slyly slipped it
around Stella’s throat, with a little kiss on the ear of the new maid of
honor.
* * * * *
Cinderella made her début in her new world of sunshine in good time,—not
to attend the “prince’s ball,”—but to enjoy the merry-makings on the
camp-mother’s birthday.
“I didn’t know folks ever got presents on their birthdays,” Stella said
to Cecily when, a few days before the important occasion, she heard the
question of gifts discussed. “Do you girls _always_ get presents?”
“Yes, indeed we do,” replied Cecily. “I got all my best painting
materials on my last birthday. What a pity yours isn’t coming this
summer, instead of way off in December! It would be such fun to
celebrate yours too!” Then through Cecily’s mind flashed an idea which
sent her away to hold private consultation with the other battle maids.
The birthday dawned, bright and clear, and the gay notes of Carol’s
_reveille_ summoned the campers to begin the festivities. Five minutes
after the bugle call, Mrs. Brook and Stella heard a merry chorus outside
their tent. “Many happy returns of the day, Motherling! Many happy
returns, Stella!”
“What are they saying that to _me_ for?” asked the wondering girl.
“This is _your_ birthday too, Stella!” Cecily’s voice answered. “Your
half-past fifteenth birthday! You’re only a very little over fifteen and
a half, you know.”
“We’re going to celebrate Nanno’s too!” called Jean. “She’s only _just_
over six.”
“And Leila Myra’s,” added Carol. “We knew if Nanno got any more toys to
quarrel over, the carnage would be ghastly, unless her poor abused
_company_ had something to console her!”
When breakfast time came, Stella, her pale cheeks turning pink with
happy excitement, learned that the exhibition of water sports to be
given that morning had been planned partly in her honor. At half-past
ten she and Mrs. Brook were escorted down to Camp-Fire Rock, now the
grand stand, draped with the Stars and Stripes, and a troop of girls in
bathing suits entertained them with a varied program.
First came a swimming race between five of the “freshies,”—Winifred
Russell, Lou Phillips, Ethel Merryman, Dorothy Stone and Jean.
“Did you ever see anybody take _fun_ in such dead earnest as Queenie!”
said Carol to Nancy. “Look at her! Even her pigtail says ‘do or die!’”
The youngest “freshie” did indeed have the air of one going into battle,
as she stepped into the skiff to be taken by Douglas out to the float.
“Go in and win now, Jean!” said he, before the others joined them.
“I’ll do my level best!” she answered. But she knew that she had
formidable rivals, and that the majority of the campers expected
athletic Winifred to carry off the prize.
The girls took their places, some in Douglas’s boat, some in Miss
Hamersley’s, and were rowed out to their starting point. Standing on the
float, they formed in line with arms extended above their heads. Miss
Hamersley blew her whistle, and they dived as one, and coming up again
struck out, all five abreast, for the anchored canoe,—their goal.
“Jean’s dropped behind!” cried Betty.
“No, that’s Dot!” said Cecily.
“Which is which, anyway?” exclaimed Carol. “They look like so many
seals!”
The watchers on the shore saw three competitors one after the other drop
back from the line, until a blond head and a dark one were in advance of
the rest.
“Good for Win! She’s going to be winner!” cried Helen Westover, who had
taught Winifred of the light locks to swim. “Go in and _Win_—ifred!” she
called.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Wild Woolly One,” said Carol. “Jean’s going to
leave her _nowhere_ in a moment!”
“I bet a cookie on Win!” Helen returned.
“I bet the whole cookie-jar full on Jean!” Carol stoutly declared.
Winifred was a strong swimmer, but Jean proved a determined little
antagonist, keeping up with her neck and neck.
“Get ahead of her, Winnie,—for the honor of the Juniors!” called Grace
Gardner. “Don’t let a little lower classman beat you!”
“Oh, Jean,” cried Cecily, “Beat! for the honor of the Silver Sword!”
Stella squeezed Betty’s hand in her suspense. And now there remained
only a few strokes before the finish. “Jean’s ahead!” screamed Cecily. A
moment more and cheers burst forth. Jean was clinging to the canoe! Two
more strokes brought Winifred up to the goal. The others came up one by
one. The five clung to the canoe till they had regained their breath,
and then came swimming back to shore.
Carol waded out to meet the victor. “Come to my arms, my pupil! I’d
rather lose a hundred races myself than have _you_ beaten!” she cried,
extinguishing Jean in a watery embrace. “Little Sister, I’m so proud of
you,—I feel like cabling the news to Brazil!”
“I thought I was going to give out just before I got there,” said Jean.
“I felt as if I _couldn’t_ keep it up; but I knew you wanted me to beat,
terribly, and I was bound to do it, so I just struck out again as hard
as I could, and the first thing I knew there I was at the goal!”
“Three cheers, Joan of Arc!” cried Cecily, splashing up to them. “I’m so
tickled we’ve beaten the Juniors, I don’t know what to do! Come and get
your prize.”
They led Jean up to the grand stand. “Oh, Jean!” said Stella, “I’m so
glad! I was just crazy to have you beat!”
“Congratulations, my battle maid,” said Mrs. Brook, and placed in her
hands the prize, a well-appointed picnic luncheon basket, with straps to
sling it from her shoulders.
Races between expert swimmers followed. Then came walking the wet pole.
The Huairarwee flag staff had been uprooted for the occasion and had
been fastened horizontally to the dock, so as to stretch out over the
water; and the feat consisted in walking the length of it to capture the
tiny flag at the end. Olive Spencer was the first to make the attempt.
She slipped at the third step and jumped into the water. Grace tried
next, reached the middle of the pole, swayed, and went down
ignominiously. Then, with arms outstretched to balance herself, Cecily
walked confidently along the slippery way; but as she neared the end the
pole wobbled: she took two running steps and snatched at the flag, only
to knock it into the water, she herself plunging in with a splash. She
had struck the colors, not captured them, and in great chagrin she
returned to the dock. Girl after girl tried unsuccessfully. Poor Jean
lost her balance the instant she heard Frances call, “Go it, Giraffe!”
and reappeared, declaring, “That was _your_ fault, you wretch!”
“Now you watch _me_ get the flag!” said the Mouse, who had furtively
slipped on an extra pair of stocking-feet, while the eyes of the other
spectators were fixed on Cecily. She was standing on a rain-cloak meant
to wrap around chilly competitors, and now, as she raised her right foot
to step upon the pole, a sleeve rose with it. She kicked herself free,
but at the next step the cloak stuck fast to her left sole. Giggling,
she tore it away.
“Hold up, Mousie!” cried Jean. “You must have glue on your paws!”
She and Carol arrested Frances, and obliged her to display her soles.
Carol burst out laughing. “Plaster!” she exclaimed. “Adhesive plaster!
The Brown Mouse is guilty of fraudulent methods!”
“No, I’m not!” Frances answered coolly. “This is a ‘Go-as-you-please
race,’ and I pleased to go sticky! I was going to own up as soon as I
got the flag.”
“All right, Mousie, _go_ as you please!” said Carol. “Let’s see how the
experiment works. That’s _my_ rain-cloak you were obligingly walking off
with, I beg to inform you, Miss Francie-Prancie-Dancie!”
“Stick tight, Frisk!” laughed Jean. “_Adhese_—I mean adhere—as hard as
you can!”
But even the best surgeon’s adhesive plaster could avail nothing without
the art of poising. Frances should have added a balancing-pole, for at
the fifth step she dropped with a shriek.
“Oh, dear! My Mammy gave me that plaster in case I got hurt, and now
I’ve used it all up on that old pole!” complained the discomforted
Mouse. “I don’t care—it was a cheat anyhow! It hadn’t any _stick_! Now
let’s see Betsy tumble off!”
Betty was the poorest swimmer in camp, and was expected, at best, to
carry off only a consolation prize that day; but to the astonishment of
all beholders she kept her equilibrium where even the most athletic had
failed, and when at last she did plunge down it was amid vociferous
cheers, for the flag was clutched triumphantly in her hand. Cecily and
Jean together led her to the grand stand to receive her prize,—a new
trout-pole.
Betty’s rivals repeated their attempts till three more flags had been
captured, Jean failing to the last, but Cecily carrying one off at her
second essay. Then, after an interval of rest on the sunny beach, came
guide-boat and canoe races; and that day, as on many a preceding one,
Carol and Cecily gave proof that they excelled all the others in skill
at the paddle.
The water contests were followed by the birthday dinner. Mrs. Brook and
Stella, with Nanno and her much enduring guest, Leila Myra, were ushered
into the living-room to find the long camp dining-table in gala trim. In
a corner a small round table was set for two, and in its center was a
frosted cake with six candles. Here Nanno discovered a gay doll’s
tea-set at her place, and Leila Myra sat down on the floor in rapture
over a red go-cart, the exact counterpart of Nanno’s. At the main table
were two more cakes, one at Mrs. Brook’s place and one at Stella’s, both
elaborately ornamented with designs in chocolate icing, wrought by
artistic Cecily. These cakes blazed with candles, the camp-mother’s
having a double row, and Stella’s fifteen, with a half taper twinkling
in the center. Around each was a ring of small parcels; but before
Stella could untie any of hers, exclamations were heard all up and down
the table.
“Hello! What’s this?”
“I didn’t know it was _my_ birthday!”
“Why, everybody has a present!”
“This must be a birthday for all Camp Huairarwee!”
Every one of Stella’s summer sisters had found a parcel on her plate;
and so had Mrs. Brook, Fräulein and Miss Hamersley. A general unwrapping
took place. Jean and Cecily, Betty and Frances found jewelry
cases—little boxes covered with tiny varnished fir-cones and acorns. The
other girls and the teachers had all been presented with miniature
cocked hats made of odds and ends of silk, and lined with layers of
chamois skin.
“Motherling, did _you_ make us these darling ducks of pen-wipers?” asked
Marion. But Mrs. Brook shook her head.
“I know who made these jewelry boxes!” said Jean, and she and Cecily
fell upon Stella, who was blushing and giggling between them.
“And I saw somebody _sewing_ something the other day, and she wouldn’t
tell what it was!” said Dorothy Stone. The girls crowded around Stella,
and she was brought to confession.
“I wanted to do _something_ for you,—you’re all so lovely to me!
Fräulein showed me how to make the hats, and I worked while you were off
bathing and out walking, and when you thought I was taking naps in my
tent!”
“You Sly-boots!” cried Carol.
“I thought Mrs. Brook’s birthday would be a nice time to give ’em to
you. But I never dreamt it was going to be _my_ birthday too!” laughed
Stella.
She was kissed and thanked, and her little offerings heartily praised.
Then she was allowed to open her own parcels, of which there were no
less than twenty-three. Jean had donated her own favorite book, _Lorna
Doone_; Cecily had made her a roly-poly pincushion; Betty and Frances
had bought Indian baskets; Carol had contributed her new belt with its
oriental buckle; Eunice one of her dainty handkerchiefs; Nancy a pretty
necktie; and the other girls had added each some trifle to swell the
birthday store. When she had thanked the givers, Stella sat brooding in
delight over her riches, while Mrs. Brook was making a speech in
acknowledgment of her own gifts.
“Stella acts as if we’d given her a gold watch, a diamond necklace, and
an automobile at least!” remarked Nancy. “I believe if I’d presented her
with a spool of darning cotton she’d have said it was ‘simply
_elegant_!’” And Stella declared: “I _know_ I’m the happiest girl in the
world! Nobody _ever_ had such lovely things done for her! I don’t wonder
folks keep birthdays! I think they’re just _grand_!”
CHAPTER XIX.
THE HEMLOCK AND THE HIST-OH-HIST
A week before the birthdays were celebrated, a challenge had come to
Huairarwee. There were four boys’ camps, all within a radius of twenty
miles from Halcyon: Poke-o’-Moonshine at Blue Heron Pond, Pitch-off at
Crystal Lake, Tamarack and Catamount at Lake Algonquin,—and the time had
come for their annual regatta. Halcyon Lake had been chosen for the
contest on account of its central position and as the region of
Huairarwee was to be invaded, the boys had gallantly sent the girls a
challenge for the doubles, offering them a good handicap. The girls
accepted with enthusiasm, and immediately selected Carol and Cecily as
their champions.
The course was to run from Big Pine Camp on the opposite shore, around a
stake-boat and back again,—a distance of half a mile; and on hearing
that the girls were to take part Mr. Clinton offered a cup as the prize.
Carol sent home for her own beautiful cedar canoe, the _Hist-oh-Hist_,
and the night before the regatta it arrived, revarnished and polished
smooth and consigned to the care of Hiram Bolster, the Halcyon boatman,
who had pledged himself to have it unpacked and delivered at Huairarwee
in ample time for the race.
The eventful morning came; nine o’clock passed,—no Bolster, no canoe.
Douglas was despatched to hurry up matters, and brought back a message
from Hiram’s wife that “Pa was off somewheres, but he wouldn’t fergit.”
“I’d like to _dynamite_ that old Bolster!” exclaimed Carol. “He promised
faithfully he’d have that canoe up in time, and here it’s five minutes
after ten! Well, we’ll simply have to take one of _these_ canoes. Oh,
dear! but it’s too maddening! I want my own little _Hist-oh-Hist_. We’re
chums and we understand each other! Hiram Bolster, you’re a double-dyed
fraud! Well, come along!” she added. “Let’s take the _Yale_. That ought
to bring us luck!”
Carol took her place in the _Yale_ with Eunice and Nancy to paddle her
to the rendezvous; and Cecily embarked with Helen and Betty in the
_Glide-away_. Most of the girls were going by boat to the races, but
Jean and Frances were among those left to drive with Fräulein Bunsen and
Stella around the head of the lake to Big Pine Camp.
“Jean!” Carol called back, “if Bolster should come before you start,
make him bring the _Hist_ on after us as fast as he can. There’s just a
chance we might get it in time!”
“I will,” Jean promised, “I’ll stay right here and watch for him.” She
and Frances stayed on the beach skipping stones over the water, while
the other girls waited in the road for the carriage.
“Hello!” a voice like a foghorn roared behind them. Both girls jumped.
There stood Bob and Ted Talcott, who had just emerged from the Hurricane
trail, and stolen softly up to them. The older boy had a megaphone at
his lips.
“Gracious! How you scared me!” cried Jean.
“You nearly made me deaf for life!” declared Frances. “Aren’t you boys
going to the races?”
“Nope,” said Bob.
“Why not?”
“We went shooting with Douglas’s rifle, and Dr. Hamilton found it out,
so he’s keeping us out of the fun.”
“But we’re going up in your big hemlock,” added Ted. “We can see the
stake-boat, anyhow, and holler at ’em through the megaphone. Come on up,
too!”
“I just _will_!” cried Jean. “Then if we see Bolster I’ll megaphone to
him not to stop, but to take the canoe right on as quick as he can. The
old poke hasn’t brought Carol’s canoe yet,” she explained. “Hurry up,
before the carriage comes!”
“I’m going up, too,—we’ll break our necks, but what do _we_ care!” said
Frances gaily.
“We’ll go ahead and pull you up when you get stuck,” said Bob.
“We don’t need to be helped. We can get up as well as you can!” said
Frances scornfully.
Mrs. Brook’s hemlock was famous—a real giant, dwarfing all the other
trees for miles around. Years before, a series of steps had been nailed
up the trunk, and a platform built far up among the lofty branches, the
lowest of which were at a dizzy height. If Mrs. Brook had not forbidden
the campers to climb the hemlock it was because she had not dreamed that
even the leader of the battle maids would be fired with such an
ambition.
Jean and Frances felt their hearts fail them a little as they gazed up.
The steps were mere wooden chunks, and the rickety platform looked
alarmingly near the clouds. But the honor of Huairarwee was at stake,
and they would not show the white feather. Ted put himself at the head
of the climbers; Bob followed; Frances was a shrieking, giggling third,
and Jean brought up the rear. Step by step the procession mounted. The
wooden chunks were slippery, and some of them wobbled in a nerve-shaking
manner. Jean found that to glance down was to turn giddy, and to look up
was to feel discouragingly far below the branches. But at last the
lowest branch was reached, and working their way from bough to bough
they gained the platform. Far in the distance they could see the
stake-boat with its flags, but there was no sign of the recreant
Bolster.
“There’s a boat going to the races!” exclaimed Frances.
“Those must be the Fultons who came to our festival! Give me the
megaphone, quick!” cried Jean, seized with a brilliant idea, and she
called through the great horn, “Hello! hello! Tell them to wait for Miss
Armstrong’s canoe!” The others helped her in her wild hallooing by
shouting at the top of their lungs, Frances executing a very war-dance
in her excitement. The young people in the boat looked up and waved, but
Jean dropped the megaphone. “Horrors! It isn’t the Fultons at all!” she
groaned. “I’ve been yelling at strangers!”
A whistle sounded from below. Douglas was coming to announce that the
buckboard was waiting. “Hello! How did you get up there?” he called,
stopping beneath the hemlock.
“Lay low! Here comes teacher! Now we’ll catch it!” said Ted, for at that
moment Fräulein came out to see what the shouting meant.
If Jean and Frances had waved their hands to her from an air-ship
Fräulein could not have been more amazed. Her exclamation ran up the
scale to high “C” as she rushed to the foot of the tree.
“We came up to signal to Bolster,” Jean called down.
“Come up too, Fräulein! It’s as easy as pie!” shouted Frances.
“You ask me to climb up! to kill myself!” cried Fräulein. “No, but I
make Douglas go after you to help you down—dat you break not your necks!
You, Bob and Ted, it is _you_ vat took my girls up dat tree! I tell Dr.
Hamilton, and he vill export you from his camp!”
Douglas went up the tree as easily as a monkey. “Well, you’re great old
climbers!” he said admiringly, when he reached the platform. “It was
mighty nervy work for girls!”
“Do you think we’ll be in time for the doubles?” asked Jean.
“We’ll have to hustle,” replied Douglas.
They came down slowly and cautiously, poor Fräulein watching them
anxiously.
“Meine kinder, how could you!” said Fräulein, reproachfully, as they
reached the ground. “Suppose you had been killed,—den vat vould de poor
parents do?”
“Mine would say I was a child without a fault,” replied the Mouse.
“Dis is no laughing matter, Frances,” said Fräulein severely. “It is a
vunder you did not lose your lives! You did very, very wrong! Ach, did
you not know better? Ach, weh, your frocks,—how dirty! And Jean, how you
haff torn your skirt!”
Then for the first time the girls noticed the state of their apparel.
Frances ruefully examined the sleeves of her white guimpe which were
torn and soiled, though her brown linen skirt had withstood the climb.
Jean looked down aghast at her blue chambray, ripped at the belt and
displaying a jagged rent.
“Too bad! That’s such a dinky dress!” said Douglas, sympathetically.
“My children,” said Fräulein, her kind heart aching, “it does me much
sorrow to tell you, but if ve start not directly, ve shall be too late
to see our girls race, and so ve haff to leaf you behind. Dere is no
time to vait for you to change your frocks.”
“It won’t take a second,” said Frances.
“Why, Fräulein, we can’t stay at home!” cried Jean. “We _must_ see Carol
and Cecily race! We’ll be ready in five minutes!”
“Can’t we wait for them? I’ll drive fast,” said Douglas.
But Fräulein was firm. “If ve vait for you no vun vill see our race,”
she said. “I cannot disappoint Gladys and Grace and Pamela.”
“Then we’ll go without changing our dresses!” cried Jean, with growing
excitement. “People won’t be looking at _us_! They’ll be looking at the
races! I _must_ go, Fräulein! I _will_! My best friends are going to
race, and I _must_ see them! They’ll feel dreadfully if I don’t!”
“They can roll up in the carriage robes,—then they won’t show,” Douglas
suggested. “Say, Jean, if you had a pin,—”
“No, you cannot go to de Clintons’ camp like vild Indians; all de summer
people vill be dere,” said Fräulein. “Ve cannot disgrace Mrs. Brook. You
vould haff to dress your hair too, and dere is no time; ve are late now.
I am sorry, dear girls, but if you _vill_ be jimboys!”
“_Jimboys!_” tittered Frances. “Jean, you and I are _jimboys_!”
“Go to your tent, Frances!” Fräulein commanded sternly. “And you,
naughty boys, go home immediately!” Sheepishly the young squires
departed.
“I will _not_ stay at home!” declared Jean, her eyes flashing. But
Fräulein could not stay to argue. She hurried Douglas away, and Jean
could only follow Frances to their tent. She changed her dress in a
fury, throwing the torn chambray across the floor.
While Jean was still in the tent, storming in the bitterness of her
disappointment, Frances, in a clean guimpe, went off to the kitchen to
console herself with cookies, and came running back with the tidings;
“The canoe’s come!” Out flew Jean, fastening a last button. Sure enough,
there, floating jauntily, tied to the stern of a guide-boat, was the
cedar canoe, a dainty little queen of the water.
“Bolster must have come while we were dressing, and now he’s gone!”
exclaimed Jean. “Frances, I’m going to take it over, myself! There may
be time yet!”
“Good for you, Giraffe! I’ll go too, and we’ll have a jolly old lark!”
said Frances, joyously.
“We’ll have to take the guide-boat and tow the canoe,” said Jean. “Let
me row,—I’m the stronger.”
They had a good deal of difficulty in pushing the boat off, but finally
succeeded in getting afloat. Jean took the oars and began to pull
vigorously for the opposite shore.
“I’m going to untie the canoe and tow it myself,” said Frances. Suddenly
she exclaimed, “What _am_ I kicking?” and bending over she picked up a
can. “Ooh! Ugh! It’s bait! Horrid little worms!”
“What’s bait doing here in one of our boats?” asked Jean in disgust.
“This isn’t _our_ boat, child!” replied the Mouse calmly. “It’s
Bolster’s. He’s in the kitchen, hobnobbing with Marie.”
“My senses! And you knew it, and you never breathed a word!” Jean burst
into a peal of laughter. “Well, I can’t help it, now. I’ve got to get
that canoe to Carol in time.”
The fear of being late grew strong, and Jean toiled on until they were
nearly abreast of Pleasure Island, off which the stake-boat, gay with
flags, was anchored. There were two men on board, and as their skiff
drew near they hailed the girls with warning shouts.
“They’re yelling for us to go back!” said Frances.
“I can’t help it!” answered Jean, and she called, “We’re bringing Miss
Armstrong’s canoe! Canoe for the race! Canoe for the race!”
The obstinate little rowboat rounded the island, and then,—a cry from
Frances! “Oh, Jean, there come the canoes! Go into shore, quick!”
Jean looked over her shoulder. A quarter of a mile up the lake she could
see Big Pine Camp and the crowd of boats. But between the girls and
their goal four canoes were shooting toward them. Jean pulled with all
her might to bring the boat nearer the island. On came the canoes,
rounded the stake-boat, and shot down the lake again. It was the race of
the younger boys.
“Oh, dear! We won’t be in time!” sighed Jean. She rowed desperately,
with aching arms and back, but before she had cleared a quarter of the
distance that lay before her, the first race was over and another had
begun.
“Good gracious! The motor boats are coming now!” screamed Frances, and
Jean looked again.
A friend of the Hamiltons had lately lent them a motor boat, and in this
race Court and Jack with the _Shark_ and Tom Clinton with his
_Lightning_ were the competitors. Now the _Shark_ and the _Lightning_
came rushing down upon the frightened girls. Jean tried to turn in
toward the mainland, but in her excitement she pulled on the wrong oar.
Frances was shouting at her, her brain was in a whirl, and the boat was
gyrating in every direction.
The _Lightning_ in the lead suddenly swerved and darted by, giving the
rowboat a wide berth. The _Shark_ followed suit the next moment.
“Get in to shore!” the brothers shouted. They whizzed by, and the
rowboat was left tossing in the swells.
“Go in to shore, can’t you?—before those old things come back!” cried
Frances. “What’s the matter with you, Jean? You’re crazy! Pull on your
right oar,—I mean your left!”
“Well, do stop screeching,—you rattle me so! I’d like to see _you_ get
to shore!” returned Jean. She collected her wits sufficiently to pull
the proper oar, and brought the boat well in toward the land. Frances,
looking forward, could see the crowded dock and the judge’s stand, a
float with flags waving over it. Jean, facing the other way, could watch
the race as it swept around the stakeboat.
“Good! Court and Jack are catching up! Look, Frisk!” she cried. Unlucky
order! The sudden turn which Frances made sent her cookies off her lap.
She dived for them, and upset, not the boat,—but the bait! Over went the
can, and forth crawled the earthworms.
“Ooh! The horrid wiggly worms! Ooh!” Frances drew her feet out of harm’s
way.
“Frances, the canoe!” At Jean’s shriek of anguish, Francis looked back.
She had been towing the canoe carelessly with one hand and had let go in
her excitement. The _Hist-oh-Hist_ was putting a distance between
herself and the rowboat as fast as the breeze could carry her, and
making coquettish little bows of farewell as she danced on the wavelets.
“Give me an oar, quick!” cried Frances.
Jean wrenched an oar from the rowlock and passed it to Frances, but the
Mouse in her frantic haste missed it, and with a splash it went swimming
away after the canoe.
“You idiot! Why didn’t you catch it? Now we’re stuck—we’ll lose the
canoe! Oh, what made you!” scolded Jean, backing water madly with one
oar and sending the boat around in a circle.
“Well, I couldn’t help it!” said Frances, with injured innocence. “Let’s
yell for somebody to come and get us!” Both girls waved their hands and
screamed, “Help! Help!” at the top of their voices. But they had already
become objects of curiosity, and a skiff was pushing off to their
relief.
The motor boats came rushing back, the _Shark_ now abreast of the
_Lightning_.
“Take it easy! Well come back for you after the race!” shouted Court.
But the course for the motor boats was to be three times around the
stake-boat, and meanwhile the rescuer in the skiff was speeding toward
the girls.
“It’s Douglas!” they cried.
“Keep cool! You’re all right!” he called as he came skimming up to them.
“Hooray! You got here after all, didn’t you! And brought the canoe
within hailing distance, anyway!”
Jean and Frances greeted him with the story of the lost _Hist_.
“You’re in time,” said he. “They put off our race. It comes next.”
“Oh, joy!” exclaimed Jean. “Go after the canoe, Douglas! Leave us here.”
“No, I’ve got to get you into port,” said the boy, seizing their
painter. “Court and Jack’ll get her after the race. Well, you _have_ got
pluck! First you go up the big hemlock, and then you get into the races!
I’d like to see the thing _you’re_ afraid of!”
“We were afraid of those motor boats!” laughed Jean.
“It looked as if you were going to get rammed, sure thing!” said
Douglas. “Wasn’t it lucky,—I’d just put the horses up and got into the
boat when you started waving. Say! you must have worked like blazes to
get that boat up!”
Keeping well in shore he towed the boat up to the dock. The
Huairarwee-ites were wrought up to a high pitch of excitement at finding
who the girls were who had run foul of the races.
“We’ve brought the _Hist_!” called Jean, “only Frances let go and we
lost her! She’s way down there!”
“You loves! You lambkins! You little bricks! You’ve saved the day!”
cried Carol. “How in the world did you do it without being drowned?”
The heroines disembarked amid a babel of questioning, and told their
tale, both speaking at once in a wild jumble.
“Girls, it was perfectly splendid of you!” said Cecily. “You were
terribly plucky!”
“I’m _so_ glad you won’t have to miss the race!” said Carol. “I was
ready to wring my hands and tear my hair when I found they’d left you at
home, and St. Cecilia nearly wept!”
But poor Fräulein tragically declared, “Never, never again vill I trust
you out of my sight!”
The _Shark_ was in the lead as the motor boats came back to the goal for
the third time, and as she reached the red flag ten seconds ahead of her
rival a cheer hailed the Hamiltons. But the brothers did not stop to be
congratulated. They shot down the lake again after the fugitive _Hist_.
It was while awaiting their return that Jean heard a young lady behind
her say, “That looks like one of the girls that were up in that great
tree! Isn’t she the one that shouted at us through the megaphone?”
“Yes,” a man’s voice responded, “that tree must be their signal station.
They must have a strenuous lot of girls over at Black Bear Camp! They’ve
named it ‘Camp Huairarwee,’ now,—haven’t they? They ought to call it
‘Camp Hurrah-wee!’”
Jean’s cheeks grew hot. Involuntarily she glanced back and recognized
two of the young people whom she had mistaken for the Fultons. Carol
glanced back too. Then, putting her arm around Jean, she said to the
speakers, “Excuse me,—the girls mistook you for people they knew. They
were trying to send a message to have my race postponed till my own
canoe could get here.” Her cheeks as well as Jean’s were flushed, and
the quiet dignity of her manner was enough to check any further comment
on the strenuous girls of Huairarwee.
Jean forgot her embarrassment as she saw the _Shark_ returning with the
_Hist-oh-Hist_ in tow, bobbing gaily over the water. Court and Jack
presented the captured canoe to Carol and had their reward in the thanks
of the radiant girl.
Then it became a reality—the race that had already been lost and won in
Carol’s and Cecily’s dreams. The ten competitors became the center of
interest: eight bronzed, athletic young fellows, a tall, lithe lass, the
bonniest of all the girl campers, and a fair-haired slip of a damsel in
whom the spirit of a battle maid was stirring. The girls took their
places first, Carol in the stern of the _Hist_, Cecily in the bow, and
paddled away to their starting point, fifty yards beyond that of their
rivals. The blue canoes of Pitch-off and Tamarack, green Catamount, and
red Poke-o’-Moonshine were brought into line. A pistol was fired,—the
paddles, ready poised, cut the clear water, and the race began!
Thrilling, tingling exultation and delight Carol and Cecily found it at
first, as they plunged their paddles downward and lifted them again from
the foaming water to cleave it once more, quick as lightning, with
another strong, perfect stroke. Muscle and will-power, they threw all
into the work. Carol felt almost as if the _Hist_ was consciously
obeying her, and as if she could infuse her own spirit into this summer
friend of hers; and Cecily, doing her best to bring glory to Huairarwee,
could feel how Carol’s skill and greater strength were helping to keep
them ahead. On and on they rushed. Larger and larger the stake-boat
loomed, but as they neared it the splash of other paddles made them
throw one backward look. Poke-o’-Moonshine seemed to be fast gaining on
them; Catamount was pressing her hard; Pitch-off and Tamarack were
closing in.
Now they were nearly up to the boat with its rainbow of flags, and they
could hear “Go it, Huairarwee!” “Hit her up, Poke-o’-Moonshine!” Arms
aching, wills resolute, the girls gathered up that reserve strength that
lies ready for the moment of need. The _Hist_ fairly leaped forward, and
with a dextrous turn of her paddle Carol made her sweep round the
stake-boat, almost grazing its stern. They heard a cheer, and were on
the homeward course. Less than a quarter of a mile more! but the
exultation in the work was gone. The race had become for them nothing
but desperate effort—dizzying swiftness of motion. Poke-o’-Moonshine was
fast eating up the distance between them. Every stroke was pain now, but
both girls had the same resolve, “I don’t care what happens to me. I
_will_ do it! I _will_!” They gathered up all their remaining strength
and threw it into the last moments of the contest.
The crowd of onlookers saw the _Hist_ darting up to the finish with her
red antagonist almost bumping her, the three others following them
close. Boys were shouting to their champions to “Hit her up!” and girls,
half mad with excitement, were calling encouragement to their sisters in
the cedar canoe.
“Oh, Carol! Cecily! beat, beat, beat!” Jean’s whole eager soul was
crying out. As if in answer, the _Hist_ shot forward. Again, again,
again, the paddles left the water, the foam boiled up around the bows,
and then—a cheer! The _Hist-oh-Hist_ had passed the scarlet flag half a
canoe’s length ahead of Poke-o’-Moonshine! Amid the storm of applause
the winners glided up to the dock.
[Illustration: AS IF IN ANSWER THE “HIST” SHOT FORWARD.]
Court, at the top pitch of enthusiasm, helped them from the canoe, and
while he was congratulating them Jean hurled herself on Carol’s neck,
then on Cecily’s, and hugged them tight.
Freak races and tilting followed; and then, the regatta over, the
victors received their prizes. Each of the boys was presented with a
banner, and a blue and gold flag was soon flaunting proudly at the stern
of the _Shark_.
“The cup is awarded to Miss Carol Armstrong and Miss Cecily Brook, of
Camp Huairarwee!” Mr. Clinton announced. The girl champions stepped
forward and received a great two-handled silver cup beautifully
embossed.
“We present this cup to Camp Huairarwee,” said Carol, and, while Cecily
held the silver trophy aloft, she took Jean and Frances each by the
hand. “We four won it together,” she said. And Huairarwee cheered again.
But two of the victorious quartette found themselves soon tumbling down
from the mountain-top of glory. After the triumphant return to camp, and
the merry dinner in honor of the day, Miss Hamersley, with an ominous
face, called Jean and Frances to her tent.
“Now for a squelching,” quoth the Mouse. Jean’s head went up proudly.
“Keep a grip on your sword, now, Queenie,” whispered Carol, with a
sympathizing pat on Jean’s shoulder, as the two battle maids marched
past her to the court-marshal.
Miss Hamersley sternly reproved her adventurous charges for having run
headlong into danger, warning them that if they showed themselves so
foolhardy again they might expect to find themselves sent home. With a
sarcastic smile she also reminded Jean that _Bob_ might have been
entrusted with the intended megaphone message to Bolster, and she
assured them that she considered the hemlock escapade not only dangerous
but hoydenish and unladylike. This cut Jean to the quick, and though she
closed her teeth tight to imprison the Storm Child spirit, she retired
to her own tent with angry steps, there to pace up and down burning with
indignation.
“I never knew anything so unjust! We helped to win the race, and in
return we’re told we may be sent home and disgraced forever!”
Suddenly, with a rush like a mountain gale, Carol came in, caught Jean,
whirled her round, pulled her down on a cot, and gave her a warm kiss.
“What’s all this declaiming about?” she asked, laughing.
“Was I talking aloud?” asked Jean.
“_Were_ you? I thought it was Hamlet at least! Poor little Queenie! Did
Miss Hamersley hammer so hard that she had to go off and play
Shakespeare all by her little lonesome?”
“Carol, Miss Hamersley’s too unjust for anything! She threatened to send
us away from camp!”
“That was only a warning, to keep you from drowning yourselves,
childie!”
“We weren’t in any real danger,” said Jean.
“Yes, Jean, you were.” Carol’s merry face grew serious. “You don’t know
yet how to manage a boat in a sudden emergency. Suppose you’d been
swamped by those motor boats! And it was dreadfully risky, climbing the
hemlock, too! Jean,”—and the clear brown eyes looked steadily into the
blue ones—“promise me you won’t do such things again. It would break my
heart if anything happened to my Little Sister.”
“But I had to get that canoe up to you somehow,” Jean protested. “You
said yourself it helped you to win.”
“Yes, I’m sure it did,” said Carol. “And you were a splendid, brave Joan
of Arc to do it. Cecily’s name for you suits you to a ‘t.’ And you
pretty nearly did get burned at the stake in those dreadful woods,
didn’t you, poor little martyr? But, Jean darling, which do you think I
care most about, _you_ or winning races?”
“Me, I suppose,” said Jean with a laugh.
“I should rather think I did! millions and millions of times! If
anything had happened to you to-day, Jean, I wouldn’t have gotten over
it as long as I lived.”
Jean’s eyes were fixed on her friend’s earnest face. Suddenly she threw
her arms around Carol’s neck. “I’ll never do anything to worry you
again, Carolie dear!” she said. “I promise.”
“Come out, Giraffe!” sang a merry voice. Frances was peeping around the
tent-flap.
“Come in, Mousie, and comfort your Queen,” said Carol.
“Carol,” said Frances, dropping down on the cot beside her, “don’t you
think Miss Hamersley’s terribly old-maidy to call us hoydens? I don’t
see why it was any worse for us to be yelling at strangers from the top
of a tree than it was for Bob and Ted. We’re only little girls, anyway.”
“Rather sizable and imposing girls, I should say,” remarked Carol.
“But wasn’t it hateful of those people to talk about my shouting, and
say we must be a strenuous lot of girls!” said Jean. “I’m glad you spoke
up for us, Carol. My, but you looked high and haughty!”
“I was furious!” said Carol. “But we poor ‘Hurrah-wee girls’ have bobbed
up serenely from our troubles by this time—haven’t we?”
“Yes, indeed, and I’ll look three times before I shout, after this,”
said Jean, laughing. “You’ve smoothed me out beautifully, you dear, old
Big Sister!”
* * * * *
That evening around the camp-fire, an exultant ring of girls woke the
echoes with the latest Huairarwee yell:
“One, two, three, four!
Two, three, one, four!
What are we for?
Huairarwee?
With a C. and an A. and an R. O. L.,
and a _Ce_ and a _Ci_ and an L. and a Y.!
Armstrong and Brook!
And the cup they took!
Huair rah! rah! rah! rah! rahwee!”
CHAPTER XX.
CONSPIRATORS
“Douglas, that’s going to sail like a dream!”
“Like a nightmare!” Douglas corrected. He was busy with wood and canvas
over a model of an air-ship, to the building of which he had been
devoting his leisure moments.
“You’re going to turn out an inventor—I know you are!” said optimistic
Jean. “Some day you’ll build an air-ship that’ll beat all the others
they’ve ever made, and make your fortune!”
“Oh, sure! Some day! Some thirtieth of February!” said Douglas.
“Thirtieth of February!” repeated Jean. “Oh, pshaw! there isn’t any.
Well, I know something you could do now, anyway. Why don’t you make
little toy air-ships just like this one? I’m sure they’d sell like
everything.”
“That’s an _idee_!” said Douglas.
“Oh, do it, Douglas!” begged Jean. “I’m sure you could earn lots of
money. You might make enough to pay your way right through school. You
might start a regular fad for toy air-ships! Do try!”
“I wonder if I _could_ make a hit with this sort of thing,” said
Douglas. “It would help me out a good bit.”
“You’ll earn enough here this summer to get to school _this_ year, won’t
you?”
“I can get to _night_ school all right.”
“Night school! Why, what’ll you have to do that for?”
“Because I’ll have to work through the day,” he replied. “I can get a
place in a store easy enough, and pay my board that way.”
“How much will your board cost?” asked Jean.
“Oh, about a hundred.”
“Fury! But you’re saving up six dollars a week here, you told me. And
you’ll be here till—?”
“Till September fifteenth,” said Douglas. “I’ll have sixty-six dollars
by that time.”
“Why, that isn’t much more than half your board! But there are the
twenty-five Court gave you for your canoe.”
“I had to use that to pay back a man in Algonquin. He lent me
twenty-five after Father died,—when I was coming here.”
“Oh, Douglas, it’ll be just horrid for you to go to night school and
work all day in a store! You’ll kill yourself!”
“I wouldn’t be good for much if I wasn’t tough enough for that,”
answered Douglas.
“I’m going to ask Father to help him, when he comes on,” thought Jean,
as Douglas ran off in answer to a call to launch a canoe. “But oh, dear,
that won’t be till October, and it’s so long to wait!”
A letter from Jean’s parents was due, and it arrived the next morning
and sent her darting through the camp to find Carol. “Carolie, I’m going
to have a canoe of my own!” she cried.
“Jean! not really! How perfect!” exclaimed Carol.
“Yes! It’s a birthday present ahead of time! Father says he knows I’d
rather have a canoe than anything else, so he’s giving me my present now
instead of in October. He’s sent word to Mr. McLean,—that’s his partner
here,—to send me thirty-five dollars to buy one. Now you’ll have the
_Hist-oh-Hist_, and I shall have _my_ canoe, and we can go out together.
Isn’t it the loveliest thing that ever happened!”
“I should think it was! He’s a daddy worth having!” said Carol. “You
deserve a canoe—you’ve worked so hard learning to paddle, and you do it
so splendidly now. Let’s get Cecily and Douglas to go with us over to
Crystal Lake, and we’ll pick out a beauty for you.”
“I do hope Mr. McLean’ll hurry up and send the money,” said Jean. “I
want to have all the time I can to paddle my own canoe! Oh, my daddy’s
such an old darling! I must write to him this minute!” And setting off
at her usual whirlwind pace she ran pell-mell into Douglas’s air-ship,
which lay on the ground awaiting its builder. Happily no damage was
done, but when she had smoothed the crumpled sail, she went on slowly,
with a thoughtful wrinkle in her forehead.
When the afternoon’s mail brought her the expected check Jean surprised
her friends by her quiet way of receiving her birthday gift.
* * * * *
A deer-jacking excursion was planned for that evening, and the Hamiltons
and several guides were to come with skiffs and lanterns to take the
Huairarwee campers out on the bloodless hunt. Night fell; the stars
began to twinkle between clouds that promised showers before morning,
and while the other girls were having an impromptu dance in the
bungalow, Jean ran down to the beach on an errand of her own. Presently
a small sun shining out in the gloom, and a manly baritone, a boyish
treble and a sweet contralto, singing “Here’s to good old Yale”
announced that Court and Rose, with one of the Talcott boys, were rowing
toward Huairarwee with a jack-lantern at their bow.
“Land ho! Hello, Jean!” called Ted, turning the lantern light upon the
solitary figure standing like a sentinel on Camp-fire Rock. Jean ran
down to the landing.
“Well, the deer are all ready for us,” said Court as he stepped ashore
and helped his sister out. “I’ve rounded up all the crack herds in the
Adirondacks, and they’re waiting for us over at Lonesome Pond, with
their company smiles on.”
“I’ll go and tell the girls we’re here,” said Rose, starting up the path
toward the camp.
Ted busied himself tying the boat, and Jean seized the opportunity to
whisper to Court, “I want to speak to you about something. It’s a
secret. I can’t tell anybody but you.”
“Whew, that’s a compliment!” said Court: “I feel my head expanding.”
A second sun shone out over the dark water, and they heard a whistle
like a screech owl’s cry.
“Oh, that’s Douglas!” said Jean. “Come into the boat-house quick—he
mustn’t hear for the world!”
“The plot thickens! I’m getting excited,” remarked Court. “Ted, I have
something to see Jean about. You stay here and patrol the coast.” He
hurried with the eager girl into the safe retreat of the boat-house.
“We’re all right here,” said he. “Go ahead! I’ll be an oyster.”
“I don’t want to tell Carol till I’ve done it, because I’m afraid she’ll
stop me off, and I _do_ want to help him!” began Jean.
“First rate policy! Do what you want first, and ask advice
afterwards—that’s _my_ way!” said Court. “_Him_ means Tony Harrel, of
course.”
“No indeed! It’s Douglas!” laughed Jean. “He isn’t earning half enough!
He’ll have only sixty-six dollars saved when his work’s over this
summer, and his board in the city is going to cost him a hundred; so he
says he’ll have to work in a store next winter, and just go to night
school.”
“Yes, I know,” said Court. “He’s going to find it pretty up-hill work,
I’m afraid.”
“But if he gets thirty-five more,” Jean went on, “that’ll be one hundred
and one dollars, and then he can pay his board and go to _day_ school,
and won’t have to work. And I’m sure he ought to get ten dollars for his
air-ship—it’s such a beauty. That’ll help to buy him some new clothes.”
“That sounds like good arithmetic,” Court assented. “But as to the
air-ship business, why, as we say, he’d better not take an inventory of
his gallinaceous fowls till they’ve passed the egg-shell stage! And
where are the thirty-five coming from?”
“Here they are!” said Jean triumphantly, holding out the precious check.
“It’s my birthday present. Father meant me to buy a canoe, but I know
he’ll let me spend it any way I like. So won’t you please take it and
get it cashed and give Douglas the money, without telling him where it
comes from? He won’t take it if _I_ give it to him. Will you, please?”
Her earnest, pleading look would have made it hard to refuse her
anything. Court looked down at her with a new expression in his merry
face. But he hesitated. “Jean, you ought not to,” he said. “It’s too
much, and it’s your birthday present. You mustn’t give it away like
that. We’ll find some way to set Douglas on his feet without spoiling
your birthday. He’s got to rough it, anyhow. It’ll make a man of him.”
“It’ll spoil my birthday if I _don’t_ do it,” Jean declared. “Please,
Court! I thought you’d help me, because you bought his canoe, and you’re
all the time doing things for people. Mrs. Brook says so.”
“Oh, my great-aunt’s going to foot all _my_ bills, you know,” said
Court. “Jean, you’re a trump to want to do it, but you ought not to,
really. Your father wants you to have the canoe, and _you_ want it like
everything, too, I know you do! Douglas wouldn’t have you spend your
money on him for a good deal!”
“But he won’t know it’s my money! And I don’t want a canoe half as much
as I want to help him, really and truly and honestly! I’m going to give
the money to Douglas _anyway_—only I don’t know how I can do it unless
you’ll help me.”
Court looked at her with an odd smile. “Hasn’t that pin something to do
with it?” he asked, laying a finger on the sword Caritas. Jean nodded
with an answering smile.
“All right. I’ll do it,” said Court. “And I’ll tell Douglas _your_
great-aunt sent it. Shall I?”
“I’m afraid he’d guess, then,” laughed Jean.
“Well, suppose we don’t give it to him till the fall. He won’t need it
till then, and you’ll be safe out of the way by that time, so he can’t
give it back!”
“That’s a fine idea!” said Jean, delighted. “But please take the check
now and keep it for me, won’t you? The girls will just try to make me
buy the canoe if _I_ keep it.”
“All right. I’ll give you a receipt for it. You’ll have to endorse it,
though. Here’s my fountain pen. Write your name across _there_.”
Jean wrote her name on the back of the check. “Thank you ever so much!”
she said gratefully. “I’m so glad you’ll help me.”
Her confederate gave her a brotherly pat on the shoulder. “Jean, I’m
proud to know you!” He took the slim little hand in his big strong one
and shook it heartily. “But we’ll have to come out of hiding now, if we
don’t want to be caught!”
“You won’t tell a soul, will you?” Jean asked.
“Mum’s the word!”
They stole out of their covert in the nick of time. Douglas had landed
already. Jack was putting in to port; the rest of the guideboats were
following in his wake; and the Huairarwee girls were hurrying down to
the dock.
“You come with Rose and me, won’t you, Carol?” asked Court. “We’ve got
to keep Toddles in order, and we need consolation.”
“Toddles! Is that his new name for you, Ted?” exclaimed Carol. “I
wouldn’t allow such an insult if I were you! I’ll come with pleasure and
console _Ted_! I’m sure he needs it the most.”
“Dandy dark night for it, isn’t it?” said Douglas to Jean. “We can get
close up to the deer. They won’t see us at all. You come in my boat and
work the lantern!”
“I’d love to!” cried Jean.
“Say! Who’s coming with _me_?” called Jack.
“Betty and I,” replied Cecily.
“I’m going to manage the _jack_!” said Betty.
“Which? me or the lantern?” Jack inquired.
“Both of you!” giggled Betty.
“Frances,” said Fräulein Bunsen, “Dr. Hamilton says you are to go in his
ship. Now promise me dat you and Bob vill not play tricks.”
The flotilla was soon under way, and there was something delightfully
eerie in gliding through the gloom with the hush of night over lake and
forest, except where the weird hoot of an owl pierced the stillness.
“Did I ever tell you about the fawn I fished out of Lake Algonquin?”
asked Douglas.
“No. Tell me!” said Jean eagerly.
“It was last April. I found a doe trying to teach her little fawn to
swim. He was a poor, weak little fellow, and the water was snappy cold.
He was out way up to his neck, and so freezing he couldn’t get back. He
was nearly drowned!”
“Poor little darling! What a mean old mother to make him go bathing in
_April_!” cried Jean indignantly.
“She _was_ a kind of a Spartan mother, wasn’t she?” said Douglas. “Well,
I reached over and fished him out and rubbed him and dried him, and if
that doe didn’t stand there watching me, as pleased as Punch! Then they
trotted off into the woods.”
“Why didn’t you take them both home and keep them for pets?” asked Jean.
“Oh, I hope some fawns’ll go swimming to-night!”
Sky and water were black by the time they reached the extreme end of the
lake, some five miles from camp. Then came a march over the “carry,” the
men hauling the boats over the short spongy trail, to re-embark on the
inky waters of Lonesome Pond. In another half hour they were nearing the
place where the deer were accustomed to come down to drink, undisturbed
by the blaze of camp-fires or the sound of human voices.
“I feel as if we were Pilgrim Fathers escaping from the Indians!”
whispered Jean. The searchlight lanterns had been fastened to the bows
of the boats, and she never tired of turning hers from side to side,
lighting up the black water, now on the right, now on the left.
“There’s a doe with two fawns!” Douglas whispered.
“Where?” asked Jean under her breath.
“Right ahead there!”
She flashed her jack forward. There, with their feet in the ripples,
stood the doe and her twin fawns. Dazzled by the strange light, the wild
mother and her children waited motionless, as if the lantern were
Medusa’s head and had turned them into stone. Their smooth coats looked
white as snow as the light shone upon them, and Jean wished that they
would _stay_ spell-bound, that she might stroke the pretty heads of
those bewitching babies. But any sign betraying the human beings behind
that blinding glare would have sent the trio bounding back into the
depths of the woods; and the canoe passed on, leaving the doe and fawns
to wonder at the next lantern, which was Betty’s.
A two-year-old buck—a most graceful young prince of the forest—gazed
fascinated at their light, a half mile further on; and as many as six
deer, in all, rewarded their search before they finally turned homeward.
Thunder was growling as the party came skimming back toward Huairarwee,
and a pelting shower broke over them just as the girls reached their
tents. Once safe under the canvas, there was no temptation to step out
again into the rain; but Carol, as she turned to put out her light, saw
an envelope—pierced through with the point of an umbrella—intrude itself
under her tent-flap. Opening it, she read:
_Dear Big Sister_,
I can’t go to bed without telling you, because I never keep any
secrets from _you_. I’m _not_ going to buy a canoe, after all. Don’t
tell any one, but I gave my check to Court to-night, and he is going
to give the money to Douglas after we have gone away, to help him
through school next winter. Please don’t try to make me take it back
again, for I _won’t do it_.
JEAN.
Presently an envelope came riding into _Jean’s_ tent on an umbrella tip,
and the note that she found in it said:
_Darling little Sister_,
The sacrifice is worthy of the queen! You and I together will get
Douglas through school somehow, won’t we? Good-night and a kiss,
from
CAROL.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE RUNAWAY
“You dear old Cyclone! I wish they’d let _me_ ride you, some day! You
behaved beautifully with Carol. You’d be just as good if _I_ were on
your back, wouldn’t you, Beauty?” Jean stood holding the bridle of
Court’s mettlesome horse, and playing with the jet black mane.
Cyclone had completed his post-graduate course, and a few days before
Carol had ridden him and enjoyed a glorious gallop. In fact, a riding
mania had developed among the campers, the girls having learned that
there were saddle-horses to be hired. Three, warranted gentle as
kittens, were regularly engaged, and weekly riding parties were now the
rule, the girls taking turns. Jean had possessed a pony before she came
to school, and could ride well, but so far her turn had not come, and
she now looked longingly at Eunice, Nancy and Helen, whom Court and Jack
were helping into the saddles of Buttercup, Prince and Bess.
A fishing excursion was on foot as well, and the cavalcade set forth for
Shadow Brook, famous for its trout. Court on Cyclone, and Jack on Tom
Clinton’s Dandy, escorted the three girls on horseback. Douglas drove
Fräulein and ten jolly young campers in a four-seated wagon, while Miss
Hamersley and Carol were in charge of two surreys. A long journey over
hilly roads brought the party to a farm where the horses were left, and
then came a tramp through the woods to the brook.
Two hours of whipping the stream were rewarded with a fine catch. At
noon a fire was built, panful after panful of trout set sizzling, and
luncheon laid out on a rock by the brookside. The deliciously crisped
little fish were pronounced the best ever fried; but none of them did
Jean count as the result of her angling. She had, to be sure, landed one
little red-speckled beauty, but her heart had so smitten her at its
pathetic floundering that she had restored it to the water, refusing to
bereave any more Shadow Brook families.
After luncheon came a shooting match, for Carol and Douglas had brought
their rifles. Carol, Court and Jack proved themselves excellent shots,
but the honors were unanimously awarded to Douglas. After beating all
the rest at the hundred-yard range, he fastened a large piece of white
birch bark to a tree, and fired at it from a distance of twenty yards.
It looked like poor marksmanship when his first shot pierced the bark
near the top instead of in the center, as Jean had hoped; but his next
was cleverly put directly below the first, the third and fourth each
exactly under the last.
“Hold up, Scotchy! You’re wasting shot,” said Jack. But Douglas
continued to blaze away, and presently Jean, standing at his side,
beheld a large J on the birch target.
“Go it, old Hawkeye!” laughed Court, and Douglas did “go it,” until a
perfectly formed L appeared beside the J.
“How do you like my embroidery?” he asked Jean, presenting her with her
initials.
To Jean that target was a precious trophy, and she tucked it safely away
in her luncheon basket, resolved that it should have an honored place in
_Castle Afterglow_ next fall.
It was now high time to start home, and they tramped back to the farm.
Horses and carriages were brought out, and Frances, in high feather, was
helped by Jack into Buttercup’s saddle, for she was learning to ride and
was to take Eunice’s place on the journey back to camp.
“All aboard, Queenie! Hurry up, or you’ll be left behind! Get in with
me!” called Carol. Jean turned from the farmyard fence through which she
was petting two pretty Jersey calves, to find that the wagons were
filling. Snatching a handful of clover, she gave Carol’s bay span, Major
and Billy, a nibble apiece; then climbed into the surrey beside Dorothy
Stone, for Eunice was already sitting with the driver.
Carol kept at the head of the procession. Jack, on Dandy, led Buttercup
by a strap, keeping company with the four-seater driven by Douglas.
Court, Nancy and Helen, riding behind the second surrey, brought up the
rear.
On the homeward road the party suddenly encountered two enormous bears,
although hitherto the campers had penetrated the forests again and again
without meeting any larger beasts than rabbits and porcupines. These
were tame bruins, however, and their swarthy savoyard masters were
leading them towards Halcyon Inn. But wild or tame, it was all the same
to Major, on whose side the clumsy creatures came waddling out from a
cross-road. The bay span had been recommended as well broken to
automobiles, but no one had thought of inquiring whether they could
stand another and very different test of a horse’s courage, the
proximity of a bear. Major disgraced his military title by shying
violently to Billy’s side of the road, crowding his mate into the ditch.
This was too much for Billy’s equanimity. Major’s jumping and dancing
were infectious. Both horses were now plunging; a moment more and they
were running! Carol braced herself and dragged at the reins with all her
might, without the slightest effect. It all happened with the swiftness
of a dreadful dream. The terrified girls were borne onward with a fury
that made earth and sky swim before their vision. Trees whirled past,
stones flew, the carriage bounded from side to side and swayed as if it
would go over. Happily, the road was level for a space, but not far
ahead it descended a steep hill to Beaver Bridge, where it turned
sharply at right angles. _There_, unless this headlong pace could be
stayed in time, the runaway must have a fearful ending. Carol wound the
reins about her wrists and pulled in with all her strength. She might as
well have tried to check the mill-race at Beaver dam. Eunice, grasping
the side of the wagon with one hand, tried to help Carol with the other.
Behind her Jean sat, gripping the arm of her seat, dazed with the horror
of that frenzy of motion.
“Oh, let’s jump!” cried Dorothy, starting up; and the impulse to spring
out seized poor Jean also.
“No, don’t jump!” shouted Carol, over her shoulder. “Sit still! Hold
her, Jean!”
The quick command brought Jean to her senses. It came from the girl whom
she had learned to cling to and to trust. Before Dorothy could throw
herself from the carriage Jean flung her arms around her and forced her
back into her place. “Sit still, Dorothy! sit still!” she cried. “You’ll
be killed if you jump!” She dragged Dorothy down upon the floor of the
rocking, swaying carriage, and held her fast. As the frightened girl
ceased struggling there came a clatter of hoofs behind. Like a black
thunderbolt Cyclone swept up alongside the runaway, and Court seized
Billy’s bridle.
* * * * *
The instant that Major had shied and plunged at the sight of the bears
Douglas and Miss Hamersley had pulled up, telling the girls to get out
and stand by the roadside. Court ordered Nancy and Helen to ride back to
a safe distance, lest their horses should become excited, and then,
putting Cyclone to the gallop, shot after the runaway. Jack dismounted
and lifted Frances from her horse; then, vaulting into his saddle again
he galloped after his brother. Douglas, as the last girl leaped from his
wagon, sprang down and held his horses with one hand and the now dancing
sorrel with the other. The bears came padding toward them, but Douglas
shouted at their stupid masters, and finally succeeded in turning them
back into the cross-road from whence they had come.
When Cyclone caught up with the runaway it so happened that the team had
swerved over toward Major’s side of the road, and Court had no choice
but to dash in on the side of the less terrified animal. Hope filled the
girls’ hearts as they saw him seize Billy’s bridle, but the clattering
up of Cyclone had only excited Major the more. Taking the bit in his
teeth he forced his mate along in a still madder gallop toward the pitch
of the hill.
But Court instantly changed his tactics. Jack was within speaking
distance now, and his brother, dropping Billy’s rein, shouted back to
him, “Do as you see me do!” Then, giving Cyclone his head, he dashed
forward in advance.
If the descent of the hill were once reached at this tremendous pace by
the flying team, Court knew that all chance of rescue would be over. So
did Carol, and strained desperately on the reins. To the four terrified
girls it looked as if their last hope was gone when they saw their
would-be rescuer let go of Billy and leave them. But the young man knew
what he was about, and galloped furiously on ahead, followed by Jack,
whose spirited mount was quite as swift as Cyclone. Court let his
brother come abreast and shouted his commands. Suddenly, when they had
gained fifty or sixty yards on the runaway, the girls saw them pull up
and spring to the ground. Letting Cyclone and Dandy go, they faced about
with arms outstretched, covering the whole breadth of the road.
On came the charging horses, the carriage lurching from side to side
behind them. But even Major was not so blind with crazy terror that he
could not see the human barrier before him. He slackened his pace. In
another instant the brothers, leaping to either side, sprang for the
bridles. Court grasped Major’s—Jack, Billy’s. But agile as he was,
Jack’s boyish strength proved unequal to the task. Carried off his feet,
he lost his hold and fell, barely escaping hoofs and wheels. But the
young athlete who had broken Cyclone was clinging to Major with a grip
of iron. He was swept off his feet, indeed, but nothing could break his
hold, and Major, with a strong man’s weight dragging from his head, and
with his nostrils compressed by sinewy fingers, shutting off his wind,
had no choice but to bring his wild course to an end. Before the
declivity was reached it was all over. Panting, quivering, yet subdued,
the horses stopped and stood still. Court held them and calmed them. A
moment more and Jack, too, was at their heads. The girls sprang down.
“Oh, Court!” cried Carol. “You’ve saved our lives! How can we ever thank
you! Are you really not hurt? Oh, I thought you’d be killed! How _did_
you do it? How _could_ you hold on?”
“Oh, that’s nothing when you’re in training. _You_ held on finely,
Carol!” Court tossed his own action lightly off.
“Eunice helped me splendidly,” said Carol, loyal to her chum.
“You were mighty plucky, both of you!” said Court. “How do you all feel?
Pretty badly shaken up?”
“I’m afraid poor Dorothy is,” answered Eunice. “Come and rest on the
bank till you feel better, Dot.”
Dorothy was weak, and trembling from head to foot, and the other girls,
too, were badly shaken, as their white faces showed. But they poured out
their gratitude, all in one breath, to the hero who had saved them and
the hero, just as brave, who had failed.
“Much good _I_ was!” growled Jack. “Got yanked off, the first thing!”
“You risked your life to save us!” said Carol.
“Yes,” Jean broke in. “You were perfectly splendid, Jack! You jumped
right for Billy and grabbed him, and you’re not nearly as big as Court!”
“Jackyboy’s all right!” said the taller hero, slapping his disconsolate
brother on the shoulder. “Half the battle was in making the horses slow
up before they got to us. Didn’t you see how Major weakened when he saw
us standing up in front of him like two scarecrows? And Billy, he just
wanted an excuse for stopping, and Jacky gave him a good one.”
“Jean’s a heroine, too!” said Dorothy. “I wanted to jump, but she
dragged me down on the floor and held me so tight, I couldn’t! She saved
my life!”
“I wanted to jump, myself, first,” said Jean, as Dorothy squeezed her
hand.
“You can always trust my battle maid!” said Carol. Her arm trembled as
it stole around the “little sister,” whose life had been put in her
keeping that day.
In a few moments the four-seater was brought up by Douglas, whose blood
had been all on fire to ride to the rescue. Cecily sprang from the
carriage first of all, caught Jean in her arms, held her tight, and
could not speak a word. The whole party was soon reunited; but there was
no driving home with the runaway team—the teachers would not hear of it,
even though Court offered to take the reins; nor would they allow
Frances to mount Buttercup again. Beyond the bridge was a farmyard, near
which Cyclone and Dandy were found quietly grazing. There, while the
rest went on, with Jack riding as escort, Carol, Eunice, Dorothy and
Jean waited with Court, until Douglas returned to drive them back to
camp. Major and Billy were left at the farm to be called for later.
“Isn’t somebody going to ride with me?” asked Court, as he prepared to
mount Cyclone and lead Buttercup.
Eunice and Dorothy were too much unnerved for anything but a carriage.
“My wrists are too badly strained,” said Carol. “They haven’t any _pull_
left in them. Jean hasn’t had a ride yet. How do you feel, Jeanie?”
“Fine! I’m all ready!” answered Jean, keyed up by the excitement.
“You’re a little brick!” said Court. “See here! A girl with your pluck
ought to be riding Cyclone. Want to try him?”
“Oh, Court! Really? Will you let me?” cried Jean, in ecstasy.
“I think he’s the horse for you! I’ll put the leading-strap on him—just
to please Fräulein, you know.” Court put the side-saddle on the big
black horse, changed his own to the sorrel, and jumped Jean up on
Cyclone’s back.
“The Storm Child riding the Cyclone!” remarked Carol, as she pinned a
linen dust-robe about her for a riding-skirt.
There was nothing to fear, for, with all his fire, Cyclone was obedient
to his master’s least word; and for Jean that ride was the most glorious
experience of that wonderful summer. As they neared home Court undid the
leading-strap—and to the amazement of her summer sisters, guiding her
spirited charger alone, and rising lightly to his swift trot, the queen
of the battle maids came riding into camp.
CHAPTER XXII.
UP THE GOTHICS
And, oh, Mammy dear, the best is to come! To-morrow Douglas and Jack
are to take us up the splendid old Gothics, _if_ Mrs. Brook will let
us go. It will be the biggest climb we have had.
Good-night, Mother darling,
Your own little girl.
So closed the journal letter that Jean had been writing in her spare
moments. Camp Huairarwee had lately divided its forces. While the
majority of the girls had gone with Miss Hamersley on a trip to
Montreal, the Silver Sword quintette and Nanno, with Carol and Eunice,
Fräulein and Mrs. Brook, had taken the two days’ drive to the beautiful
St. Hubert’s region, to enjoy a taste of mountain climbing. A friend of
Mrs. Brook’s had offered them—for as long as they should desire
it—Chipmunk Lodge, a tiny cottage in the woods; and here a week had
passed, with glorious climbs up Noonmark, Indian Head, and the great
Giant himself, and finally a night in camp on the wild shore of Upper
Ausable Lake.
Meanwhile, Court and some college friends, with Jack and Douglas, had
set out on a walking trip, and had reached St. Hubert’s in time to join
the girls in a climb or two. To-morrow would be the last day at Chipmunk
Lodge. The young men were booked for a hard, all-day’s tramp, the “round
trip” of the principal peaks, but the boys had planned to spend the day
on the Gothics, and as Jean’s aspiring soul longed to conquer one more
mountain, they had begged the girls to go with them. Douglas had been
over the trail once, and, as he said, he knew “where to go to go on.”
Mrs. Brook was afraid that her charges would be too tired for the drive
back to Halcyon, but though she had not yet given her consent, the boys
had promised to stop on their way to the Gothics, to see whether she had
relented. As Jean was addressing her letter, in came Douglas to return
her sweater, which, having been packed away in his guide-basket, he had
absent-mindedly carried all the way to his lodgings. He took her letter
to mail, and Stella, the stay-at-home on tramping days, followed him to
the door.
“I hope you won’t get lost on those Gothics to-morrow, without any
guide!” she called after him. Lingering awhile, gazing out into the
dusk, she caught the sound of footsteps, and saw a man slip out from
behind the corner of the porch and disappear among the trees.
“Oh, dear! Maybe he wanted to steal something!” Stella retreated
indoors, and peeped through the window. But in the shadows no one was to
be seen.
The girls awoke next morning fresh as mountain thrushes, and as
Fräulein, too, was ready to spread her wings again, Mrs. Brook yielded.
* * * * *
“Well, how’s this for a sky-scraper mountain?” Douglas asked Jean, as,
after the long steep climb, they stood at last on the summit.
“I’m sure it’s as good as an _Alp_!” Jean declared.
The climbers were standing deliciously near to danger, looking down over
the precipitous mountain-side; and beneath them, on the breast of the
steep incline, stretched the glory of the Gothics, the beautiful,
perilous slides! Great, bold expanses of rock they were, colored with
green and rose, traced with wavy ripples, and leading to the dark forest
that swept downward to the Lower Ausable Lake.
“Wouldn’t that be a corking place to shoot the chutes!” exclaimed Jack.
“Want to try, Frances?”
“All right,” she agreed. “Come on!”
“Nein, mein kindchen, dat vill you _not_!” said Fräulein decidedly.
“Why not? Douglas says he’s been down,” said Frances.
“Ach, Frances! eemposseeble!” cried Fräulein. “None but an Alpine guide
could go down _dere_!”
“Yes, he _did_ go down last year, with his father. Didn’t you, Douglas?”
said Jean proudly.
“That’s what we did!” answered Douglas.
“How did you ever do it without breaking your necks?” asked Cecily.
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” replied Douglas. “We didn’t take the top
slide—that’s almost straight up and down. We started in through the
trees over there on that side, and kept on till we came out on the big
middle slide. We had tennis shoes, so we could walk all right. But you
can’t take a step without rubber soles. We got in some pretty tight
places, too, I can tell you!”
“Suppose you had slipped?” said Eunice.
“We’d have been goners!” answered Douglas. “See those slides way down
there, where the bushes are? That’s the place to get smashed up! There
are awful pitch-off places down there, and it’s full of broken rocks.”
“What did you do when you got down to the end of the slides?” asked
Carol.
“We struck Rainbow Brook and followed it down to the Falls. Come over
this way and I’ll show you where we started.” Douglas led the way along
the edge to the bushes on the right of the rocky incline. “There!” he
said, “we went down through those balsams. The ground’s all full of big
holes.”
“We’ll be blown off if we stay in this wind any longer,” said Eunice.
“Let’s have luncheon. I’m starving.” A sheltered rock was found for a
table, the baskets unpacked, fuel gathered, and a fire built. A pail of
chocolate was heated, ears of corn were roasted, and the merriest of
picnics began.
“What are the principal parts of gingerbread?” Douglas inquired, as
Cecily was cutting a loaf of that delicacy.
“Molasses and flour and butter and spices,” replied Cecily, who had made
the loaf.
“Wrong,” said Douglas. “It’s conjugated, ‘Jingo, gingery, gingerbread,
gimme some!’”
“Not much ginger in that!” scoffed Jack. “Plant Scotchy’s jokes and
what’ll come up? A grove of chestnuts.”
“Plant Jack, and what’ll come up? Something young and green,” Douglas
retorted.
“Plant Douglas, and what’ll come up?” asked Jack. But what was to sprout
no one ever learned. Another climber had arrived on top of the Gothics,
some distance from them; and just then Douglas, presenting his tin cup
for Jean to fill, looked up and saw the shabbily dressed newcomer. The
man’s face was turned away, but there was something striking about his
slight, active figure. Douglas let his hand drop and gazed intently.
“What _are_ you staring at?” asked Jean, and she turned her head. “Why,
that looks like Tony!” she exclaimed. The other girls started. Jack, who
was lying down at the feast like an ancient Roman, glanced up lazily
over his shoulder.
“It _does_ look like him!” cried Cecily.
“It is. I _know_ it is!” Jean insisted.
“Why, you silly things! What would Tony be doing here of all places?”
laughed Carol.
“That’s just what I’d like to know,” said Douglas. “He was back at
Halcyon, the last I knew. But it does look mighty like him!”
“Hi, Tony!” said Jack. “Come here and say howdy! He’s got a grouch on
him—he won’t look around.”
“If we could only have seen his face!” said Jean.
“If you want to see his face, I’ll bring him back,” said Douglas.
“No, don’t! Don’t go for anything!” she begged. “If it’s Tony he might
attack you! He’s your enemy!”
“Oh, he’s not my enemy!” said Douglas, laughing. “I’m going after him;”
and he started up.
“Oh, now, Douglas, do leave him alone!” pleaded Eunice.
“Don’t go after him—_please_!” Betty implored.
“Scotchy, sit down! You’re frightening the ladies,” said Jack.
Douglas good-naturedly returned to his sandwiches, and the man
disappeared over the brow of the mountain.
“I’m perfectly certain it was Tony,” Jean declared.
“He had a slouch hat just like Tony’s,” said Betty.
“Oh, I hope he hasn’t bothered Mother!” said Cecily.
“I hope Stella hasn’t seen him,” added Eunice.
Carol burst out laughing. “You think that man must have been Tony
because he had black hair and was thin and was dressed something like
him,” she said. “It’s too ridiculous! And you act as if you thought he
was going to murder you!”
“He hustled off as if he thought _we_ were going to murder _him_,” said
Douglas. “I don’t suppose it really was Tony, though.”
“It was, too!” declared Frances. “It was just his wicked looking back!”
“Well, he’s gone now, whoever he is,” said Jack.
The man did not return to disturb the luncheon again, nor the fun that
followed it, as the party explored the mountain-top, penetrated a small
cave, took snapshots of each other, and played “talking games” as they
lounged among the balsams.
“Somebody think up a new game,” said Cecily, when all the favorites had
been exhausted.
“I know what would be fun,” said Jean. “Let’s all make up rhymes. And we
must make them up in five minutes or pay forfeits.”
Groans followed this proposal.
“That’s all very well for _you_, Miss Poet, but I couldn’t make up a
rhyme if you gave me a year,” said Betty.
“Oh, yes, you could!” Jean assured her. “This is only fun—not really
poetry.”
“Make it ten minutes, and maybe I can wring out two lines from my
tortured brain,” said Carol. “We must have paper and pencils, though.
Bunny, dear, may we steal from you?”
Fräulein, who was sketching the distant view, sacrificed half a dozen
pencils, as well as several pages from her drawing book, and the boys
produced two more pencils from their pockets.
“One, two, three—go!” said Douglas, watch in hand, and for ten minutes
there was scribbling and sighing for words. “Time’s up!” he called.
“Oh, pshaw! I was just thinking of a second verse,” complained Cecily.
“Eunice, you begin,” said Carol.
“No, _you_ read—I haven’t the face to,” said Eunice. And Carol read:
“Oh, girls of Huairarwee, pray where are we now?
Under the sky, on the Gothics’ broad brow.
And here’s a charade that I beg you to guess,
Lest your brains should grow rusty with long idle-_ness_.
My _first_ on your shoulder you never should carry.
My _second_ must solemnly vow not to marry.
My _third_ in a wilderness vast was once sighed for.
My _whole_ through next winter will often be cried for,
When sadly for mountains and valleys we yearn,
And long for the free forest life to return!”
“You did that in ten minutes! Good work!” said Douglas, and Carol’s
audience clapped vigorously.
“_Nuns_ have to vow not to marry,” said Cecily, as they studied the
paper.
“So do _monks_,” said Jean. “Monk—chipmunk! Never carry a chip on your
shoulder!”
“‘O for a _lodge_ in some vast wilderness,’” quoted Eunice.
“Chipmunk Lodge!” said Betty. “I’m sure _I’ll_ cry for it next winter
when I’m digging away at school.”
“So say we all of us,” agreed Jack.
“I’m more ashamed of mine than ever,” said Eunice, and the valedictorian
of Hazelhurst, from whom some wonderful flight of genius had been
expected, gave them a single couplet:
“I really can’t think of a word to say!
The wind has blown my wits away!”
“Poor Una! If we’d only asked you to translate a page of the Iliad you’d
have done it in _one_ minute!” said Carol sympathetically. “Douglas, you
come next.”
“I’m afraid my voice’ll tremble; mine’s very sad,” said Douglas. He read
in pathetic tones:
“A chocolate pail up hill I bore;
Of sandwiches ten pounds or more,
Some corn, and all the ladies’ wraps—
But Jack, he carried the gingersnaps!
And when on top we had our spread,
Old Jacky he came out ahead!
The lunch _I_ carried up, _he_ ate,—
Since then, they say, he’s gained in weight!”
“I’ll sue you for libel!” Jack fiercely declared, amid the clapping.
“Now, don’t you boys get fighting till the rhymes are over,” laughed
Cecily. “It’s your turn, Jack.”
“Ah! ahem! Mine’s called ‘An Ode to Saint Cecilia,’” said Jack. Cecily
started, and grew rosier and rosier as her cousin read his ode:
“We are a party blithe and gay,
And we have a patron saint.
She does not on the organ play,—
Cecilia, here, doth paint.
A shining halo is her hair;
Her eyes are like the nut.
I mean they are than stars more fair,
And a beautiful hazel,—but
No rhyme for hazel do I know,
So I had to say _nut_ instead.
Her cheeks like garden roses glow,—
A dainty pink, not red.
Her voice is like a silver chime,
We all of us adore her!
“I couldn’t get any farther,” explained Jack. “The time was up while I
was trying to see how to bring in an _arctic explorer_ to rhyme with
‘_adore her_.’”
“Jack, I think you’re perfectly awful! You make me feel so silly!” cried
poor Cecily.
“Well, I like that! Is that all you can say when you have an ode written
to you?” said Jack in an injured tone. “Never mind, the others
appreciate it, if you don’t! They’re encoring! I’ll have to read it over
again:
‘We are a party blithe and gay
And we have a....’”
Cecily tried to snatch the paper away, but Jack coolly rose and stood
before the audience, and she was held by Frances while the ode was
repeated. Her own turn came next.
“Mine’s too silly for anything, but you know I can’t write poetry,” she
apologized, and she read:
“I love the beautiful Gothics,
With the view and the rocks and the trees.
The smell of the lovely balsam
My little nose doth please.”
“You dear little St. Cecilia, that’s just as dear as you are!” said
Eunice.
“Now, Frances, it’s up to you,” said Jack.
“I couldn’t do it,” said the Mouse. “I couldn’t think of any words that
rhyme but _giraffe_ and _laugh_, and I promised never to call Jean
‘Giraffe’ again, so I had to give it up.”
“Read yours, then, Betsy,” said Cecily. And Betty replied:
“I shan’t
For I can’t.”
That was all she had written, but it was undeniably a couplet.
“Good for Queenie! She’s parodied ‘The Skeleton in Armor,’” said Carol,
looking over Jean’s shoulder. Whereupon Jean read the last rhyme:
“Speak, speak, thou fearful guest,
Who, on the Gothics’ crest,
In shabby garments dress’t,
Comest to daunt us!
We’d rather, in the dark,
Meet a big, hungry shark,
Than have thee, wicked Mark
Antony, haunt us!
Break a leg, Tony, do!
Also an arm or two!
Then we shall feel less blue,
Horrible Harrel!
We girls would breathe more free
If thou in jail shouldst be;
We’re so afraid of thee,—
All except Carol.”
“How dare you make me rhyme with Harrel?” cried Carol, as she joined
with a will in the applause.
“Jean, you’re great! Let’s mail that to Tony!” said Douglas.
“My poets, it is time to go home, before de night catch us,” said
Fräulein, glancing at her watch.
“Oh, Fräulein, not yet!” they pleaded.
“Look at those people!” said Jean. “They’ve just come up. _They_ don’t
think it’s late!”
A guide and three young men had just appeared on the top, but if they
considered it early, Fräulein could not be brought to agree with them.
So the baskets were shouldered, and the young folks began their tramp
down the trail.
CHAPTER XXIII.
DOWN THE SLIDES
“My watch! I’ve lost it!” Jean’s cry of distress made Douglas face
about.
“Your watch? Why, it’s gone, isn’t it!” he exclaimed.
“What’s the matter?” called Cecily, rushing down to them.
“My darling watch! I’ve lost it!” wailed Jean.
“Oh, Jean! And it was such a love! How _did_ you lose it?” cried Cecily.
“I lost it because I was an idiot! I knew the pin wasn’t firm, but I
thought it would hold. Oh, why was I so silly? Oh, dear! I’ll never find
it! Carol!” as Carol and Eunice came running down the trail, “I’ve lost
my watch!”
“Jean! Your beautiful watch!” The older girls joined in the mourning.
“Oh, we’ll find it,” said Douglas. “I’ll go back and hunt.”
“I’m going with you,” said Jean.
“I am, too,” said Cecily.
“So am I,” said Carol.
“I suppose I _can’t_, then!” said Eunice. “I’ll have to run on and tell
Bunny. She’ll be frightened out of her five senses if she finds us all
mysteriously vanished! Don’t stay long up there. If you don’t find it
quickly, come right down, or we’ll send the whole force of guides after
you. The boys can go and look for it to-morrow. But you _must_ get back
before dark. Take good care of them, Douglas!”
The rest of the party were well in advance. Frances, ambitious to reach
home first, had scurried on ahead, pursued by Jack and Betty. Fräulein,
who was never at ease when the Mouse was out of sight, had sped after
the runaways. Eunice now hurried after Fräulein, while Douglas and Jean,
Carol and Cecily, retraced their steps to the top. The three men and the
guide whom they had seen on the summit passed them as they went up, and
in reply to their questioning said they had seen nothing of the missing
treasure. They had met a man near the slides; maybe he had picked it up.
“I’m going to hunt around in that cave,” said Jean, as they reached the
top. “I remember how I kept catching on the bushes when I was crawling
in.”
“We’d better divide up, two and two, and hunt in different places,” said
Carol. She and Cecily turned away to find the clump of balsams where the
rhymes had been written.
Jean and Douglas searched the cave in vain, and coming back walked along
the edge of the precipice, studying every step of their path. No tiny
crystal face or golden disk appeared, and no happy cry of “Found!” came
from the other searchers.
“Hello! There’s a man down there on the slides!” Douglas suddenly cried
out.
“Oh! Do you think that’s the man we saw?”
“Get out the glass,” said Douglas.
Jean had slung Eunice’s field-glass across her shoulder for the homeward
tramp. She whipped it from the case and tried to keep her gaze steadily
fastened on the figure far below.
“I’m sure it is!” she cried. “Only the glass wiggles so! I can’t keep it
still! _You_ look.” Douglas took the glass, and while he gazed in his
turn, Jean watched the man breathlessly. He had stepped out from the
trees bordering the edge of the middle slide, and was standing on the
great central expanse of rock.
“Isn’t it he?” asked Jean.
“Can’t tell from here, but it looks like him, and I bet he’s got your
watch!” said Douglas.
Jean started. “Douglas, I _know_ he has! Oh, look! He’s going down!”
They saw the man drop down upon all-fours, crawl out to the middle of
the slide, and then, crouching, coast downward.
“I wonder where the old sneak was hiding all the time!” said Douglas.
“Took a nap in that cave, maybe. You old rascal, we’ll send detectives
after you if we don’t find that watch. He doesn’t know there’re two
detectives looking at him now through a glass, does he? Thinks he can
sneak off and nobody spot him!”
They watched the coaster slide and stop, and slide and stop.
“‘Break a leg, Tony, do!
Also an arm or two!’”
quoted Douglas.
“Oh, don’t! He might!” said Jean.
“Why, don’t you want him to? My dear sir,
‘We’d breathe more free
if thou in jail shouldst be!’”
A moment later Jean gave a sharp cry. The man was falling. His feet had
shot out from under him, and he was sliding swiftly, helplessly down
that terrible sweep of rock to rocks more terrible below. Jean drew back
and shut her eyes. All at once there came a glad cry from Douglas. “He’s
stopped! He’s caught!” Jean looked again. Some ridge of rock must have
checked the man in his rush to almost certain death, and there he lay,
nearly at the bottom of the central slide. Douglas looked through the
glass and saw the man move as if trying to rise, then drop back and lie
motionless.
“I’m afraid he’s awfully hurt,” said the boy. “I’ll have to go down to
him.”
“Oh, Douglas, don’t! Don’t go down!”
“I’ll have to. He’s hurt, or he wouldn’t he still like that. I can’t
leave him there all alone.”
“But I’m sure it’s Tony!”
“What if it is? He’s hurt, and there’s nothing to do but go down and
help him.”
“But he may not really be much hurt, and he might hurt _you_!”
“Don’t worry—I’ll be all right.”
“But you might fall!”
“Not with tennis shoes. Can you take home the guide-basket?”
“Yes, but listen! You know I want to save him, just as much as you do!
But why can’t we hurry down and send out guides to help him instead? You
can’t do any good. You can’t carry him down the slides all by yourself!”
“Well, I can’t leave him there alone, anyhow. If he’s too much hurt to
go on down, I’ll wigwag up to you, and then you hurry along and send the
guides after us.”
Obscured by the bushes, but lying directly below them, was the top
slide, that almost perpendicular wall, and Douglas took a step downward
through the balsams. Jean caught his arm.
“Douglas, stop! You’re not going down _that_ way!”
“Yes, I am. It’s the quickest. Don’t be so scary. I’ll hang on to the
bushes along the edge, and I’ll be all right. Good-by—take care of
yourself.”
“Good-by, Douglas. I’ll wait here, and then if you signal, I’ll _tear_
down and get the guides.”
Jean watched him plunge in among the balsams; then she turned. In the
distance she saw Carol and Cecily, all unconscious of what had happened.
She called to them.
“Have you found it?” called Cecily, and she and Carol came up on a run.
“Tony’s fallen down the slides and Douglas has gone after him!” was
Jean’s greeting.
Carol and Cecily rushed to look over the precipice. “He’s killed!” cried
Cecily, as she saw the motionless figure below.
“No, he’s not; but he’s hurt, and Douglas has started down right over
the slide here! I couldn’t stop him. He would go!”
“Isn’t that just like a boy, to choose the wildest way to do a thing!”
exclaimed Carol. “Oh, dear, I hope he knows what he’s about! Where’s
that place we saw the top slide from?” They hurried to a spot where the
bushes no longer hid the slide from their view, and saw the boy
cautiously descending the danger-path.
“Oh, look! That man’s moving! He’s sitting up!” cried Jean, suddenly,
looking through the field-glass. She handed it to Carol.
“Now he’s lying down again. He must have broken a leg,” said Carol.
By this time Douglas had reached the end of the first slide. He pushed
through the bushes at its foot and came out on the central one. The
glass passed from hand to hand as they watched his progress. Without a
misstep he reached his goal, and they saw him drop down by the man’s
side. They waited for him to wave for help, but the signal did not come.
“They’re going down!” cried Jean. Without rising, the man began to let
himself down slowly, Douglas walking at his side. Hurt or not, he was
able to make his way downward, and the sure-footed boy kept close to
him. They disappeared for a while among the low trees and boulders
separating the slides. But Douglas came into view again, and suddenly
the man was standing erect beside him. The next moment only _one_ was
standing there. A cry of horror broke from the girls. Douglas had fallen
and was plunging down over the cruel rocks, down the cliff to the forest
at its base.
“Tony struck him! I saw him! He struck him!” Carol’s voice was tense and
strained, and she was white to the lips. Looking through the field-glass
she had seen what the others had not, and the glass had almost fallen
from her hands in the shock. The man who had struck the blow she no
longer doubted was Tony Harrel.
“He’s killed him! Oh, Carol! He’s killed him!” cried Jean, clinging in
an agony to the older girl.
“Oh, Carol, do you think he’s dead?” asked Cecily, trembling and
awestruck.
“No, no!” answered Carol. “I _won’t_ think _that_! But he must be
fearfully hurt. There’s only one thing to do! I must go down to him!”
“Oh, Carol, no!” began Cecily.
“Yes I must. It’s the only thing to do. You and Jean must go home as
fast as you can, and send back guides to help us. Can you find your way
down the mountain alone?”
“Yes, yes,” said Cecily. “But you mustn’t go down, Carol. You’ll kill
yourself! Oh, _don’t_!”
“I’m going with you, Carol!” cried Jean. “Let Cecily go for the guides.
I won’t let you go alone. Tony might kill you!”
“No, Jean, you must _not_ go with me! If Cecily goes alone she may lose
her way, or fall, and nobody’ll know what’s happened to any of us; but
if you go together you can help one another.”
“No, I’m going down to Douglas, too! I _will_ go! I _will_! You _shan’t_
stop me!” Jean declared passionately.
Carol laid her hands on Jean’s shoulders, and looked into the wild,
frightened eyes. Her girlish face had grown stern in its resolution, and
Jean felt the power of that steadfast gaze. “You _must_ obey me!” she
said. “It’s the only way to save his life.”
“But don’t go down those frightful slides, Carol!” pleaded Cecily.
“Can’t you keep in the woods all the way? Tony might try to hurt you!”
“No, he won’t. There’s not the slightest danger. He wouldn’t _dare_ to
touch me! I’m not one bit afraid of him.”
“Oh, look! look!” exclaimed Jean. “There he goes now!”
The boulder from which Douglas had fallen was not far from the border of
the slide, and the man, instead of continuing the descent of the cliff,
had crawled rapidly among the rocks and bushes to the edge. Now they saw
him rise up and disappear into the woods.
“There now!” said Carol. “You see he’s gone another way. I’m going down
the slides—if a boy can do it, _I_ can! I’ll only keep in the woods till
I get to the middle slide; then I shan’t meet him at all. Now, Jean,
give in. Every moment we waste here counts!”
“I want to go _with_ you!” cried Jean piteously. “Cecily won’t be hurt;
she’ll catch up with the others. But you’re my sister—if you’re killed,
I want to be killed, too! Let me go with you!”
“Jean, darling,” said Carol, “don’t you love me enough to do the only
thing that will help me? If you want to save _me_, as well as Douglas,
do what I say and get the guides.”
“Oh, Jean, _do_ come!” Cecily begged. “We’ve got to obey orders.”
“Yes—I will—I’ll go for the guides.” The words came hard, but Jean had
yielded.
“Now then,” said Carol, “we haven’t a minute to lose. Give me your
handkerchiefs, girls—I must have something for bandages—and your
ribbons—your belts—your neckties—anything to bind!” While she spoke she
was examining the contents of the guide-basket. “Here’s Fräulein’s
cloak—that’s good—and the pail—I’ll need it for water. Douglas said
there was a brook down there.”
“Take my sweater, too,” said Jean.
“And mine,” said Cecily.
“Yes, I’ll tie them around my waist. Put the other things in the
basket.” They packed the basket with lightning haste and fastened it to
her shoulders. “Now, girls,” she said, “don’t stop another second!”
“Carol, go slowly,” begged Jean. “Don’t slip! Be careful! For _my_
sake!”
“I will. Good-by!”
Jean and Cecily threw one look at Carol starting fearlessly on her way.
Then they darted over the mountain-top to the trail. Down it they ran
recklessly, making good speed at first. But the running and jumping over
roots and stones proved too much for one of Cecily’s overtaxed shoes.
The sole broke, and after that there was no more hurrying. Poor Cecily
could only shuffle painfully along, and they lost all hope of overtaking
the others. It seemed as if they spent hours and hours upon that trail,
and by the time they reached the base of the mountain night appeared to
have fallen already, so dark were the woods. But at last they were out
of the forest, and on the road, where it was only dusk. A long walk was
still before them, but they plodded on bravely until, the weary
pilgrimage over, they saw the lighted windows of Chipmunk Lodge. Mrs.
Brook, Fräulein and Eunice were on the doorstep anxiously awaiting them.
“Children, are you here at last?” cried Mrs. Brook.
“Where are Carol and Douglas?” asked Fräulein and Eunice together.
“Don’t be frightened, Mother; we had to come back alone,” Cecily began,
as they stepped into the living-room.
“Tony knocked Douglas down the slides, and Carol’s gone down after him!”
interrupted Jean.
“Stop, Jean, you’re frightening Mother! Let _me_ tell,” said Cecily.
Betty, Frances and Stella had sprung from the fireside, and there was a
confusion of questioning.
“Girls, you must keep quiet till Cecily can tell us what has happened,”
said Mrs. Brook. And calmed by her mother’s comforting presence, Cecily
told the story.
Poor Stella knelt on the hearth, her cold hand locked in Jean’s. “_It
was Tony!_” she suddenly burst out. “I’m _sure_ it was! I saw a man
around here last night, but it was so dark I couldn’t tell who it was.
And, oh, I remember I told Douglas I hoped he wouldn’t get lost on those
Gothics! Tony must have heard me—and that’s how he knew Douglas was
going up! He always hated him!”
“These children must have their supper right away,” said Mrs. Brook,
when the story was ended. “Bring it here, and let them have it by the
fire, girls. I must go after the guides.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Frances. She lighted a lantern, and they set
out for the guides’ headquarters.
“Fräulein,” said Eunice, “let’s go and tell Court. He’ll know what to
do. I’m sure he’ll want to start right off, himself, to find them.” She
brought another lantern, and, with Fräulein, hurried down the dark hill
to Court’s lodgings.
Half an hour later Mrs. Brook and Frances came back, ready to despair.
All the guides were out, and of those expected home that night no
tidings had as yet been received. There was nothing to be done but wait
for Court; and Mrs. Brook ordered the worn-out girls to bed.
“Let me stay up with you,” Stella pleaded. “I _couldn’t sleep_! And
there’s nothing else I can do to help.”
Mrs. Brook looked into the white, imploring face. “Yes, Stella,” she
answered, “you may stay, but no one else.”
“I’ll go upstairs, but I _can’t_ go to bed,” said Jean. “I _must_ be up
when they bring Carol and Douglas back. I don’t care if I _am_ tired
out! It was all my fault for losing my watch!” She went up to her room,
threw herself down on her cot, and tossed about in her misery.
It was after midnight when she heard the door open and Court’s voice
saying, “Here we are!” She sprang from her bed in sudden hope and dashed
downstairs. It was only Fräulein and Eunice he had brought.
“Aunt Alice, it’s been an outrageous delay!” he said. “But we’re only
just back from our tramp. We’re all ready to start now, though. I’m
going to take the guide we had to-day and go to the top and then down
the slides, and Clinton and some other fellows are going to follow up
along Rainbow Brook to meet us. Give me a wrap for Carol. We’ve got
everything else.”
His aunt handed him her own heavy cloak, and some luncheon that she had
prepared.
“Do you think you’ll save them?” asked Jean faintly.
“Save them? Of course!” answered Court. “Douglas is a great strapping
fellow—he can stand anything! And Carol, why, I’d trust her to climb the
Matterhorn! Cheer up,” he called back, as he went out. “We’ll have them
home before you know it!”
“We must all go to bed now, and get what rest we can,” said Mrs. Brook.
Very tenderly she kissed the three sad-faced girls, Eunice, Jean and
Stella.
There was nothing to wait for now. Jean went forlornly upstairs again,
and buried her face in her pillow. Court’s words had cheered her only
for a moment. “It was all my carelessness!” she sobbed, in a passion of
tears, the bitterest she had ever shed. “I’ve killed Douglas—and I’ve
killed my Carol! Oh, Carol, you darling, you darling!”
CHAPTER XXIV.
LIFE OR DEATH
Carol started down over the steep of the Gothics, conscious that she was
going into grave danger, but her excitement was so great that she felt
no fear. She had a cool head and a steady eye, and could look down into
those terrible depths without giddiness. She descended cautiously
through the low bushes which grew just under the bare rock of the
mountain-top. Soon, however, the balsams rose higher than her head. It
was like venturing out beyond one’s depth when one has hardly learned
the swimming stroke. The trees closed over her and she was drowned in a
sea of evergreens. Down, down, she burrowed her way. Her face and hands
were scratched, but she had no thought to spare for her own discomfort.
In desperation she fought her way blindly, in constant danger from the
holes hidden in that treacherous ground. At last the stretch of balsams
gave place to a growth of trees larger and less dense. Taking fresh
heart, Carol pushed on, ever downward, step by step, occasional glimpses
of the slides showing her that she had kept a straighter course than she
had dared to hope. For some time a sharp ravine separated her from her
goal, but it grew shallower as she went on, until it suddenly ended, and
she found herself out of the woods and standing on the great central
slide.
Above her and beneath spread the Gothics’ mighty breastplate of stone.
She gazed up at the frowning mountain, and then down the awful and
precipitous incline at her feet, down over the vast dark forest below to
the narrow black line of the lake. Then she began her descent of the
slide, keeping close to the edge. The wind came sweeping in fierce
gusts, threatening to carry her off her feet. She braced herself against
the gale by grasping at the branches of the frail little trees bordering
the slide. The fear of hidden holes such as had lain in wait for her in
the woods above, and the need of seeing where she was going, made her
keep to the rock. Firmly she planted her steps. To lose her footing
would, she felt, mean to lose life itself. Steadily, steadily down that
headlong slant she went, until she reached the broken boulders at its
foot. Below these again were sheer perpendicular falls of rock. It
seemed impossible to descend further. But she had come to save a life;
she must hold her own less precious, and go on. Resolutely Carol turned
her face to the cliff and let herself down, inch by inch. Again and
again she had to support her weight by clinging with her hands to sharp
and jagged ledges, while her feet sought resting places beneath, well
knowing that, failing to discover a foothold, she must fall to the
broken rocks below. The gale continued its assaults. Once a furious gust
drove her for refuge behind a boulder that seemed to hang poised and
ready to roll thundering down the mountain-side.
How the desperate feat was accomplished she hardly knew herself, but at
last, those steeps and ledges safely passed, she crossed the gentler
slope of the last slide. The trees made a dark wall in front of her; and
somewhere near her, she knew, Douglas lay, bruised, and helpless—perhaps
dead. She felt a dread of coming upon that white face and seeing all the
cruel marks of the fall; but a moment more and she had stepped boldly
through the trees. She found herself in a twilight of deep shade. Just
below her was the dry bed of a brook, and there on the stones lay the
boy, his face upturned. Carol stepped quickly down the bank and dropped
on her knees beside him.
His eyes were closed, and there was perfect stillness. A great cut ran
backward from his temple, and the blood had flowed freely, drenching his
thick, fair hair. She touched his face softly—the skin was cool in the
chill air, but there was no unnatural coldness. She lifted his hand—it
was icy, and no pulse-beat answered her pressure. Had the throbbing
stopped forever? She unslung her heavy guide-basket, and laid her ear
against his heart. There was a slow but regular beating. Life was there!
She loosened his collar and belt to give him ease in breathing, and drew
his jacket over his chest for warmth; then turned to unpack the few
things that she had brought to help her in her fight against death. One
of the sweaters she rolled up and laid under the boy’s head to protect
it from the stones.
Her brain worked as busily as her hands. Water! Of all things she must
have water first! Here was the bed of Rainbow Brook, but where was the
stream itself? She took the tin pail and went down along the stony
channel. She had not far to go. There was the water, a mere thread of a
rill, coming up from the stones under which it had been trickling. Carol
filled her pail with the aid of her tin cup. Then she went back to
Douglas, and kneeling beside him sprinkled the cold water on his face,
and raising his head tried to pour a little between his lips. She bathed
his face and bound a folded handkerchief over the wound. Then she rubbed
his hands and wrists vigorously.
Now for the other restorative—heat. Douglas had lighted the picnic fire,
and she found his match-box in his pocket. But to protect him from the
cold before a fire could be built she spread out beside him the cloak
that she had brought, and putting all her strength into the work slowly
and carefully raised and turned him until he was lying upon it. While
moving him she heard a low moan. The cloak served both for bed and
covering. She laid a sweater over his chest for additional warmth, and
wrapped her own about his feet. Gathering sticks and dry leaves she
kindled her little fire, and built a half circle of stones around it to
keep in the heat. She took the cover of the pail and Douglas’s bent
drinking-cup and set them on the hot stones. Her own cup she filled and
placed among the embers. When the tins were heated she put them in the
folds of the sweater which she had wrapped about the boy’s feet.
Douglas turned his head slightly. She began to rub his hands again, and
as she worked his eyelids opened, closed again and opened once more.
Carol took the smoking cup of water from the fire, cooled its brim from
her pail and brought it to her patient.
“Jean,” murmured the boy, as she raised his head to give him the hot
drink.
“This isn’t Jean,—this is Carol,” she said. “Here’s water, Douglas. Try
it, just a sip.” She put the cup to his lips and found that he could
swallow; but after two or three sips he seemed exhausted and closed his
eyes again. She put back the cup to keep hot. Then she looked about her.
How dark it was growing! Night was coming on, and a cold night too! What
time was it? She looked for the boy’s watch: it was gone! Skirting the
slides Tony must have come down and robbed the unconscious lad.
Carol pushed her way through the woods again to collect all the fuel she
could find before the darkness should make further search impossible. By
the time she had an encouraging pile, there was blackness everywhere
except in that small circle around the fire. Douglas was now conscious,
but pitifully weak and bewildered.
“What happened?” he asked.
“You had a fall, dear,” she answered.
“He had it!” he murmured.
“He had what, Douglas?”
“The watch.”
“Jean’s watch?”
“Yes.”
“Douglas, do you know me?” she asked.
“Miss Carol,” he said faintly. Then he moaned.
“What hurts you, Douglas? Tell me where the pain is.”
“My leg,—my head!”
Carol found by pressure that a spot on the right leg gave him intense
pain. “It’s broken!” she thought. “What can I do for the poor boy?” She
chose out several thin branches from her little woodpile, stripped them
and lashed them together with ribbons and ties, making two very fair
splints. These she placed one on each side of the broken leg, fastening
them firmly but gently with the strap of the guide-basket and the belts.
What other injuries there might be she could not tell, but he was
evidently suffering greatly. It tortured her to think of the miserable
little she could do for him. To tend the fire, to give sips of water in
his conscious moments, to keep him from casting off the wraps in his
restlessness, to try with her soft voice and touch to sooth him,—this
was all.
Carol realized that her own plight was wretched enough. For the first
time in her life she was learning what suffering with hunger meant. A
cup of hot water was her only supper—there was not a crumb left in the
basket. And she was cold, without her sweater. It was hard to believe
that this was August. Fortunately, the gale had subsided; but her heap
of fuel was dwindling alarmingly. She strained her ears for the sound of
voices, but in vain. And the longer she waited the more convinced she
became that harm had befallen Jean and Cecily.
The night wore on. A score of times she groped her way up the bank to
the foot of the slides in the faint hope that she might see help coming.
How darkly the mountain loomed! How black the sky was! Long before dawn
she threw her last stick on the fire.
“He’ll die if the night lasts much longer!” thought Carol. She dropped
down by the boy’s side, put her arms about him to keep the cold away,
and so waited for the first gray of morning.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE VIGIL ENDED
While night still hung black in the forest Carol rose up from her
sleepless vigil, faint with hunger and cramped and stiff with cold, and
went out into the open again to look for the morning. The wind was dying
down and the sky had changed from black to deep purple-gray,—the
twilight of earliest dawn. Back she went to her post.
“It’s beginning to be morning, dear,” she said softly. “You won’t have
to lie here much longer now. They must come soon.”
The boy did not seem to hear. She put her arms about him again, her head
drooping with weariness, and ringing with hunger-faintness; and waited
till daybreak should find its way among the trees and give her light to
search for more wood. Suddenly came a sound,—a call. She sprang up and
listened. It came again. Exhaustion was all forgotten. She scrambled up
the bank and dashed through the trees. Dawn was coming quickly, and in
the gray light two figures appeared far above her at the top of the last
slide.
“Hello! hello!” rang out, and lanterns were flourished.
“Here I am! Here! here!” she called, and waved her arms.
“We’re coming!” one of them shouted back. He did not wait to call a
second time. Down he shot, clearing the whole length of the slide in
what seemed but a moment.
Carol held out both hands to him as he reached her side. And after the
long agony of the night came her cry of relief.
“Oh, Court! Court! I’m so glad! I thought you’d never come!”
“Carol! Thank God you’re safe!” Down went the lantern. Court gathered up
her cold hands in his strong, tight grasp that hurt yet comforted, and
looked down into her face with anxious intensity, as if not even touch
and sight could convince him that he had found her at last.
But Carol withdrew her hands from that kind clasp and turned away. She
could have fought on bravely had she been called to endure still the
loneliness and fear, the torture of seeing the pain that she could not
ease; but this coming of safety, comfort, protection, was breaking down
her fortitude. A great lump had risen in her throat; her lips were
trembling. The tears had started; she would not let them fall. But that
strange faintness was coming back. Suddenly she felt a strong arm around
her. Court was holding her, steadying her.
“Carol! You poor little girl! It’s nearly killed you!” he cried. “What
is it? Tell me!”
“Are Jean and Cecily safe?” she asked, her voice quivering.
“Yes, they’re all safe. I didn’t get home till nearly midnight. I
started right off as soon as I heard,—but it’s taken all this time!
Carol, tell me, where’s Douglas? Is he badly hurt?”
“Come down to him,—quick! I think he’s dying.”
“Where is he?” Court’s voice was low and awed.
“Down there. He’s fearfully hurt and he’s growing weaker. He’s almost
unconscious again. Oh, he’s suffered so! Come—quick! I can’t leave him.”
“This way!” Court called to the guide, and taking up his lantern, he
followed Carol.
She led him to the spot where Douglas lay.
“I’ve been trying all night to keep him alive!” she whispered. “I
thought he’d die before anybody came!”
Court knelt down beside the boy and took his hand. The closed eyes
opened. “Do you know me, old man?” he asked, his fingers on the flagging
pulse.
“Yes,” came faintly.
“That’s right!” Court gave Carol a reassuring smile. “How do you feel,
old fellow?”
“I—had a—fall.”
“Yes, I know you did. And you feel pretty mean now, don’t you? Well,
we’re going to take you right home and patch you up. Only we’ll give you
some breakfast first.”
“Do you think he’ll live?” whispered Carol.
“I’m _sure_ he will.”
“He’ll pull through all right,” said the guide, who had joined them, and
was studying the boy with an experienced eye.
“How are you going to get him home?” Carol asked anxiously.
“Oh, easy enough,” said Court. “Tom Clinton and some other fellows are
on their way up the brook to meet us.” He turned to Douglas. “Now, old
man, we’re going to make you as comfortable as we can while we’re
waiting for the others. Say, Harry, spread those blankets down here and
we’ll put him on them.” While the guide was unfolding the blankets,
Court fell to plundering the basket which the man had slipped from his
shoulders. Mrs. Brook’s cloak came out first and he put it around Carol.
“Oh, don’t!” she protested. “I don’t need it. Put it over Douglas,
_please_!”
“Now, see here! I’m captain of this ship! I’ve brought my poncho for
Douglas. But I’m going to attend to _you_ first. He’s a good deal warmer
than you are!” Court fastened the cloak under her chin. “Have you gone
all night with nothing over that thin thing?” he asked. “Didn’t you have
a sweater?”
“I put it around his feet.”
“And never stopped to think of yourself! Carol, you’re _sure_ you’re not
hurt? Just worn out, isn’t that all?” he questioned anxiously, for the
whiteness of her face had startled him.
“Yes, that’s all. It’s been such a dreadful night!”
“Tony didn’t come back to trouble you, did he?”
“Oh, no!” she answered; but her face told its story of suffering.
“It’s been enough to kill you!” Court declared fiercely. “But it’s over
now. I’ve got you safe. I’m going to take care of you. Now I’m going to
start you on your breakfast.”
She smiled up at him gratefully, but she asked, “Can’t you give Douglas
something right away?”
“You’re both of you going to have some coffee as soon as we can heat it
up,” he answered. He brought the famished girl a package of sandwiches,
but she could not eat until she saw Douglas laid on his new bed.
Court stooped over the lad. “Now, then,” he said to the guide; “You take
his feet while I lift him.”
“Oh, be careful!” cried Carol. “His leg’s broken.”
“We’ll look out for it,” said Court. “Hello! Why, if you haven’t got it
into splints! How did you learn to be such a surgeon? They’re first-rate
splints! Now it won’t hurt him a bit to move him.”
But it did hurt badly, and the boy’s groan and look of suffering as he
was lifted gently, made Court’s face betray the anxiety he was trying
his best to hide.
“Poor boy! You won’t have to wait much longer now,” said Carol. They
wrapped Douglas in the warm poncho. A new fire was soon built and the
coffee heating; and seeing her patient well cared for, Carol could enjoy
her own breakfast. “Oh, but it does taste good!” she said.
“Poor girl! You must be starved!” said Court. “You haven’t had a
mouthful since your lunch yesterday, have you?”
“No, not since yesterday noon.”
“And it’s after four now!” he exclaimed. “Sixteen hours!”
“I was growing pretty faint,” she admitted.
“It was fearful for you! Carol, you’re the bravest girl that ever lived!
To think of your going down those awful slides alone! Risking your life,
and staying at your post all night! You beat all the _men_ I ever heard
of!” He was far gone in heroine worship, and he listened eagerly while
Carol told her story.
“We’ll catch Tony yet,” said Court. “I’ll see they get a warrant out for
his arrest. Hurry up that coffee, Harry!”
“She’s het up pretty good now, I guess,” said the guide. He lifted the
can from the fire.
Court filled a cup and gave it to Carol.
“Give it to Douglas first,” she said.
“No, you take this. I’ve got to get out my tin spoon to feed him. Keep
her cup filled up, Harry!”
Court knelt down beside Douglas, with his tin cup and spoon. Slowly and
carefully he fed him, and a few spoonfuls brought the boy back to fuller
consciousness.
The waiting time was over soon. Carol’s quick ears suddenly caught the
sound of distant voices, and she sprang up. “Oh, listen!” she cried.
“They’re coming!”
Court hallooed and was answered. He started down the brook and returned
with Tom Clinton and his relief corps. There was no time to lose. The
rescue party had brought bandages, and with these Court bound up the
boy’s shoulder, which, he noticed, had hung down when he was lifted. A
blanket served for a stretcher, and the guides carried Douglas between
them.
“You’d better let us carry you, too,” said Court to Carol. “It’s an
awfully long tramp and awfully rough.”
“Oh, thank you, but I wouldn’t be carried for the world! I feel ready
for anything now,” said Carol bravely. But long before the journey down
the wild, rocky brook was over, she was glad of the strong arms that
came to her help, and at every difficult place carried her safely
across.
It was a weary road, but Rainbow Falls was reached at last, and soon
they were at the end of the trail. Awaiting them was a stage, which had
been turned into a temporary ambulance, and the doctor who had come with
it to meet them received the suffering boy into his care.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A “STOOT HERT” AND A “STEY BRAE”
“I’m going up the road to look for them!” called Jack, through the open
window of Chipmunk Lodge. He had been kept out of the rescue party
sorely against his will.
“I’m going too!” Jean called back. The early breakfast was over. Out she
rushed, and they hurried together up the forest road.
Before they had gone far the stage came into view. Jean darted forward
with a cry of joy, for in front she saw Carol, waving her hand. The boy
and girl dashed up to the wagon. There on a mattress lay Douglas,
watched over by Dr. Allen, Tom Clinton and Court. The stage halted. In a
flash Jean had climbed up and was in Carol’s arms. Jack mounted the step
at the back and his face grew ashy as he looked at Douglas lying so
white and still.
“Is he dead?” he asked in a low voice.
“No more than you are!” answered Court. “Don’t talk. We’ve got to keep
him quiet.”
The hush of awe that rested on the group of waiting girls, made the
welcome at the Lodge a strangely quiet one. “Is he living?” was the
question that the anxious faces asked. Carol sprang down as the wagon
stopped, and was caught by Eunice in a quick embrace.
The largest bedroom had been prepared for the boy, for Mrs. Brook was
determined to nurse him, herself. Court and Tom carried the mattress
into the cottage. Jean was standing so near that they touched her in
passing. She was silent, but Douglas turned his head weakly toward her
and smiled.
“Hello, Jean,” he murmured faintly.
The smile with which she answered him made her sorrowful face radiant.
His hand lay on the edge of the mattress and she gave it one soft loving
squeeze.
Dr. Allen worked over his patient with Mrs. Brook and Court for
assistants. Jack stationed himself outside the bedroom door, awaiting
the verdict. At last Court came out, whispered to his brother and went
back again. And Jack left his post to report gloomily, “He’s
compound-fractured his leg and broken his collar-bone, and his head’s
hurt awfully!” After that he did not leave the door till his brother
reappeared, saying, “Come in and have a look at Douglas.”
Mrs. Brook left the sick room as Jack entered it, and joined the group
of anxious girls. “The doctor is all through, and Douglas is in much
less pain now,” said she. “But the house must be kept very quiet, and I
must not keep any larger family here than is necessary. So most of you
must go home to-day, just as we planned, with Fräulein.”
“Mother, dearie, _I_ can’t leave you!” began Cecily.
“You don’t mean to send _me_ home!” cried Carol. “Because I’m not going.
I shall stay right here and help you nurse Douglas.”
“Don’t make _me_ go!” begged Jean.
“Wait, girls,—wait till you hear me out,” said Mrs. Brook. “I can’t
spare _you_, Cecily. I shall engage a woman from the village to do the
cooking, but you will have to stay and keep house. And I don’t mean to
send _you_ home, either, Carol. You’re not fit to travel to-day. I shall
put you right to bed, you poor tired-out child, and when you’re rested
you shall help me in the nursing. But all the rest must go.”
“I _can’t_ leave Carol!” Eunice protested.
“Stella needs you more,” said Mrs. Brook. “I shall put her in your
special care for the journey home.”
“Don’t send _me_ away,—don’t!” Jean implored. “I won’t be one bit of
trouble! I know I can help you! _Please_ let me stay!”
“Yes, do let her stay!” urged Carol. “She can help us beautifully. I’ll
be fearfully lonely if I have to lose my chum and my Little Sister, too!
Let me keep her.”
“Jean will have to stay, Auntie,” put in Court, who had come into the
room in time to hear part of the discussion. “If they catch Tony, she
and Carol and Cecily will all be summoned as witnesses. Can’t we send
Jack home in her place? I’m going to stay here myself, and help you till
Douglas is out of the woods. But Jack had better go back with the girls.
They’ll need him.”
With the law itself demanding Jean’s presence, Mrs. Brook was forced to
yield.
“I’ll take care of Nanno for you, Jean,” said Betty.
“We’ll do it together,” said Frances. “I’ve never done anything worth a
cent yet, but I’m going to _now_!”
By noon the carriages were at the door, and the travellers drove away,
the girls throwing back kisses, and all smiling so bravely that no one
would have guessed what a weight lay on those young hearts.
Douglas was in a high fever by the next morning and delirium had come
on. During the anxious days that followed, Carol, as assistant nurse,
was constantly at his bedside, while Court was always at hand ready for
any service. The two battle maids kept their silver swords unsheathed,
and with many a brave thrust made rifts in the cloud of trouble,—Jean
always eager to fly on errands, and Cecily proving herself a born
housewife, as she helped and directed Tillie Blungie, the
maid-of-all-work.
On that first morning a ray of sunlight broke the gloom. Court, who had
been mysteriously absent for two hours or more, returned, in his hand a
tiny gold watch fastened to a white enameled pin. Jean seized the watch
and kissed it, and her cry of joy brought Cecily from the kitchen.
“Well, Tony’s caught, and on his way to jail,” said the young man
triumphantly, and to his excited audience of two he told of the arrest.
“A guide brought word to the constable this morning that he’d just
passed a fellow answering Tony’s description on the Chapel Pond road. So
the constable sent for me to come along and identify him and we went and
caught up with him near the pond. It was our man sure enough! He was
limping along, quite lame,—he must have stayed hiding in the woods all
yesterday. He turned around just before we reached him, and you ought to
have seen him when he recognized me! I saw him drop something into the
bushes, and I looked and found it was the two watches. He declared _he_
hadn’t dropped them,—said he’d never seen them! He’s trying to bluff it
out still.”
“Where’s Douglas’s watch?” asked Jean.
“The constable has it. He’s going to take Tony before the justice of the
peace. If he’s held to the Grand Jury they’ll keep the watch for an
exhibit till everything’s over.”
“They’ll put him in prison, won’t they?” asked Cecily.
“If he’s brought to trial, and there’s hardly a doubt he will be,
there’s enough evidence to send him to State’s Prison for assault. By
the way, there was a party of men on the Gothics just when he was
starting for the slides. They talked with him, and their guide
identified him just now.”
“Those must have been the men we saw on the mountain,” said Jean.
“Yes; they’ll have plenty of witnesses. We’ll all have to pay a visit to
the Justice before long.” And, a day or two later, the visit was paid.
Douglas made a brave fight for life, and one morning Court came from his
night vigil by the bedside, to say, “He’s better! The fever’s going down
and he’s sleeping like a baby.” The boy awoke with the fever gone, but
Dr. Allen said that it would be a long time before he was well and
months before he regained his full strength.
One afternoon Jean electrified Carol with the announcement, “I’ve got a
situation!”
“What under the sun—!” began Carol.
“Why, you know,” Jean continued eagerly, “It’ll be ever so long before
Douglas can earn his living again. Well, I was trying to think how I
could earn some money for him, and as I was up at the Inn, mailing the
letters, I saw Mrs. Elton’s children squabbling. So I told them a story
and got them good again, and then we played _Witch_. We had a beautiful
time! And Mrs. Elton came out and said she wished I was their sister!
She said their nurse didn’t know how to amuse them, and she couldn’t
feel happy going off on excursions and leaving them behind. And then I
told her I wanted to earn some money for Douglas, and I asked her if
she’d be willing to hire _me_ to amuse Dicky and Marguerite.”
“Give me the lavender salts before I faint away!” gasped Carol.
“And she was perfectly delighted,” Jean went on, “and she told some
other ladies, and they said they wished I’d amuse their children too. So
I’m going there every morning to play with them from nine to half-past
twelve. I’ve got four girls and two boys, and I’m going to have fifty
cents a day for each one, and we’re going to play games and act Mother
Goose rhymes, and—”
Jean got no further for Carol pulled the breadwinner into her lap and
hugged her tight. “You precious little Jeanie Queen! You’re just a
bundle of _Caritas_! You little mother with four girls and two boys! I
never knew anything so dear as you in all my life!”
The happy work proved a godsend both to Jean and to the little people,
who adored their new playmate. The flock increased from six to eight and
Jean came to be known as the little “old woman who lived in the shoe”;
and great was her pride when she brought home her first week’s
salary,—twenty dollars!
A day or two after Jean was launched in her profession, Dr. Allen said
to her, “You and Douglas must be great chums. He’s been talking about
you, and now he’s asking to see you. I think I’ll have to let you pay
him a call every day.” He led her into the room where Douglas lay, too
weak to raise his head from the pillow. The boy’s thin face still bore
traces of the injuries it had received, but the bright smile that she
knew so well broke over it as she came in.
“Don’t I look pretty, Jean?” he asked. “I got nicely bunged up, didn’t
I?” His voice was faint but it had the old merry ring.
She knelt down by the bed. “I wanted to come in dreadfully before,” said
she. “Only they wouldn’t let me. But the doctor says I may come in and
see you every day now.”
Douglas’s eyes sparkled. “Bully for doc!” he murmured feebly, and he lay
smiling contentedly, not strong enough for many words, until the doctor
announced, “Time’s up.”
“Here I am again,” said Jean, coming into the room a few days later.
“You look ever so much better now, Douglas.”
“Oh, I’m in great shape to-day,” he answered brightly.
“I’ll leave you in charge, Jean,” said Carol. “I must get the beef-tea.”
“I tell you she’s a dandy nurse!” said Douglas, as Carol left the room.
“It doesn’t seem as if she belonged down here, does it? She’s so
stunning and beautiful and sky-high above us all! A—a—a sort of an
angel!”
“Oh, lovely!” laughed Jean. “I’m going to tell her she’s a
sky-high-above-us sort of an angel!”
“Don’t you do it!” said Douglas, reddening. “She told me what a regular
brick you were too. She said you wanted to go down the slides after me,
yourself!”
“It was all my fault!” said Jean.
“It wasn’t either! You tried to keep me back! But it’s funny the way you
forget when you’re ill. All I can remember is that when I got near Tony
he was looking at something in his hand, and when he saw me he popped it
into his pocket, and I was sure it was the watch. And then we climbed
down together, and when he found he could get along he began to get
ugly. He said you and I had told people he had set the woods afire, and
he was going to pay me back right then. I was mad, too, by that time,
and told him he’d stolen your watch. He must have struck me just then,
for that’s the last I remember.”
“Oh, I don’t see how he could have been so cruel, when you went down to
help him!” said Jean.
“I’d like to have a look at my watch again,” said Douglas presently. “It
was my grandfather’s. Did I ever show you the Scotch motto inside
it,—’Pit a stoot hert tae a stey brae’?”
“Why, how queer!” exclaimed Jean. “We have _my_ grandfather’s watch and
it has the same motto!”
“That’s funny! You know what it means, don’t you?” said Douglas. “Put a
stout heart to a stiff hill. Good motto for a fellow that’s got to fight
his own way, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and it just suits you now—you’re so brave and patient all the
time.”
* * * * *
That afternoon Mrs. Brook had a dismal letter from Fräulein Bunsen, now
housekeeper at Huairarwee. Marie, the cook, had threatened to leave if
“M’dame” did not speedily resume the reins of government.
“What shall I do?” said Mrs. Brook. “I’m needed there and I’m needed
here.”
Then Carol settled the difficulty like the wise lass that she was. “Of
course you can go home, Motherling!” said she. “If Jean and I aren’t
able to take care of Douglas, now he’s so much better, we might as well
go back to our baby carriages. Haven’t we Tillie to help us?”
“But, my child—” began Mrs. Brook.
“Motherling, beloved, I am _not_ a child. I’m an experienced grown-up!”
said Carol. And when the question was submitted to Dr. Allen he took her
part.
“I’ll tell you how we’ll fix it,” said he. “I’ll send for Grandma Holly.
She’s a dear old lady, and the nurse for the whole district. I’ll keep
Miss Carol for head nurse, but Grandma and Tillie can do the hardest
work. Mrs. Brook, you needn’t worry about your girls a bit with Grandma
to take care of them.”
So Mrs. Brook waited only till the first of September, on which day
Court drove Carol, Cecily and Jean to the county town to testify at the
hearing before the Grand Jury. The girls stood the ordeal bravely,
giving their testimony with a clearness that won them praise. The next
day Mrs. Brook and Cecily, with Court, whose services were no longer
needed, set out for Halcyon, and Mrs. Holly was installed at Chipmunk
Lodge. She was a brisk little old lady, so rosy cheeked and cheery that
Carol said her name just suited her: she was like Christmas holly; and
the new arrangement worked like magic.
One afternoon, as Jean was spinning Douglas a thrilling yarn, a vigorous
rapping at the front knocker sent her flying to the door. A tall,
fine-looking gentleman, suit-case in hand, stood on the threshold.
Amazement and ecstasy were in the cry that rang through the little
cottage, as Jean threw herself into the traveller’s arms.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
“My own lassie!” His strong, loving arms held her fast.
“Daddy, is it really you? You darling! you precious darling!”
“Yes, Dawtie, here I am a whole month ahead of time! I thought I’d give
you a surprise. Oh, my wee lassie, it’s good to have you again! Daddy
couldn’t live without you any longer!”
In the love scene that followed out on the porch, a wonderful piece of
news was told. Jean’s father and mother had come home to live. All
summer Mr. Lennox had contemplated changing places with his partner in
New York, but nothing had been said to Jean, for fear of a possible
disappointment. Her parents had arrived in New York two days ago, and
while her invalid mother was resting after the voyage her father had run
up to Halcyon, found his bird flown, and followed her to Chipmunk Lodge.
When the first raptures were over Mr. Lennox listened to the story of
those past weeks.
“And Daddy, isn’t it the queerest thing,” said Jean, “Douglas has his
grandfather’s watch, and it’s just like grandpapa’s, and it has the same
motto inside!”
“Hm! that’s odd,” said Mr. Lennox. “The lad’s Scotch, you wrote me,
didn’t you?”
“Yes, come and see him now.” Jean ushered her father indoors.
Then she ran to surprise Carol and Douglas with her news, but her cry of
“Daddy!” had betrayed the secret. “Come in, Daddy!” she called.
Carol welcomed Mr. Lennox at the bedroom door, and after a hearty
greeting he stepped to the bedside.
“Well, Douglas, my boy,” said he, “you and I ought not to be strangers.
I feel as if I had known you a long time from all Jean’s written about
you.” The kind words made Douglas feel at home with him at once.
When the boy’s fall and illness had been talked over, Mr. Lennox asked
him to describe his watch. “It must be the counterpart of my father’s,”
he said when the description had been given. “What was your
grandfather’s name?”
“He was Major Alexander Gordon.”
“That name is about as familiar to me as the proverb in the watch,” said
Mr. Lennox. “Tell me what you know of your grandfather.”
“He came from Glen Yarrow in Scotland,” replied Douglas. “He belonged to
the Grahame Highlanders, and he was ordered to Canada just after he was
married. He was stationed in Halifax for years. My father was born
there.”
“Your father was a physician, I understand.”
“Yes. He came down to New York after Grandfather died, but he broke down
and had to come and live in the mountains.”
“And he died last Christmas—it was Douglas’s birthday,” whispered Jean.
“And your mother is dead, too?”
“Yes, she died when I was three years old.”
“Why, my boy, it’s been a pretty sad life for you,” said Jean’s father,
with feeling. The look in the gray eyes gave the answer.
“Have you any relatives living?” asked Mr. Lennox.
“I have some cousins of my mother’s up in Nova Scotia, and I think I
have a great-uncle or something in Scotland.”
“I’m not sure but I know more about your family than you do!” said Mr.
Lennox with a smile. “I’m going to tell you a story now. My father,
David Lennox, lived in Glen Yarrow. My grandfather was the minister of
the kirk there, and a great friend of the laird. The laird was named
_Douglas Gordon_.”
Jean and Carol both started, and Douglas half raised himself.
“That was my great-grandfather!” he exclaimed.
“It looks like it,” said Mr. Lennox. “Well, the laird’s youngest son,
Alec—”
“Douglas’s grandfather!” cried Jean.
“Whist! lassie. The laird’s son, Alec, and Davie Lennox were just the
same age, and as fast friends as their fathers; and when the lads went
to the university the laird gave them gold watches, exactly alike. They
had their favorite motto engraved in them: ‘_Pit a stoot hert tae a stey
brae_;’ and they determined to live up to it. Alec became a soldier and
went to Canada, and David went into the ministry and always lived in
Scotland. I’m sorry their lives drifted so far apart that their sons,
your father and I, couldn’t be friends too. That’s all. Now, laddie and
lassie, what do you think of it?”
“We’re almost cousins!” cried Jean. “Our grandfathers were just as good
as brothers!”
“Think of our grandfathers being such chums, and then our finding each
other and getting to be such friends, too!” said Douglas.
“I think it’s perfectly beautiful!” said Carol. “That must be why you
took to each other from the very start!”
A merry chat followed. Then Mr. Lennox rose. “Now, Douglas, I must say
good-by. I’ll see you again in the morning before I go back to New York.
Come, lassie, let your daddy have a chance to get acquainted with you.”
Out on the porch they had a long talk. “You’ve grown in more ways that
one, Jean,” said her father. “Do you remember, I used to call you my
_daft lassie_, your head was so full of dreams? The daft lassie is gone,
and I find instead a young battle maid so busy fighting for other people
that she has no time to think of herself. But I canna ca’ ye my _wee
dawtie_ ony mair!”
“What will you call me, Daddy?”
“I’ll call you my Lass of the Silver Sword!”
* * * * *
When Jean’s father returned from New York and paid a second visit to
Chipmunk Lodge, he found Douglas almost himself again, though the boy
was obliged to lean on his crutch as he rose to greet him.
“I should like to have a talk with you, my lad,” said Mr. Lennox.
“Dawtie, we’ll have to send you out of the room for a bit. Don’t listen
at the keyhole! Well, Douglas,” he continued, “this is first rate!
You’ll be climbing Mount Marcy in another week!”
Douglas laughed. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be able to go to work as soon as I
can get along without crutches,” said he. “I feel fine and I can’t lie
around doing nothing.”
“How would you like to make me a visit?” asked Mr. Lennox.
“Oh, thank you, sir! I’d like to ever so much! But wouldn’t I be in the
way? I shouldn’t like to be a bother.”
“No, you wouldn’t be in the way in the least. In fact, we’d all like to
have you extend your visit indefinitely.”
“I don’t quite understand. You don’t mean till I’m able to go to school,
do you?” said Douglas.
“I mean, come and make your home with us. Your education is of the
utmost importance. Your father would have wished you to be where you
could best prepare yourself for your life’s work. And as far as we
ourselves are concerned—why, I’ve seen and heard enough of you to know
that it will be a pleasure to all of us. We need you. Don’t you think
Mrs. Lennox and I would be richer for having a son as well as a
daughter?”
The astounded boy could hardly believe that his ears did not deceive
him. He began to stammer out his gratitude.
“No, no, I don’t want to be thanked,” said Mr. Lennox. “All I want is to
have you take me at my word and come! I’m going to send my lassie to you
now. You can talk it over with her.” He left the room and in rushed
Jean, to find a flushed, excited boy.
“Jean, your father wants me to come and live in your family!”
“I know it!” she interrupted. “I knew it all along. Daddy and I planned
it all out together when he was here before! You’re going to have Daddy
for your father, and Mother for your mother, and I’ll have you for my
brother—and Father’s going to send you to school and college! Oh,
Douglas, I’m so happy about it, I don’t know what to do! I just hated to
think about saying good-by and having you go way off somewhere!”
“So did I,” said Douglas. His voice sounded oddly gruff, and Jean saw
his eyes begin to shine. He turned his head quickly toward the window.
This prospect of a happy home to the lonely boy, and the delight that
Jean showed, were almost too much for him. The tears rushed to his eyes,
and for a minute he studied the sunlit valley as well as he could
through the mist, while he held Jean’s hand in a tight, grateful clasp.
“I never saw anything like you!” he said, when he could trust his voice.
“The way you’re always doing things for somebody else! Look at all
you’ve done for me already! And your father taking me like this—it’s too
much! I can never pay it back as long as I live!”
“But he doesn’t want you to! He wants to have a _son_. Don’t you see?”
said Jean.
“Well, I’ll be the best kind of a son I can, anyway,” said Douglas.
“I’ll do my level best to please him, so he’ll never be sorry for what
he’s done. I’ll study like a good fellow, once I get to school! Look
here, Jean—do you think I’ll make a decent sort of a brother?”
“Fine! Do you think I’ll make a nice sister?”
“The best little sister a fellow ever had! There isn’t another anywhere
could hold a candle to _you_!”
As father and daughter strolled in the woods before tea, Mr. Lennox
said: “Dawtie, Douglas won’t need that ninety-two dollars you’ve been
earning for him, now. What would you like to do with it?”
“I’d like to give it to Stella, and the canoe money, too,” answered
Jean. “And, Daddy, don’t ever tell him about my earning it. He might
feel badly to think I’d worked for him.”
“We won’t tell him just yet, anyway, lassie,” said her father.
October was only a few days away, and this was the last afternoon at
Chipmunk Lodge. But Carol, Jean and Douglas knew that before many weeks
they would have to visit that region again; for Tony Harrel’s case was
soon to come on for trial, and all three would be obliged to appear as
witnesses.
“I’d give anything if I could get out of it,” said Douglas. “I’ve got to
testify if the law makes me, but I hate to. I don’t want to get him into
any more trouble.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
A CORONATION
Two days later Jean and her father, Carol and Douglas, arrived at
Halcyon Lake. They stopped at Hurricane first to restore Douglas to his
chum; and then the other travellers went on to Huairarwee and received
an enthusiastic welcome. A bevy of eager girls clustered around the
carriage as it stopped. Carol sprang down, to be caught and fairly
smothered by her classmates. Jean made a joyful swoop over the wheel and
into the arms of Cecily and Frances, who held her so tight that Betty
and Stella had to embrace the whole trio. The instant that her battle
maids released her, Nanno was upon her, winding her chubby little arms
and legs around her long lost guardian, while Jean hugged the rosy
dumpling of a mavourneen. Such a babel of merry voices, as Carol and
Jean were escorted in triumph to their tents! Such a rattling of
tongues, as the news of Chipmunk Lodge was poured out!
“You dear old Joan of Arc! I thought I’d never get you back!” said
Cecily, drawing Jean down on a cot and squeezing her anew.
“I thought I’d never get back to _you_, you dear old St. Cecilia!”
returned Jean. “Oh dear! I want to hug everybody all over again!”
“Cece, you’re the grabbiest thing that ever lived!” cried Betty. “Go
’way! Give the rest of us a chance!”
“It’s _my_ turn,” said Stella. “I’ve something to tell you, Jean. I have
a mother, now!”
“And I have a sister!” said Cecily.
Jean stared from one to the other. “Stella! You don’t mean—!”
“Yes, I do!” said Stella, with a joyous little laugh. “I’m going to live
with Mrs. Brook—with _Mother_!”
“Stella! How perfectly _glo-o-orious_!” Jean sprang up and nearly
throttled the happy girl. “Are you going to live with her _always_?
Won’t you really have to go back to the farm any more?”
“No, I won’t ever have to go back. Pa don’t want me,” answered Stella.
“And we _do_ want her,” said Cecily. “She’ll be my sister, and keep
Mammykins company while I’m at school. Isn’t it the loveliest thing!”
“Oh, Stella! I’m so glad!” cried Jean. “I couldn’t bear to think of your
going back! My, isn’t everything turning out like a regular fairy-story!
You’re Cecily’s sister, and Douglas is my brother! Isn’t it just too
beautiful!” She whirled Stella around the tent in a mad tarantella as an
outlet for her delight. “I must tell Carol this minute!” she exclaimed,
as they stopped for breath.
“Whoa! Don’t gallop away!” said Frances. “Carol’s known about it for
ever so long.”
“But we kept it a secret, to surprise you when you came back,” Stella
explained. “Oh, Jean, you don’t know what it means to me! You girls all
have mothers, and lovely homes—you don’t know how it feels to have
nothing at all! And now I’m going to have a mother again, and a sister,
and the loveliest home that ever was—and _everything_!”
Here the dinner horn sounded. Stella hurried to her tent to smooth her
tumbled hair, and Cecily to the bungalow, to give a finishing touch to
the goldenrod and autumn leaves decorating the table.
“Now we’ll tell you the rest of the secret,” said Betty to Jean. “After
Mrs. Brook decided to take Stella, Carol and Eunice got up a plan that
all of us girls should club together and pay for her dresses and things
till she’s able to earn her own living. So we’re all going to join and
raise a fund. But Stella doesn’t know that yet.”
“Those big girls are getting good at last!” remarked Frances. “It’s
because they’ve had _me_ for an example, all summer.”
“Let’s make them all honorary members of the order!” cried Jean. “Jolly!
jolly! Now I know what’ll be our Silver Sword work next winter! Let’s
raise money for the fund! Let’s earn enough to give Stella music
lessons! Carol says she has a splendid ear.”
“Hooray!” cried Frances. “We’ll give a play a month! Won’t we have a
winter of larks!”
“Won’t _I_ have a busy time as treasurer!” laughed Betty.
A second peremptory toot of the horn sent the three girls scurrying to
the bungalow. “We’re to have dinner in the kitchen,” said Betty. “Jean,
you must promise solemnly, on your golden shield, not even to _peep_
into the living-room.”
Jean’s curiosity burned at a white heat as she took her place at the
table in the cozy kitchen. The campers were to say good-by to Halcyon
next morning, and a farewell dinner party was now given, with Mr. Lennox
as the guest of honor.
“Joan of Arc,” said Cecily, as the ducks came sizzling from the oven,
“you’re not to have Blanche for your room-mate next winter, after all!
Miss Carlton wants her to room with Adela. She thinks there’ll be less
skylarking.”
“And I’m to room with Betsy in the Orioles’ Nest!” said Frances. “Miss
Carlton thinks I’ll be a good influence for her!”
“Miss Carlton wants me to keep _Frisk_ in order!” Betty corrected.
“Then, Cece, you’ve _got_ to room with me!” Jean broke in.
“That’s just what I’m going to do,” said Cecily. “We’re to have Castle
Afterglow.”
“Oh, St. Cecilia! How perfect!” cried Jean. “Won’t we have fun! You must
come home with me over Sundays. I’m to go home every other Sunday. Dear
old bouncing Blanche! She’ll be a good, solid weight to tie Adela to!
She’ll steady the White Mouse if anything will!” And all four girls went
off into ripples of happy laughter.
“Now, Motherling, tell us,—have we been good daughters all summer?”
asked Eunice, at dessert.
“The best daughters in the world,” answered Mrs. Brook. “I shall be
lonely for you all next winter.”
“Then will you take us back again next summer, if we can come?”
“With all my heart I will! Next summer and _every_ summer this camp will
be ready for you.”
“Three cheers!” cried Nancy. “I’m coming, with the camp baby under my
arm!”
Carol rapped on the table. “Camp Huairarwee, stop eating apple pie, and
take a vote,” said she. “I move that we all try our best to come back
next summer. Somebody please second the motion.”
“I second it!” responded every one of her eighteen fellow-boarders.
“The motion is _eighteenth_-ed,” Carol announced. “All in favor of a
jolly summer next year, signify it by saying ‘Ay’!”
“Ay!” burst forth unanimously, and Cecily clapped her hands in delight.
“Daddy!” Jean called to her father, at the other end of the table,
“Can’t _we_ come to Halcyon next summer? There’s the dearest little mite
of a camp standing empty right next door to Huairarwee. We could rent
that!”
“But it won’t hold all of you, Jean,” said Cecily. “Your father and
mother and Douglas can stay there, but _you_’ll have to live with us.”
“When our daughters settle things for us, there’s nothing left to be
said,” Mr. Lennox observed to Mrs. Brook.
“Fräulein and Miss Hamersley must come and chaperone us again,” said
Eunice.
“You’re a handful, but I’m ready,” replied Miss Hamersley.
“Not I! Not if you are to be lost in forests and on mountains again,”
laughed Fräulein, shaking her head at Jean and Carol. “I see my hair
grow gray already!”
“Nobody else sees it,” said Carol. “That one little _contrary-minded_
shall be kidnapped by me and _brought_! You’re just the right size to be
tucked into a suit-case, Bunny, liebchen!”
“Carolchen, ven vill you learn to be respectful!” said the little
teacher. “Ach, wohl! I suppose I haff to come, to take care of my two
storm-children.”
Dinner over, Jean was invited to show her father through the labyrinth,
and to remain in it till summoned. In half an hour Mrs. Brook called the
exiles back, sent Mr. Lennox to the bungalow, and took Jean to the
battle maids’ tent. There, spread out on her cot, Jean found a white
satin robe, and on Cecily’s a cloak of ruby-colored velvet.
“Why—what’s that?” she cried. “That looks like the dress Eunice wore
when she acted Juliet! And _that_—that’s the cloak Carol had for Romeo!”
The finery carried her back to the evening at Hazelhurst when the older
girls had acted _Romeo and Juliet_, but how had it been spirited into
camp!
Mrs. Brook would tell no secrets, but she took Jean in hand, and—presto,
change! Instead of a lassie in a corduroy mountain suit, there stood a
royal personage, robed in shimmering white satin, her velvet cloak
falling from her shoulders, her court train sweeping the floor. Cheeks
rosy with excitement, blue eyes laughing and dancing, dusky hair flowing
loose over her mantle—the Queen of the Silver Sword came forth from her
tent to find awaiting her a merry dark-eyed maid of honor, in an antique
gown as yellow as a daffodil. Frances took the ends of the regal train,
and Jean was conducted to the bungalow. As they stepped upon the veranda
the door was opened for them by two porters whose extraordinary attire
made Jean stop short in amazement. One was an Indian, through whose
war-paint she recognized Jack’s features. He was wrapped in a gorgeous
red blanket, and his superb hen-feather war-bonnet proclaimed him a
chief of renown. The other was a frontiersman of Colonial times. He
leaned, not on crutches, but on his rifle, and he wore fringed leggings
and jacket, and a coonskin cap, which he doffed as the queen entered her
palace.
A palace it was indeed! The walls were tapestried with evergreens and
autumnal foliage, and adorned with golden shields crossed by silver
swords. Two rows of court ladies were waiting to receive her majesty,
and they made a dazzling array, for more than one trunkful of
costumes—the relics of Hazelhurst tableaux and theatricals—had lately
arrived in camp. Jean saw medieval dames, oriental princesses, and
European peasants. Nancy and Marion, in their pale green and
peach-colored satins, with tall pointed head-dresses, might have
presided at tournaments as “queens of love and beauty.” Helen and
Dorothy were charming as Pocahontas and Minnehaha; Eunice seemed to have
stepped out of the pages of Shakespeare, for she was a fair and stately
Portia, in red silk cap and gown; and pretty Rose Hamilton was the fairy
queen Titania, surrounded by attendant elves, all with spangled robes
and gauzy wings.
Jean’s bewildered eyes roamed over the sea of color, and down the hall
of state, to the dais that had been raised at the farther end. There she
saw a floral throne covered with goldenrod and purple asters. To the
left of the throne stood the princesses of the Scroll and the
Treasure—Cecily in rose pink, Betty in forget-me-not blue. Carol waited
on the right, and she had become a dryad of the forest. Her robe of
creamy yellow was trimmed with ruddy Virginia creeper and clusters of
rowan berries; she held a sickle and a sheaf of corn, and on her head
was a garland of bright maple leaves.
Suddenly, from the bower of evergreens around the piano, sounded the
march from Lohengrin. Cecily and Betty came down between the ranks of
courtiers and bowed before their sovereign.
“Oh, girls, it’s just like fairy-land!” Jean whispered. “But what does
it all mean?”
“It’s just a welcome home for you and Carol,” replied Betty. “We planned
it all as soon as we got back from Chipmunk Lodge.” And Cecily said,
“May it please your Majesty to advance and take your throne!”
With her maid of honor bearing her train, and the princesses following,
the queen walked slowly up to the dais. Carol stepped forward to meet
the procession. Bowing low, she took Jean by the hand and led her to the
throne.
“Carolie, you look perfectly _beautiful_!” whispered Jean.
“It is your Majesty who is beautiful!” Carol responded. “You are every
inch a queen!” Then she addressed the courtiers:
“When my young sister, Springtime, held sway over the land,” said she,
“the Queen of the Silver Sword was raised to the throne. Since then she
has valiantly fought to better the world, and her good sword Caritas has
been drawn whenever she has found a wrong to right. But, though Spring
and Summer have said farewell, her Majesty is still a queen uncrowned.
Now I, Autumn, have come. I have turned the forests to gold, and made
them ready for the coronation day. And you, fair ladies of the court,
are here to pledge your fealty to the Silver Sword, to pay homage to the
queen, and to present her with her crown and scepter.”
Autumn drew back, and up came Stella, all in white, her cloud-like veil
dotted with tiny stars. She bore on a cushion a circlet of frosted
silver; and as she knelt before the throne Cecily and Betty took the
crown, held it a moment aloft for all to see, then laid it on the head
of the young queen. There it gleamed, on the soft dark hair, and where
it rose to a point above the broad forehead were a shining “C” and “V.”
Then Cecily placed in her hand a gilded scepter.
“Long live the Queen!” Clear and full the chorus rang out.
Jean’s glowing face was all the reward her subjects asked, but she rose
and spoke:
“Ladies of the court, and you, my battle maids—” Then impulsively she
threw wide her arms as if she would embrace them all. “Oh, girls!” she
cried, “I _can’t_ make a speech! But I thank you millions and billions
and _trillions_ of times! I never dreamed we’d have a real silver crown
for our order! Oh, it’s all too beautiful and lovely! I ought to be the
best queen that ever lived, with such a crown and such subjects. But I
don’t deserve it one bit—I haven’t done anything at all! I know who
ought to be crowned—_Carol_ ought! She saved Douglas’s life, and she’s
nursed him all these weeks, and just done everything for everybody!”
Autumn was shaking her head and her sickle in vehement denial, but Jean
went on: “She ought to belong to the order, anyhow. She’d make a
splendid adviser—she always knows how to set things straight. Mayn’t I
have her for my chief councillor, or grand vizier or something?”
“You may and you _should_ have her,” said Mr. Lennox, who stood near the
dais. “‘In days of old, when _battle maids_ were bold,’ the Germanic
tribes had their _Alruna_ women who foretold the future, and, I’ve no
doubt, gave the chiefs excellent advice. Your Majesty’s humble and
obedient father suggests that you appoint Miss Carol your Alruna Maid!”
“That’s a splendid idea!” exclaimed Jean. “Kneel down, Carolie!” Autumn
knelt before the throne. Jean lifted the leafy garland, and replacing it
on the flowing chestnut hair, proclaimed Carol the Alruna of the Silver
Sword.
The Alruna kissed the royal hand; and then such a clapping as burst
forth, within the palace and outside, too!
“Long live the Alruna Maid!” shouted a manly voice. There was Court
looking in at an open window. At another were Dr. and Mrs. Hamilton.
“Spies! spies!” cried the courtiers, but they welcomed the spies
indoors, in time to see the camp baby do homage to the queen. Nanno, in
a scarlet Mother Hubbard cloak, came running up to the dais, which she
mounted with a hop. Then, measuring herself with one hand on top of her
black curls, she recited in her tuneful brogue:
“A little mavourneen am I,
I’m only dest so high!
But when I’m as old as you,
I’ll be a battle maid too!”
“You darling baby, indeed you _shall_ be a battle maid, too!” said Jean,
gathering Mavourneen up to a place beside her on the throne.
The assembled ladies then approached and kissed the royal hand; after
which up came Court, with the frontiersman and the redskin warrior.
Court was in his hunting suit, and equipped with rifle and
cartridge-belt. “Your Majesty,” said he, “allow me to present the famous
scout, Natty Bumpo, whom they used to call Deerslayer, and now call
Hawkeye; and also the young chief, Uncas, the last of the Mohicans. I
hope you’ll excuse Hawkeye and me for coming just as we are. We’ve been
out all day after venison for your Majesty’s banquet. Uncas is the only
one who has had time to put on his dress suit.”
“Heap much beautiful squaw here! Big chief like queen’s scalp best!”
observed Uncas, gazing with admiration at the silver circlet.
“You shan’t have my crown, nor my scalp either!” laughed Jean. “_You’ll_
protect me, won’t you, Hawkeye?”
“Killdeer never misses,” answered the scout, raising his rifle. “I’m
ashamed of Uncas,—he talks like a dog of a Mingo. But then he hasn’t a
white man’s gifts. It isn’t in _my_ gifts to know how to speak to a
queen, but—Great Cæsar! you look stunning!”
“Your Majesty’s so dazzlingly radiant, it hurts my eyes!” Court
declared, and he took his place beside the chief councillor. “Alruna
Maid,” he said, “I hope you won’t keep your good advice all for the
queen. When I come to New York in my Christmas vacation won’t you give
_me_ some good counsel, too?”
“Take care, Court! You’ll have a sermon from your clerical father if he
finds you going to an _Alruna_ for counsel,” replied Carol. “And once
you told Jean it was _your_ rule to do what you wished, first, and ask
advice afterwards.”
“Oh, that all depends on who gives the advice,” said Court. “I never had
an Alruna to go to before. Do you ever tell people’s fortunes? I shall
want to come and have my fortune told, some day.”
“Oracles never mind people coming to _inquire_,” the Alruna answered
graciously. Then her sunny eyes grew deep and full of mystery. “The veil
of the future is lifting,” said she—“just one little corner of it. I
see—a legacy! It comes from a great-aunt. And the grandnephew is so fond
of using the silver sword that he won’t spend one cent of it upon
himself. There—that’s as far as the veil will lift to-day.”
[Illustration: GAZING WITH ADMIRATION AT THE SILVER CIRCLET.]
Gay dance music sounded just then from the green bower where Fräulein
served as orchestra.
“I hope it’s my good fortune to have the Alruna for my partner,” said
Court.
“I fear it is your _fate_!” she laughed. “Fräulein’s playing my favorite
waltz.” A moment more and the hunter and the Alruna were gliding about
in the dance, and fantastic couples were revolving merrily all through
the palace.
“I can’t dance,” said Hawkeye, regretfully. “I got wounded trying to
_sarcumvent_ the Mingoes.”
“Uncas dance with paleface queen,” said the last of the Mohicans. He led
her majesty out, while the queen’s father renewed his youth by taking
for a partner the princess of the Scroll.
The bungalow had seen many a merry dance that summer, but this was the
merriest of all. After every waltz or two-step there was a change of
partners, the hunter and the young brave doing their best to dance with
every member of the court. The revel ended with the Virginia reel, out
under the trees. Douglas watched it from a rustic bench, and when it was
over Jean dropped down beside him to rest.
“I’m rather afraid of my sister, now she’s a queen with a crown on!”
said the boy. “I feel as if I ought to be down at your feet, instead of
sitting beside you.”
“Do I look so very royal?” asked Jean. “Oh, see there!” She pointed to
the lake. “There goes a kingfisher!”
“Two of them!” said Douglas, for first one blue-gray bird and then
another had arisen chattering from a tree overhanging the water. He
raised his rifle. “Shall I shoot?” he asked mischievously. “It brought
me good luck last time!”
“No, don’t shoot!” said Jean, laughing. “All the good things came
because we _saved_ the halcyon’s life!”
“And _two_ halcyons,” said Douglas, “ought to bring us twice the good
luck!”
* * * * *
The afternoon was wonderfully mild for so late in September. In the
slanting rays of the sun the water flashed beguilingly, and Jean was not
allowed to rest long on the rustic bench.
“It’s time for our sunset carnival, now!” said Cecily.
“You don’t mean there’s _more_ coming!” exclaimed Jean.
“Oh, yes, there is!” Cecily answered. “This is a three-act play. You and
Carol haven’t been out on the lake since the end of July, so we
thought—as we’d be all dressed for it—we’d wind up with a water
carnival. Come down and see your royal barge.”
Down to the lake tripped the queen and her court. Moored to the dock the
royal craft was waiting. A canopy, and plenty of ornamental cheesecloth,
had transformed the old camp fishing-boat into a barge which Cleopatra
herself need not have scorned. It was draped all in white and crimson; a
heap of bright cushions made a throne; a fantastic flag, gay as a
Venetian gonfalon, hung over the stern, almost trailing in the water;
while to a pole, erected like a mast, wound with crimson and white and
flaunting streamers of the same, was secured a large golden shield, with
the sword and motto of the order.
“What a beauty of a boat! How _did_ you dress it up?” cried Jean.
“I waved my wand, and it rose out of the lake!” replied the fairy queen
Titania.
Jean was made to take her place on the cushion-throne, with Stella at
her feet, Frances at the helm, and Cecily and Betty at the oars. A
general embarkation followed. Court and Jack launched the rowboats and
canoes, and helped the ladies to step aboard without detriment to their
finery; and at the last moment Court, with the Alruna, now returning to
her role as Autumn, slipped off to the kitchen and came back carrying
between them a huge basket of rosy, mellow apples, which they placed as
cargo in the _Hist-oh-Hist_. The fleet was soon on its way up the lake
to Fairy Cove. The queen’s barge headed the line. Close in its wake came
Uncas and Hawkeye, the scout reclining in the canoe while the Mohican
plied the paddle, Nanno sitting cuddled up contentedly between them.
Then came the _Hist_, paddled by the hunter, Autumn in the bow playing
her mandolin, for which she had exchanged her sickle, pausing now and
then to toss her gifts of apples to others of the masqueraders as they
came within range, for the rest of the gay procession gradually closed
up and surrounded the royal galley: Titania and her fays, Pocahontas and
Minnehaha, Portia and the Queens of Love and Beauty, peasant girls,
chivalric dames, and princesses of the Orient.
The clouds were warm with rose and gold as the gay party dropped into
Fairy Cove. There the queen and her battle maids let their barge drift,
while the others circled around them in a grand review. Carol touched
her mandolin and began to sing the boating song, _Santa Lucia_. The rest
took up the melody, and the sunset carnival became a sunset concert,
too. While the sky blushed up to the zenith, the sweet young voices rose
in song. And when the carnival fleet glided homeward again the oars and
paddles rose and fell to the melody of _Auld Lang Syne_.
Sky and lake seemed to have caught fire together as the keels grated on
the sand and the queen and her maidens stepped ashore. But over the dark
hills the clouds gloomed violet, and the sun was sinking fast, bringing
to an end that summer with its many halcyon days. The whole rainbow
company gathered on the beach to see the last of the sunset glory. A
flood of light poured over the happy queen. It shone on the princess of
the Scroll, as she stood at the queen’s right hand, and turned her fair
hair to St. Cecilia’s halo. It played with the Alruna’s flowing curls
and made them burn with ruddy gold.
“It’s been such a beautiful summer!” said Jean. “Even the sad part had
such a wonderful ending! And to-day—to-day’s the loveliest of all!”
The Alruna stretched out her hand toward the western sky, where a band
of clearest blue broke the rose and gold. “See that lake in the sky!”
she said. “That’s Halcyon Lake, next year! The future is unfolding
before me in the sunset! We are all coming back again—every one, and
_next_ summer we shall have with us _all_ the battle maids of the Silver
Sword!”
Down dropped the great globe of flame behind the purple clouds; its rays
were quenched, and the young sovereign and her court stood in shadow.
But again, through a rift, the golden light flashed forth, and the last
bright horizontal beams touched Jean’s silver coronet and made it
glisten. The Alruna spoke again:
“This is your _second_ coronation, little queen! The _sun_ is crowning
you now!”
FINIS
Transcriber’s Notes
The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
and punctuation errors were silently amended. All other changes are
shown here (before/after):
[p. 322]:
... turned her face to the cliff and let herself down. ...
... turned her face to the cliff and let herself down, ...
[p. 335]:
... you’re going down those awful slides alone! ...
... your going down those awful slides alone! ...
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