Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 (23 page)

 
          
           
"Too tired.
Won't hurt her; she's used to work,
and we mustn't pamper her up, as old ladies say," answered Mr. Fred,
enjoying his favorite lounge on the grass.

 
          
           
"I wouldn't ask her to act, if you'll allow me to say so," said
Captain John, in his quiet way. "That sort of thing might unsettle her and
make her discontented. She steers that little craft over there and is happy
now; let her shape her own course, and remember it isn't well to talk to the
man at the wheel."

 
          
           
Miss Perry stared; Miss Ray, the sharp girl, nodded, and Miss Ellery said
petulantly,—

 
          
           
"As if it mattered what SHE thought or said or did! It's her place to be
useful if we want her, and we needn't worry about spoiling a girl like that.
She can't be any prouder or
more saucy
than she is,
and I shall ask her if only to see the airs she will put on."

 
          
           
As she spoke Ruth came up the sandy path from the beach laden with rushes and
weeds, sun-flowers and shells, looking warm and tired but more picturesque than
ever, in her blue gown and the red handkerchief she wore since her old hat blew
away. Seeing the party on the cottage steps, she stopped to ask if the things
were right, and Miss Ellery at once made her request in a commanding tone which
caused Ruth to grow very straight and cool and sober all at once, and answer
decidedly,—

 
          
           
"I couldn't anyway."

 
          
           
"Why not?"

 
          
           
"Well, one reason is I don't think
it's
right to
act things out of the Bible just to show off and amuse folks."

 
          
           
"The idea of minding!" and Miss Ellery frowned, adding angrily,
"We will pay you for it. I find people will do anything for money down
here."

 
          
           
"We are poor and need it, and this is our best time to make it. I'd do
most anything to earn a little, but not that;" and Ruth looked as proud as
the young lady herself.

 
          
           
"Then we'll say no more if you are too elegant to do what WE don't mind at
all. I'll pay you for this stuff now, as I ordered it, and you needn't bring me
any more. How much do I owe you?" asked the offended beauty, taking out
her purse in a
pet.

 
          
           
"Nothing.
I'm gad to oblige the ladies if I can,
for they have been very kind to me. Perhaps if you knew why I want to earn
money, you'd understand me better. Grandpa can't last long, and I don't want
the town to bury him. I'm working and saving so he can be buried decently, as
he wants to be, not like a pauper."

 
          
           
There was something in Ruth's face and voice as she said this, standing there
shabby, tired, and heavy-laden, yet honest, dutiful and patient for love's
sake, that touched the hearts of those who looked and listened; but she left no
time for any answer, for with the last word she went on quickly, as if to hide
the tears that dimmed her clear eyes and the quiver of her lips.

 
          
           
"Floss, how could you!" cried Miss Ray, and ran to take the sheaf of
bulrushes from Ruth's arms, followed by the rest, all ashamed and repentant now
that a word had shown them the hard life going on beside their idle, care-free
ones.

 
          
           
Captain John longed to follow, but walked into the house, growling to himself
with a grim look,—

 
          
           
"That girl has no more heart than a butterfly, and I'd like to see her
squirm on a pin! Poor Ruth!
we'll
settle that matter,
and bury old Ben like an admiral, hang me if we don't!"

 
          
           
He was so busy talking the affair over with Aunt Mary that he did not see the girl
flit by to wait for her boat on the beach, having steadily refused the money
offered her, though she accepted the apologies in the kindest spirit.

 
          
           
The beach at this hour of the day was left to the nurses and maids who bathed
and gossiped while the little people played in the sand or paddled in the sea.
Several were splashing about, and one German governess was scolding violently
because while she was in the bath-house her charge, a little girl of six, had
rashly ventured out in a flat-bottomed tub, as they called the small boats used
by the gentlemen to reach the yachts anchored in deep water.

 
          
           
Ruth saw the child's danger at a glance, for the tide was going out, carrying
the frail cockleshell rapidly away, while the child risked an upset every
moment by stretching her arms to the women on the shore and calling them to
help her.

 
          
           
None dared to try, but all stood and wrung their hands, screaming like
sea-gulls, till the girl, throwing off shoes and heavy skirt plunged in,
calling cheerily, "Sit still! I'll come and get you, Milly!"

 
          
           
She could swim like a fish, but encumbered with her clothes and weary with an
unusually hard day's work, she soon found that she did not gain as rapidly as
she expected upon the receding boat. She did not lose courage, but a thrill of
anxiety shot through her as she felt her breath grow short, her limbs heavy,
and the tide sweep her farther and farther from the shore.

 
          
           
"If they would only stop screaming and go for help, I could keep up and
push the boat in; but the child will be out presently and then we are lost, for
I can't get back with her, I'm afraid."

 
          
           
As these thoughts passed through her mind Ruth was swimming stoutly, and trying
by cheerful words to keep the frightened child from risking their main chance
of safety. A few more strokes and she would reach the boat, rest a moment,
then, clinging to it, push it leisurely to shore. Feeling that the danger was
over, she hurried on and was just putting up her hands to seize the frail raft
and get her breath when Milly, thinking she was to be taken in her arms, leaned
forward. In rushed the water, down went the boat, and out splashed the
screaming child to cling to Ruth with the desperate clutch she dreaded.

 
          
           
Both went under for a moment, but rose again; and with all her wits sharpened
by the peril of the moment, Ruth cried, as she kept herself afloat,—

 
          
           
"On my back, quick!
quick
!
Don't touch my arms; hold tight to my hair, and keep still."

 
          
           
Not realizing all the danger, and full of faith in Ruth's power to do anything,
after the feats of diving and floating she had seen her perform, Milly
scrambled up as often before, and clung spluttering and gasping to Ruth's strong
shoulders. So burdened, and conscious of fast-failing strength, Ruth turned
toward the shore, and bent every power of mind and body to her task. How far
away it seemed!
how
still the women were,—not one even
venturing out a little way to help her, and no man in sight! Her heart seemed
to stop beating, her temples throbbed, her breath was checked by the clinging
arms, and the child, seemed to grow heavier every moment.

 
          
           
"I'll do what I can, but, oh, why don't some one come?"

 
          
           
That was the last thought Ruth was conscious of, as she panted and ploughed
slowly back, with such a set white face and wide eyes fixed on the flag that
fluttered from the nearest cottage, that it was no wonder the women grew still
as they watched her. One good Catholic nurse fell on her knees to pray; the
maids cried, the governess murmured, "Mein Gott, I am lost if the child go
drowned!" and clear and sweet came the sound of Captain John's whistle as
he stood on his piazza waiting to row Ruth home.

 
          
           
They were nearly in, a few more strokes and she could touch the bottom, when
suddenly all grew black before her eyes, and whispering, "I'll float.
Call, Milly, and don't mind me," Ruth turned over, still holding the child
fast,
and with nothing but her face out of water,
feebly struggled on.

 
          
           
"Come and get me! She's going down! Oh, come, quick!" called the
child in a tone of such distress that the selfish German bestirred herself at
last, and began to wade cautiously in. Seeing help at hand, brave little Milly
soon let go, and struck out like an energetic young frog, while Ruth, quite
spent, sank quietly down, with a dim sense that her last duty was done and rest
had come.

 
          
           
The shrill cries of the women when they saw the steady white face disappear and
rise no more, reached Captain John's ear, and sent him flying down the path,
sure that some one was in danger.

 
          
           
"Ruth—gone down—out there!" was all he caught, as many voices tried
to tell the tale; and waiting for no more, he threw off hat and coat, and
dashed into the sea as if ready to search the Atlantic till he found her.

 
          
           
She was safe in a moment, and pausing only to send one girl flying for the
doctor, he carried his streaming burden straight home to Aunt Mary, who had her
between blankets before a soul arrived, and was rubbing for dear life while
John fired up the spirit lamp for hot brandy and water, with hands that
trembled as he splashed about like an agitated Newfoundland fresh from a swim.

 
          
           
Ruth was soon conscious, but too much exhausted to do or say anything, and lay
quietly suffering the discomforts of resuscitation till she fell asleep.

 
          
           
"Is Milly safe?" was all she
asked,
and
being assured that the child was in her mother's arms, and Sammy had gone to
tell Grandpa all about it, she smiled and shut her eyes with a whispered,
"Then it's all right, thank God!"

 
          
           
All that evening Captain John paced the piazza, and warned away the eager
callers, who flocked down to ask about the heroine of the hour; for she was
more interesting than Undine, the Lily Maid, or any of the pretty creatures
attitudinizing behind the red curtains in the hot hotel parlor. All that night
Aunt Mary watched the deep sleep that restored the girl, and now and then crept
out to tell her nephew there was nothing to fear for one so strong and
healthful. And all night Ruth dreamed strange dreams, some weird and dim, some
full of pain and fear; but as the fever of reaction passed away, lovely visions
of a happy place came to her, where faces she loved were near, and rest, and
all she longed for was hers at last. So clear and beautiful was this dream that
she waked in the early dawn to lie and think of it, with such a look of peace
upon her face that Aunt Mary could not but kiss it tenderly when she came in to
see if all was well.

 
          
           
"How are you, dear? Has this nice long sleep set you up again as I
hoped?"

 
          
           
"Oh yes, I'm quite well, thank you, and I must go home. Grandpa will worry
so till he sees me," answered Ruth, sitting up with her wet hair on her
shoulders, and a little shiver of pain as she stretched her tired arms.

 
          
           
"Not yet, my dear; rest another hour or two and have some breakfast. Then,
if you like, John shall take you home before any one comes to plague you with
idle questions. I'm not going to say a word, except that I'm proud of my brave
girl, and mean to take care of her if she will let me."

 
          
           
With that and a motherly embrace, the old lady bustled away to stir up her maid
and wakt John from his first nap with the smell of coffee, a most unromantic
but satisfying perfume to all the weary watchers in the house.

 
          
           
An hour later, dressed in Miss Scott's gray wrapper and rose-colored shawl,
Ruth came slowly to the beach leaning on Captain John's arm, while Aunt Mary
waved her napkin from the rocks above, and sent kind messages after them as
they pushed off.

 
          
           
It was the loveliest hour of all the day. The sun had not yet risen, but sea
and sky were rosy with the flush of dawn; the small waves rippled up the sand,
the wind blew fresh and fragrant from hayfields far away, and in the grove the
birds were singing, as they only sing at peep of day. A still, soft, happy time
before the work and worry of the world began, the peaceful moment which is so
precious to those who have learned to love its balm and consecrate its beauty
with their prayers.