Dorothy on a House Boat

“How? You couldn’t. But I’ll tell you what you could do. Hunt up Elsa and the monks. I want to see if this harness I’ve made out of a fur-rug they destroyed will fit either. Dolly proposes to make them some clothes and get up a little ‘show.’ Thinks she and Elsa could exhibit them for pennies, when the people come to sell stuff, and that would help pay for it.”

Gerald considered. Many troubled thoughts passed through his mind, but the strongest feeling was anger. He had been so self-sufficient until this “beastly trip.” Now he was learning the sometimes bitter lesson that nobody in the world can be actually independent. He had begun by lording it over his mates, and even his hostesses, and now here he was dependent upon them for the very food he ate and the medicine he had taken. He ceased to feel himself an invited guest but rather a burden and a debtor.

“Of course, Popper’ll pay everything back if we ever get home. But – Oh! dear! How I hate it all!”

For down in his heart he realized that no amount of money could cover his obligation to these friends, and he started off in a most unhappy frame of mind.

“I’ll find that girl and teach her to mind her own business. The idea of her training those monkeys – my monkeys! Course, she’s done it all wrong, and it’s harder to unlearn a thing than learn it right first off. When they’re trained they ought to be worth ten times as much as we paid for them. I might sell ’em to an organ-grinder, if Popper’d buy out Melvin’s share.”

But at this stage of thought it occurred to him that he couldn’t picture his dandyish father dealing with organ-grinders. Indeed, the idea was so absurd that it made him laugh, and in that laughter his ill-temper vanished, or nearly so. After all, it was good to be alive! Even the freedom of the woods, after the stuffy cabin he had left, was delightful. He’d rather have had it the freedom of the city streets, but this was better than nothing.

He began to whistle, imitating the call of a bird in the tree overhead, and with such fair success that he was proud of himself. The bird ceased, startled, then flew onward. Gerald followed, still practicing that wild, sweet note, till suddenly his music was interrupted by another cry, which was neither bird nor joyous, but one of keen anxiety; then, as if it had come out of the ground, a girl begged:

“Oh! whoever you are, come quick!”

“Why, Elsa! I was looking – Hello! Of all things!”

Almost hidden by the great ferns amid which she sat Elsa held, lying across her lap, a little figure in faded gingham.

“Saint Augustine! The boy I heard ’em say was lost! How did he get here? It must be a long way from his house.”

Elsa pointed pityingly to the bare little feet and legs, cruelly scratched and with dark bruises.

“I don’t know. I found him just this way.”

“Sainty! Wake up! My! How sound he sleeps! And how red his face is!”

“He’s sick. I’m sure. I found him all curled up, his little arms under his head. He moans, sometimes, but he doesn’t know anything that I say.”

At that moment a hoarse yell made Gerald look away from the boy and a leap of something to his shoulder made him yell in response.

“Jocko! Down! Behave! Oh! he’ll hurt you. They’ve both been asleep in that spot where the sun shines through. Oh! Stop – stop!”

The monkey was attacking Gerald’s face, snapping at his ears, pulling his hair, and almost frightening him into a fit. But Elsa laid Saint Augustine gently on the ground and went to the rescue. With sharp slaps of her thin hands she soon reduced Jocko to submission and, as if fearing punishment herself, Joan crouched behind a bush and peered cautiously out.

“Pshaw! How’d you do it? I was coming after the monkeys, they’re mine you know – or half mine, but – do they act that way often?”

“Yes, rather too often. That’s what makes everybody afraid to handle them. They’ll get better natured after a time, I hope. But no matter about them. They’re nothing but animals while this darling little boy – I don’t know as I can carry him. You’ve been sick and so can’t either, I suppose. Yet we can’t leave him here. Will you go back to the Lily and get more help? If you brought a hammock we might put him in that. He’s awfully sick. I’m afraid – he’ll die – and his mother – ”

Gerald had stood looking upon the little lad while she said this, wondering what would best be done, and annoyed that he should be put to the bother of the matter. His decision was made rather suddenly as again Jocko leaped upon his back and resumed his angry chattering.

“Call him off! I’ll carry the child. Which is the way home?”

“I don’t – know. It all looks alike – but not like – I mean, I haven’t the least idea where we are, except that it must be a good ways from the boat. Don’t you really know, either?”

For a moment Gerald looked about. Then answered frankly:

“No. I was pretty cross when I came out, for Melvin had just told me about that lost money and about Dorothy’s paying for me – So horrid, that! I heard a bird whistle and whistling’s my gift, some folks think. I’ve whistled for entertainments at school and I like to learn new notes. Following that wretched bird I didn’t notice.”

“And looking for a walking-fern I didn’t either. But we can’t stop here. We must go on – some way.”

“Let’s try the children’s way: ‘My – mother – told – me – this!’”

Elsa laughed. She had known so little of childish things that each new one delighted her. Gerald had uttered the few words, turning from point to point with each, and now finishing with an outstretched forefinger in a direction where the trees were less thick and crowding than elsewhere.

Fortunately, “his – mother – had – told – him” the right one. This was almost the end of the forest behind Corny Stillwell’s cabin; a short-cut to the long way around by which Gerald had gone to Deer-Copse. He didn’t know that when he lifted Saint Augustine in his arms and started forward. The child was small and thin, else Gerald would have had to pause oftener than he did for rest; but even so it was a severe task he had set himself.

But somehow the burden in his arms seemed to lift the burden from his heart, as is always the case when one unselfishly helps another. Also, he feared that the illness of Saint Augustine was the result of his own; so that when Elsa once limped up to where he had paused to rest and asked:

“What do you suppose it is that ails him?” he had promptly answered:

“Measles. Caught ’em from me. Ain’t that the limit?”

But Elsa who knew no slang understood him literally, and said:

“No, it isn’t, I had them once and the doctor scared my father dreadfully, telling him that folks could have them four times! Think of that! He said most people had them only once and the younger the lighter. So I guess Saint Augustine won’t be very ill. But – my heart! Do you suppose the monkeys can catch it? Wouldn’t that be awful!”

“I hope they will and die of them! Nasty little brutes! They keep my nerves on the jump all the time, hearing them chatter and yell right behind me so. You keep real far back, won’t you? I don’t know how you can stand them; but don’t – please don’t let them hop on me again. I know they’re too heavy for you but I’m too nervous for words. I wish I’d never heard of ’em, the little gibbering idiots!”

Again Elsa laughed, this time so merrily that Gerald got angry.

“I don’t see anything so very funny in this predicament! Not so very amusing! My arms ache fit to break and all a girl cares about a fellow is to giggle at him.”

And now, indeed, was the “giggle” so prolonged that its victim had to join in it, and had Mrs. Calvert been there to hear she would have rejoiced to see shy Elsa behaving just like any other happy girl. Yet, after a moment, she sobered and begged:

“Don’t mind my doing that, but I couldn’t help it. It seems so funny for a boy to have ‘nerves’ or to be afraid of monkeys. Papa has a song:

“‘The elephant now goes round and round,The band begins to play;The little boys under the monkeys’ cage,Had better get out of the way – the way —Would better get out of the way!’”

Elsa had so far forgotten her self-consciousness that she sang her quotation in a sweet, clear treble which made Gerald turn around and stare at her in surprise.

“Why, I didn’t know you could sing.”

“I can’t – much, only for Papa, sometimes. He’s a fine singer. He belongs to the Oratorio Society. He’s one of its best tenors, takes solos, you know. I’m very proud of Papa’s voice. His being poor doesn’t keep him out of that Society.”

“Then he ought to get yours cultivated. You might make money that way.”

“Maybe, but money isn’t much. Anyway, he hasn’t the money to pay for lessons.”

“Look here. You’re so smart with those detestable monks, suppose you go on training ’em and exhibit when you get back to town? I’d let you have ’em on trust till you could pay for them. What do you say?”

Was this the poor, timid Elsa who now faced him with flashing eyes? Had this down-trodden “worm” actually “turned”?

“Say? What do I say? That you’re the horridest boy in this whole world and I’ve a mind to fling your old monkeys straight at you! I – I – ” then she sobbed, fatigue overcoming her and her wrath dying as swiftly as it had arisen. “I – I see a house over there. We better go to it and ask.”

She was trembling now and her lame foot dragged painfully. She had made no complaint of the long distance and the troublesome little animals she sometimes led and sometimes carried, though Gerald had grumbled incessantly.

Now all the best of his nature came to the front, and he had never felt more bitterly ashamed of himself than when he realized that his thoughtless proposition had been an insult to the afflicted, shrinking girl. Warmed by the love and appreciation of her Water Lily friends she “had come out of her shell” of reserve and been most happy. Now this boy had forced her back again; to remembering that after all she was but a very poor girl, deformed, despised, and considered simply fit to make a mountebank of herself, going about the city streets with apes! Oh! it was very dimly that Elsa could see the outlines of a whitewashed cabin in the fields, because of the tears which filled her eyes.

“Hold on, Elsa! Forgive me if you can. I’m ashamed of myself. I don’t know what makes me such a cad, I don’t! You know. Except I’ve been brought up to think I was a rich boy and that a rich boy can do no harm. I could kick myself from here to Halifax. Please don’t mind. Why, you’re the cleverest girl of the lot, you are, you know. Nobody else dared tackle – ”

He caught himself up sharply. Not for his life would he again utter that hateful word “monkey” to her. But he added with real sincerity, “I’m so sorry I’ll do anything in the world to prove it, that you ask me to do. I will, upon honor.”

Elsa couldn’t hold malice against anybody and in her heart had already forgiven him his hurt of her, with her habitual thought: “He didn’t mean it.” So she smiled again and accepted his statement as truth.

“Well I don’t know as I shall ever want you to do anything to ‘prove it’, but if I do I’ll tell you. Sure.”

Little did Gerald dream how rash a promise he had made. The cabin in the fields was the one in which he had lain so helpless. As he recognized it he exclaimed:

“Good! I’ll try that childish ‘charm’ every time! ‘My – mother – told – me – right’. That’s home to this little shaver and I’m mighty glad we’re there.”

But it seemed a very different home from that which had sheltered him so well. The children were grouped about the door, only Wesley and Saint Anne daring to enter the room where poor Lucetta lay prone on the floor, looking so white and motionless that, for a moment, the newcomers believed that she was dead.

Saint Anne lifted a quivering face toward them but could not speak, Wesley hid his face in his arm and blubbered audibly.

Then did all the little woman in Elsa’s nature respond to this sudden need.

“Lay Saint Augustine on that bench, where somebody must have slept. Help me to lift the lady to the bed. Don’t cry, little girl. She’ll soon be all right. It’s just a faint, I’m sure. I’ve fainted myself, often and often. I guess she’s overdone. Isn’t there a man here?”

“No, ma’am. Papa he comed home an’ Mamma she tol’ him how Sa – Saint Augustine had run away and he frew down his gun an’ all them games, an’ – an’ – just hollered out loud! ‘Oh! my God’! an’ run off, too. Mamma was gone all night, lookin’ after little brother an’ when she heard papa say that she fell right down there and she don’t speak when we call her. Where’d you find him, our little brother? Was he down in Tony’s Eddy?”

Well, Gerald felt in that state when “anybody could knock him down with a feather.” He was obeying Elsa implicitly, already “proving” he had meant his promise. He felt such an access of manly strength that it was almost unaided he lifted Lucetta and laid her on the bed. In reality, she was already regaining consciousness, and slightly aided him herself. Then he ran to the spring and brought the “cold water – coldest you can find” which Elsa ordered, and lifted Mrs. Stillwell’s shoulders while the girl held the tin cup to her lips; and indeed did so many little things so deftly that he didn’t recognize himself.

Even in her half-stupor Lucetta was her own sweet self, for when she had swallowed the water she smiled upon her nurse and tried to speak. Elsa anticipated what she knew would be the one great longing of that mother’s heart, and said with an answering smile:

“We’ve brought your little son safe home. If you can turn your head you’ll see. Right yonder on that bench. He’s tired out and, maybe, a little sick but he’s safe. Do you mean you want him right beside you?”

Lucetta made an effort to sit up and opened her arms.

“Lie right still. Don’t you fret for one moment. Here’s your baby. Now I’m going home and we’ll get a doctor some way and quick. But you won’t be alone. Gerald, whom you took care of when he was ill, is here. He’ll stay and take care of you in turn now. Good-bye. Don’t worry.”

She was gone before Gerald could even protest, calling the monkeys to follow her and limping away faster than anybody else, with two sound feet, could run. She had taken him at his word, indeed!

CHAPTER XV.

IN THE HEART OF AN ANCIENT WOOD

Deep in the heart of the September woods there was gathered one morning a little company of greatly excited people. Old Cap’n Jack was the wildest of the lot. Next him in point of eagerness was the Colonel. Corny Stillwell was there; so was his brother Wicky, who had come across country to see how now fared Lucetta, the “shiftless” wife of his “energetic” brother. Of late these terms had been exchanged in the minds of the Wickliffe Stillwells, owing to various statements made them by their new friends, the “Water Lilies.” Being honest and warm-hearted they hadn’t hesitated to express their change of opinion; and it was a fact that though Lucetta Stillwell had never been so ill in her life she had never been so comfortable.

Lizzie, her sister-in-law, never allowed herself the extravagance of keeping “help;” but it was she who had hunted up a good old “Mammy” and established her in the lean-to of the little cabin. She had bidden this good cook:

“See to it that Lucetty has nourishments continual, and do for mercy’s sake, feed them skinny childern till they get flesh on their bones! They’re a real disgrace to the neighborhood, the pinched way they look, and I shan’t set easy in meetin’ if I can’t think they’re fatted up right. You do the feedin’ and we-all’ll find you the stuff.”

So on this special morning Lizzie had despatched her husband with a small wagonload of vegetables and poultry; and having left his load at the cabin, the sociable man had driven on to the Copse, to meet and inquire for the “Lilies.” Arrived at the boat, Aunt Betty had eagerly greeted him, explaining:

“You’re a man of sense and mighty welcome just now. Our people have gone actually daft over a dirty piece of paper and a few French words scribbled on it. The precious document belongs to the Colonel – Oh! yes, he’s here. He has been sometime. I think he means to tarry developments – that will never be. He’s infected all my family with his crazy notions and they’re off now on this wild-goose search for ‘buried treasure.’ I wish you’d go and warn them that they mustn’t trespass on private property, for I believe they’ll stop at nothing in their folly.”

“I’ve heered about that there ‘treasure.’ I ’low more time’s been spent by fools lookin’ for it ’an would ha’, arn’t ’em a livin’. Sure. Yes ma’am, they has so. How many’s at it now, Mrs. Calvert?”

She laughingly counted upon her fingers:

“The Colonel; the Captain; old Ephraim; James, Melvin, Gerald. Nor could Mabel, Aurora, Dorothy – Oh! by no means least, Dorothy! – resist the temptation to follow. And if I’m not greatly mistaken, I saw Chloe sneaking through the underbush a little while ago, with Metty in hand. I’ve heard nothing but ‘buried treasure’ ever since Gerald blundered upon a fancied trail, coming home from his second stay at your brother’s. Elsa, here, hasn’t caught the fever. She’s the only one among us, I believe hasn’t caught the money fever, for I confess even I am curious to hear the outcome – absurd as I know it to be. Mrs. Bruce says nothing. She’s a wise woman who knows enough to set a check upon her lips – which you’ll see I don’t. So, if you’ll be kind enough to ‘light,’ as they say here, and try to keep my people out of mischief, I’ll consider it another proof of your friendship.”

Farmer Wicky was flattered by the confidence which she had always reposed in him, and sided with her entirely.

“If I had any rights to any hid treasures, which I haven’t; and I expected to find it, which I don’t; I wouldn’t be the feller to go publish it broadcast this way. I’d keep it to myself an’ do my own diggin’; onless, course, I’d tell Lizzie. Why, Ma’am, Mrs. Calvert, I ’low ’t the hull state o’ Maryland’s been dug over, ten foot deep, from Pennsylvania to old Virginny, with the hull Eastern Sho’ flung in, a-lookin’ for what hain’t never been put there – ’ceptin’ them same shovels. Maybe that’s what makes our sile so rich an’ gives us our wonderful crops! Ha, ha, ha!”

Aunt Betty was “ha, ha, ha-ing,” too, inwardly; for despite himself, a great eagerness had lighted the farmer’s face at mention of this last digging-excursion. As soon as he could do so he rose and hastily struck off into the woods.

She made her mirth audible as the branches closed behind him, exclaiming to Mrs. Bruce:

“There’s another one! I’m afraid I’m responsible for this last crack-brain; and – and – the disease is catching. I declare I’d like to pin up my skirts and travel the road the rest have taken! But I’ll read a little in Don Quixote, instead. I wonder when they’ll be back!”

Meanwhile, the trail was growing “hot” in the depth of that old forest, or grove. It was, indeed, part of a great private park known as “Cecilia’s Manor,” and it was the pride of its owners to keep it intact as it had come down to them.

Captain Jack held the floor, so to speak, with the less talkative but more deeply interested – if not excited – Colonel, occasionally interrupting and correcting.

“Yes, siree! We’ve struck the gulf-stream ’at leads di-rect and straight, to the spot! Woods, says you? Here they be. Stream o’ water? There she flows! Ford an’ deers feedin’? Course, they’s the very identical! Tracks an’ all – ”

“Them’s cow tracks,” corrected farmer Wicky, while Corny laughed and nudged his brother to let the farce proceed.

“Well, now, mate, how d’ye know them’s cows’ tracks? You don’t see cows around, do ye? No, I don’t see cows, nuther; so, ’cordin’ to ship’s law what you don’t know you can’t prove. Ahem. Path? If this here we’ve come ain’t a crooked-zig-zag I never stumped one. Here’s a tree, been struck by lightin’, ’pears like; a-holdin’ out its arms to keep the hangin’ vines on ’em, exactly like a cross. Or nigh exactly.”

“Hold on, Cap’n Jack! In the map the zig-zag line stops at the tree. This one goes ever so much beyond.”

The Captain glared round upon the audacious Cornwallis, who dared gibe at his assertions. Then standing as upright as he could, he shouted:

“Now face that way – North, ain’t it? Right about – South! Yonder’s East, an’ t’other side’s West. I allows I knows the p’ints of the compass if I don’t know nothin’ else. I tell you, this is the spot. Right below our feet lies – lies – ”

“The treasures of Golconda!” suggested the irreverent Corny. In the past he had held faith in this same “buried treasure,” but now to see so many other people so earnestly interested in it, changed the whole aspect for him.

But the doughty Captain, self-constituted master of ceremonies disdained to notice the “Ne’er-do-well” of the countryside and in stentorian tones, with his hands trumpet-wise before his mouth, he bellowed:

“Now, my hearties, dig! DIG!”

Each was armed with something to use, Jim had brought some of the engineering tools from the “Pad” and had distributed these among the boys. Ephraim had borrowed an old hoe from a farmer near by, Wicky had caught up a pick-axe from his own wagon – he had meant to leave it at his brother’s cabin but forgot; Chloe had seized a carving knife, and the others had spoons, table knives, or whatever came handiest. Only the Colonel and the Captain were without implements of some sort. Even the jesting Corny had seized the fallen branch of a tree and broken its end into the semblance of a tool. It was he who first observed the idleness of the two men most interested, and slapping Cap’n Jack upon the shoulder, ordered:

“Dig, my hearty! DIG!”

“I – I’m a – a cripple!” answered the sailor, with offended dignity; “and don’t you know, you Simple Simon, ’t they always has to be a head to everything? Well, I ’low as how I’m the head to this here v’yage, an’ I’ll spend my energy officerin’ this trip!”

Corny laughed. Now that all was well at his home in the fields he found the world the jolliest sort of place, and the “Lilies” the most interesting people in it. Then he turned upon the Colonel, sitting upon a soft hummock of weeds as near in shape to Billy’s restful back as possible.

“But, Cunnel, how ’bout you? I thought the ‘treasure’ was yours – in part, anyway. Why aren’t you up and at it? ‘Findings are keepings’, you know. Up, man, and dig!”

The Colonel lifted sorrowful eyes to the jester’s face, and murmured in his tired voice:

“I cayn’t. I never could. I shouldn’t find it if I did. They ain’t no use. I couldn’t. They won’t. Nobody will. Not nigh her; not on My Lady Cecilia’s Manor. I’ve known that all along. But I had to come. Something made me, I don’t know what. But I had to. Corny Stillwell, do you know what day this is? Or ain’t you no memory left in that rattle-pate o’ you-all’s? I don’t suppose they is. Nobody remembers nothin’. Ah! hum.”

Corny’s face had sobered and he held out his hand in sympathy.

“Shake, old fellow! and look-a-here, haven’t you held on to your grudge long enough? The Doc’s a fine man if he is a mite greedy for the almighty dollar. Land of love! Aren’t we all? Else why are we acting like such a parcel of idiots this minute! Get up, Cunnel. Get some energy into your tired old body and see how ’twill feel. At present, you’re about as inspiriting as a galvanized squash, and first you know your willing helpers’ll quit. Come on. Let’s strike off a bit deeper into the woods. Too many banging around the roots of that one old tree. First they know it’ll be tumblin’ over on ’em. Come on out of harm’s way. You and I’ve been good friends ever since I used to go to the Manor House and flirt with – ”

“Hold on! Don’t you dare to say that name to me, Corny, you fool! you ain’t wuth your salt but I’d ruther it had been you than him. You clear out my sight. I ain’t got no thoughts, I ain’t got no memories – I – I – ain’t got no little girl no more!”

The man’s emotion was real. Tears rose to his faded eyes and rolled down over his gaunt cheeks; leaving, it must be admitted, some clean streaks there. Big-hearted, idle Corny couldn’t endure this sight and was now doubly glad he had wandered to this place that day. The Colonel was a gentleman, sadly discouraged and, in reality, almost heart-broken. His merry friend could remember him as something very different from now; when his attire was less careless, his face clean-shaven, the melancholy droop of his countenance less pronounced. He had always talked much as he did still but he had been, despite this fact, a proud and happy man. These strangers mustn’t see the old planter weeping!