CHAPTER IX.
DRIFTING AWAY.
It was the eve of the midsummer holidays; the examinations were over.Miss Pinkett had come out victorious in music and geography, Ursula indrawing and artistic needlework. The Beauty had proved to be nowhere inthe competition. Meg had taken no prize, but she had been encouraged bykind reports from Signora Vallaria and Mr. Eyre. She had workedincessantly, and some of the teachers had recognized her zeal.
The tension of the past few weeks was relaxed, and Miss Reeves wasgiving the picnic that she usually organized for her pupils, in theSurrey woods, watered by a branch of the Thames. It was a perfect summerday, broadly golden, benignly calm.
The repast under the trees was over; the girls, tired of their games,sat about in groups discussing plans for the holidays. Meg sat apart. Inthe midst of the surrounding gayety the loneliness of her heartdeepened. She was enduring the tantalizing pangs of picturing the happyhours from which she was excluded.
She heard of the dear little children who would come to the station towelcome these home-comers; of the lawn-tennis parties, the rides, thepicnics which awaited them. One girl was going home for the wedding ofher sister; another was promised a pony to ride out with her brotherGeorge. There were vivid descriptions going on all around her of thecharms of holidays. Oh, the delights of not hearing the school-bell of amorning--of awaking at the appointed hour, and being able to turn roundcosily for another sleep! All were going home; even the teachers lookedforward to meeting relatives and friends. She alone was remaining--shealone of all the school had no home to go to. She rose and wanderedaway. Her desolate little heart could bear it no more: a bitter sensewas growing there that no one cared for her--that if Mr. Standish caredfor her he would have written.
Meg walked away, not minding where she went, willing only to be out ofearshot of that joyous talk. She presently found herself by the river'sbank; and there, moored among the reeds, was the longboat hired for theoccasion, in which the girls had rowed each other in parties all themorning.
Ursula had pressed her to join the group of which she was a member, butMeg had refused. It had seemed to the child enough to lie among theferns, inhaling the delicate, pungent perfumes, feeling the breath ofthe summer day on her cheek, surrendering herself to the strength andcalm of nature's influence.
Meg now stepped into the boat and sat down. It was like being in acradle, she thought, as the water softly rocked the craft. No one wasnear. Presently she perceived that the boat was sliding off--softly,softly the shore was receding; the banks and the long reeds were fallingback.
Meg watched immobile. Bundles of oars lay at the bottom of the boat;which was also strewn with bunches of meadow-sweet, elder-blossoms,forget-me-nots, and other riverside trophies which the girls had pluckedon their travels. Meg sat upright like a startled rabbit, wondering whenthe boat would stop. She wished that it would never stop--that it wouldcarry her away, away, she knew not whither! She had heard the girlsspeak of the "weir." What was that? Was it some weird spot?--a strangeisland, perhaps, inhabited by some of the water-fowl of which she hadread?
Then she perceived that the boat had swung itself round; it was driftingdown with the current. The river was narrow, and there was not anotherboat within sight. Without oars, without sails, without guidance, thelittle craft was making its way, keeping right in the middle of thestream. For a moment Meg could not believe; then joy seized her--she wasoff on her travels!
Past pale-green willows that hung their branches down into the water,filling it with a twilight of green, sprinkling its surface with leavesas with a goblin fleet; past sunny, silent stretches of woodland andmeadows where cows grazed and looked at her with horny heads sharplyoutlined against the light; past banks full of flowers went Meg. The sunshone for her, the breeze stirred for her, the trees seemed to look ather. She felt like a little river-queen.
As she drifted along, the misery and loneliness at her heart dropped,like the leaves the breeze had shaken from the willows. She, thedespised Meg, was free; all nature was her playfellow. From the banksthe cuckoo cried like a friendly presence playing at "hide-and-seek"with her. A kingfisher, with a breast like a jewel fashioned in the sky,skimmed past her where the solitude was shadiest. From the forkedbranches of a willow a water hen, sitting on its nest, peered at herwith trustful eyes; a water rat from under the leaf of a water lilyeyed her with pleasant sympathy, as if he understood the pleasures of askiff on a summer day. The fishes leaped and made rippled circles aroundher.
After awhile the river broadened. She passed boathouses that appeared tostand in the water, their roofs bright with flowers; she drifted along abank where children were playing. They left their games to watch her.They pointed at her, and Meg lifted herself up that she might be betterseen, feeling more than ever like a little river queen. She, the wild,despised Meg, was envied and admired!
Once more the river grew lonely. Presently she thought she heard adistant, drowsy sound; it grew louder; the boat seemed to glide alongmore quickly. After awhile the sound became a roar, and the boat skimmedalong as if it were flying; still the water remained smooth as glass.She fancied she heard voices shouting, but the roar of the water filledher ears till it became a boom. She sat up straight and rigid, and asshe flashed past she saw with dreadful clearness the word "Danger"written up in great letters on a post by the riverside. For the firsttime Meg's heart began to beat. She heard shouts; she turned her head,and again she saw with terrible distinctness the word "Danger" writtenabove the place the boat was making for. The water-line ended there,and she understood the booming was the roar of the river rushing down toa lower level. Her boat would upset and she must drown! Meg shut hereyes. Mr. Standish, the old boarding-house, seemed to rise before her asshe speeded along.
Suddenly the boat jerked, struggling like a living creature arrested infull flight.
"Don't move!" shouted a voice; and Meg, quiet as an image, felt thestruggling boat slowly turned round; a head showed above the water; amuscular arm, bare to the elbow, a figure clad in white flannels,swimming low and strong, were beside her.
It had been accomplished in one moment's time. The boat was being nowpushed in the direction of a bank, on which stood a watching group ofyoung men, clad, like her rescuer, in white flannels and loose,bright-colored jackets. One of these got into the water, and catchingthe prow of the boat, pulled it in with one vigorous sweep. The keelgrazed the bottom of the river; the young men lifted Meg and set her onshore.
"Well, if ever a little girl escaped drowning you have!" said herrescuer, giving himself a shake.
Meg was silent as she realized that she had been saved from drowning inthe whirl and foam of roaring water. The young men looked at her withkind, smiling glances--she was surrounded with laughing eyes andgleaming teeth. They plied her with questions of "Who was she?" "Whatwas her name?" "Where did she come from?" "Had she been frightened?"
She explained how she had got into the boat and she had drifted away.No, she had not been frightened--only when she saw the word "Danger" shehad begun to be afraid.
Her rescuers voted that she was a heroine.
The young men moved away a few steps and held a consultation; one, whohad an eyeglass stuck in his eye and a pipe in his mouth, came forward.
"Get into the boat, Meg, and we will all row you back. You will pointout the place you came from when we approach it."
He handed Meg in, and the young fellows vied with each other to pay herattention. One put a cushion at her back, another a plank to her feet."Meg," they vowed, "must be rowed back in triumph."
They stepped into the boat, four took oars. Another sat behind Meg,ropes in hand. Presently they lit their pipes. Meg sat back in state.How kind they were! They were not cross, as girls mostly were; they didnot mock or tease her; they did not say a word of what some of thegirls called chaff. She watched with amazement all their pipes goingpuff, puff, puff. She liked them because they did not talk much. Theyreminded her of Mr. Standish. When their eyes caught hers the
y gave hera smile. How strong they were! She watched their muscular arms and handssweeping the water with their oars, the rhythmic movement of theirswaying bodies.
No Greek maiden delivered from peril by a group of demi-gods ever feltmore lost in dreamy wonder and gratitude than did Meg, rowed up theriver by her rescuers. Her eyes rested oftenest on the one who had savedher--he seemed to her the most magnificent member of this gallant crew.He had laughing, twinkling eyes, thick, short, curly hair, silkymustache no bigger than an eyebrow. It occurred to her that she had notthanked him for saving her life. She turned over in her mind what wasthe proper thing to say. She tried to recollect what persons instory-books said to the saviours of their lives, but she could notremember; she pondered, but the words of gratitude would not come. Atlast she exclaimed abruptly:
"You saved my life--and--and--I am very much obliged to you."
A peal of laughter taken up by all the group greeted this speech. Thelaughter was so jovial and good-natured that Meg felt at her ease. Itseemed to say: "What nonsense! Don't thank me. It was nothing."
Then they began to question her again: "Was she afraid of meeting herschoolmistress? Would she be scolded?"
Meg admitted the possibility of being scolded. Her rescuers vowed thatthey would plead for her. They would extract a promise from theschoolmistress not to punish her. Meg must not be scolded; Meg must bewelcomed home like the prodigal returning.
"There!" exclaimed Meg dejectedly, pointing to a group of girls andteachers looking up and down the river. She enjoyed the amazement of thespectators as from the bank they watched her triumphant return. With asweep of the oars the boat came alongside the shore. Miss Reeves steppedforward.
"You must have been frightened, madam, at this young lady'sdisappearance," said Meg's rescuer, jumping on shore.
Meg allowed herself to be helped out like a princess by the oarsmen.
"We had not long missed the child," replied Miss Reeves. "We werestartled when we discovered that the boat was gone. She ought not tohave gone alone--it was very thoughtless."
"The boat drifted away with her--it nearly carried her down the weir,"said the spokesman. "She was very courageous."
Meg felt herself pleaded for, and listened, motionless.
"You saved her life?" said Miss Reeves.
"I was able, by swimming out in time, to turn the boat's head," repliedthe young man lightly. "She behaved with great pluck."
"I am most grateful, and I shall acquaint her guardians," said MissReeves.
"No, no--pray don't!" replied the young man; and his comrades echoed hiswords. "Only," he added with a merry twinkle, "do not let Miss Meg bescolded! She is so spirited, so courageous--she ought to have a medalfor steadiness of nerves."
Miss Reeves hesitated, then she said smiling: "She will not be scolded."
The announcement was received with approbation, the young men shookhands with Meg, and lifting their white caps to Miss Reeves and theschoolgirls, turned away.
Meg watched their figures retreating through the trees; and when theyvanished she felt the loneliness creep over her again.