ON THE LOCH.
"Whoever plants a seed beneath the sod
And waits to see it push away the clod,
He trusts in God."—Anon.
The months went by, and Marjory and Blanche were happy together. They watched the spring change to summer, and the summer to autumn, with the greatest delight. It was the first time that Blanche had seen the delicate shoots of the snowdrops and crocuses bravely pushing their way through the hard earth, the first time that she had been able to watch the miracle of seed and leaf and flower, and to trace the life of the young birds from their hatching to their flying from the nest. These were annual pleasures to Marjory, but they were much increased by the sweetness of Blanche's companionship. How she delighted in showing her friend where the first bluebells would be found in the wood, and in taking her to search in the most likely places for birds' nests! In one of these searches they found a great treasure. They were walking by the loch, when, amongst the reeds which grew along the water's edge they saw a reed-warbler's nest. What an ingenious construction it was—long and deep and pointed, woven between the reeds, and so firmly fixed and of such a shape that the eggs could not be shaken out, even by the roughest of winds. Marjory was very anxious that Blanche should see a pewit's nest. There were always a certain number of these birds about the moors, and the girls spent a whole morning searching for a nest. But these birds hide their nests so carefully that they are most difficult to find. After much patience and walking up and down over the same ground, causing great uneasiness to the parent birds who circled overhead, crying mournfully, they at last discovered a nest. It was just a little hollow in the ground with some grass in it, and there were the eggs, four of them, so wonderfully speckled that they matched the colour of the ground, and laid so neatly in an almost perfect circle, the large ends outwards and the very narrowly-pointed ones meeting in the centre.
"Oh," cried Blanche, "I've seen eggs like these in London shops; they call them plovers' eggs, and people eat them at dinner-parties."
"What a shame!" said Marjory indignantly.
"Well, you eat hens' eggs," argued Blanche.
"But they're quite different. Somebody feeds them every day, and they don't even have to make their own nests; and then, when they do lay an egg, they make a great noise to let everybody know about it. But these dear birds do it all themselves, and they take such trouble to hide their eggs, and are so worried if they think any one is too near them. Oh, I simply couldn't eat a plover's egg."
"I couldn't either, now that I have seen the nest," said Blanche. "Somehow you don't think of all the trouble the birds have when you just see the eggs in boxes in a shop window."
Time slipped away, the weeks bringing their share of lessons in term time; of riding, boating, and pleasures of all sorts in the holidays. Marjory's fourteenth birthday came and went, Christmas Day passed, and another year began. This time the Twelfth Night party was a great success, and both Marjory and her uncle went to it.
In spite of her happy life, Marjory never lost her longing for her father. She dreamed of him, planned a future for herself in which he was always the prominent figure, and determined that if she ever were her own mistress she would travel from country to country in search of him, for since the day when Mrs. Forester had quoted her old friend's words, "A fine fellow Hugh Davidson was. I always feel that he may turn up again some day," she had never quite lost hope.
Easter fell early that year; the season was very mild, and there were lovely sunny days for being out of doors when the holidays began.
Maud Forester and her mother were at Braeside again, and the Morison boys were at home, so the party was a merry one. Herbert's admiration for Maud still flourished, and he joined the girls in all their doings.
All went well until one day when Alan was taken by his mother to Morristown to be measured for some new clothes, much to his disgust, for he would have preferred to sacrifice the clothes rather than one of his precious holidays. Dr. Hunter had gone there too on business. Before leaving in the morning he had charged Marjory not to go on the loch during his absence—not that he expected bad weather, but he never felt quite comfortable about her going out when he was away, although she was quite capable of managing the boat. Many a time they had sailed from one end of the loch to the other, and she had done everything from start to finish as well as he could have done it himself.
Marjory readily promised; she had quite expected this, for her uncle never left Heathermuir for a whole day without giving her this injunction. She was to spend the day at Braeside, and she went down there after driving her uncle to the station.
When she entered the morning-room she found Mrs. Hilary finishing a late breakfast, with Mrs. Forester, Blanche, and Maud in attendance. Mrs. Hilary was saying, "Yes, he's really coming home at last, after being away more than a year, on the Campania, he says—the White Star Line, you know, or is it the Cunard? I really never remember. One lot always end in 'ic,' and the other in 'ia,' and it is so confusing. It would be so much better if they didn't give them these long classical names, wouldn't it? I never was good at the classics, you know. Ah, here's Marjory. Good-morning, child; how rosy and healthy you look, quite a picture, and your dark hair makes a nice contrast with the other girls."
Marjory became rosier still, and sat down as much out of sight as possible.
"Yes, as I was saying," continued Mrs. Forester, thoughtfully gazing at a piece of toast, "he's been to Brazil, and Morocco, and Mexico, and Alaska, and all the well-known places that it's proper to go to, and all through the United States too. He must be a regular walking geography by this time, if he doesn't forget it all on that dreadful voyage. One gets so confused with those foreign places—at least I do; and really, by the time I've crossed from Calais to Dover, I've gone through such terrors of mind and body that I'm quite upset, and I can hardly remember what I've seen or where I've been. That's where I think a guide-book such a comfort. One can put a mark against each place one goes to, and that makes it quite certain, you know. I wonder if Hilary has a guide-book. But men are different, I suppose," she said, with a sigh of resignation at the superiority of the sterner sex.
The girls slipped away as soon as they conveniently could. They had no very definite plans for the day, and one suggestion after another was made as they walked towards the park.
Herbert Morison soon joined them, and they continued to stroll somewhat aimlessly through the park, the dogs at their heels. There seemed to be a spirit of depression upon them that morning, which was a most unusual experience for them.
"We miss Alan, don't we?" remarked Maud, after one of the awkward silences which seemed inevitable that morning.
The other girls agreed, but Herbert said nothing, as he did not quite see what difference a "kid" like Alan could make.
Suddenly Maud clapped her hands. "I know," she cried; "we'll all go on the loch; it'll be just lovely." She had caught sight of the water shining silvery blue through the trees, and certainly it did look inviting. "Come on," cried Maud excitedly; "you'll take us, won't you, Marj?"
Marjory reddened. "I'm sorry I can't. I promised uncle that I wouldn't go on the loch to-day."
"What rubbish! Why, it's as calm as a mill pond."
"Not quite; there's a bit of a wind; besides, uncle said I wasn't to."
"We needn't sail; we could row," suggested Herbert.
"Oh, rowing's no fun; besides, it's such hard work.—I'll make it all right with the doctor, Marj. You see, he didn't know Herbert would be here."
Herbert looked decidedly uncomfortable and as if he wished he were not there. The truth was that he did not feel by any means at home in a sailing-boat, and would have very much preferred to row, or, better still, not to go on the water at all. However, if Maud wished it, there was no more to be said. The Foresters had a rowing-boat which would quite well have accommodated the party, but Maud had made up her mind for a sail, and a sail she would have, or nothing.
Blanche felt very much divided between her duty to her guest and to her friend. She was half ashamed that Maud should suggest taking possession of Dr. Hunter's boat against his orders, and was inclined to wish that, if Maud insisted upon going, Marjory would give in and go too.
"Come, Marjory," coaxed Maud, "don't be silly. It'll be all right, I promise you."
"It's no use; I won't come," replied Marjory stoutly.
"Well, I call it very selfish of you," said Maud, her temper rising. "And I'm sure the doctor never meant that you were not to go at all, only that you were not to go alone; and I'm also quite sure that if he were here he would let us have the boat this minute."
"Yes, if he were here and could go with you himself," retorted Marjory.
"Oh, very well, if you won't take us, Herbert will.—Won't you?" And Maud turned appealingly to him.
Poor Herbert was in a tight place, as he would have expressed it. First and foremost, he was anxious to please Maud and to stand well in her estimation, but he had no confidence in his own powers of managing a sailing-boat; besides, he knew something of the loch and its ways, and how storms little and big could rise suddenly and without warning. Another thing—he did not much like the idea of going off in Dr. Hunter's boat without his permission, for although pretty, spoiled Maud had no dread of the stern, eccentric doctor, Herbert did not by any means share her fearless attitude towards him.
Poor Herbert was hesitating on the side of prudence, when Maud decided matters by saying with a pout,—
"You don't seem very keen either. I must say I think it's awfully mean of you two.—Come on, Blanche; you and I will go, and it'll be their fault if we're drowned."
Thus hard pressed, Herbert said he would go. After all, it was a lovely day, and the water looked calm enough. True, there was the little breeze that Marjory had spoken of; but if it didn't come to any more, he might pull through all right. Thus once again was illustrated the truth of the old saying that "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." How many lives are lost through ignorance and foolhardiness!
Poor Marjory was in a state of mind bordering on distraction. Ought she to disobey her uncle and go with them? She felt sure that, although he would not confess it, Herbert was a novice in the art of sailing, and she feared what might happen should the wind increase. She could only hope that this would not be the case, that Maud would soon tire of her whim, and that they would all come back safe and sound.
They started off gaily, Maud waving her hand to Marjory.
"Good-bye, you dear little monument of obedience," she cried. "You won't enjoy your morning half as much as we shall."
Blanche looked inquiringly at Marjory, and for the first time in the course of their friendship her look met with no answering smile. Marjory was too anxious, and besides, she felt inclined to blame Blanche for yielding to her cousin's persuasions; while Blanche, on her part, thought that Marjory might have stretched a point and gone with them.
However, the start was made in fine style, and all went well at first. The sun shone and the skies were blue; the fresh green of spring was showing everywhere, and the young people's spirits rose as the pretty little boat sped on.
Marjory walked slowly along by the loch, with Silky and Curly for company. Had she done right or wrong? The question repeated itself over and over again in her mind, until she felt too confused to think. Her anxiety was growing. She would hardly admit it to herself, but she feared that each quarter of an hour brought increased force to the breeze that had been blowing when they started. She watched the white sails getting smaller and smaller. How she wished that they would turn back! Once when a bend of the shore hid the boat from sight, she turned sick and faint with fear for its safety; and then, when it appeared again, she scolded herself for being so foolish.
The wind was certainly rising. There was an angry-looking cloud on the horizon, and the sunshine, once so brilliant, was now faint and fitful.
At last the boat turned, but with the turn Herbert's difficulties began. Things were getting serious. Marjory watched Herbert's every movement with eager anxiety. Would he do it? Could he do it? She looked at her watch. It was just half-past twelve, and all the men about Braeside would have gone to their dinner; besides, it would take her some time to run there for help. The Low Farm was perhaps a little nearer, but not much, and something, she hardly dared to think what, might happen while she was gone.
A sudden gust of wind lifted her hat from her head. This, at any other time, would have been a mere frolic to this child of the moors, but now it caused her real alarm. This same wind that played with her hat and her hair, and that swept her petticoats about her, could do far more mischief to the little boat with its flapping sails. It was nearly opposite to her now, and still about half a mile from the landing-stage. Marjory put her hands to her mouth.
"Shorten sail!" she called. "Shorten sail!"
Herbert appeared to be losing control of the boat and of his own wits, and the boat seemed at the mercy of the wind.
Marjory called frantically to them to take in a certain sail and reef another—directions which, even if they could have heard them, would have been as Greek to the occupants of the boat; but the wind carried her voice away, and she stood helpless, watching Herbert's bungling attempts. Another moment, and the mast was broken, and in falling dealt Herbert a blow on the head which stunned him for the time being.
Quick as thought, Marjory threw off her coat and boots and was in the water, calling Silky to come too. Curly had been well trained, and was a very clever, sensible dog by this time, and she ordered him to go home and fetch his master, hoping that he might attract some one's notice.
Straining every nerve, Marjory swam towards the boat. "Throw out the towline!" she screamed to the girls as soon as she was near enough for them to hear her. Maud, now thoroughly frightened, did as she was bid, and Marjory called to Silky, "Seize it, good dog! seize it!" The water was not very rough, but she knew that it was deep in this particular place, and the boat was being driven like a bird with a broken wing.
Silky, good dog that he was, got hold of the rope, which happily had some floats attached to it, and began swimming steadily back towards his mistress. Marjory caught the rope, and by its means drew herself to the boat, carefully got into it, and in a very few minutes, having done what was necessary, she took to the oars. Blanche was lying in Maud's arms, overcome by terror, and Herbert was quite stupefied by the knock on his head.
Help was nearer than Marjory had imagined. Looking to the shore to see if she could put in at once without having to row against the wind all the way to the landing-stage, she saw a man waving his arms as a signal to her. She bent all her strength to her task, and it was no light one.
The man on shore, having taken off his coat and his boots, was wading in, ready to receive the boat. The storm was coming on apace, great drops of rain began to fall, and the sky was dark and lowering.
A few more strokes were all that was needed to bring them within reach of strong arms; but why did Marjory feel so tired, and as if she could not go on? She must go on! How thankful she felt that there was some one at hand if she should fail—if—One last stroke, and then a confused sound of shouting, a grating noise as if some one were shooting a load of stones. It must be Peter in the garden, and she was dreaming—dreaming.
Curly had trotted off obediently in the direction of Braeside. Mr. Forester, strolling across the park, expecting to meet the girls returning home for lunch, was very much surprised to meet the dog, who behaved in such a way as to arouse his fears of something being wrong. To begin with, Blanche and her dog were inseparable companions, as a rule, and it was strange that Curly should come home alone. Besides, he seemed in such an excited state; he kept jumping up at Mr. Forester, and then running forward and barking as if he wished his master to follow. Curious, and somewhat alarmed, Mr. Forester went after the dog, and arrived upon the scene just in time to see the boat come in. An exclamation of dismay broke from him as he saw the condition of its occupants, and he rushed forward to help the man to draw it up on shore.