Chapter XXVI: In the Canoe

“I’ll have everything splendid; never you fear,” he said. “I’ll dress the dug-out like the Fourth of July. You and Nancy may stand on the bank and see us float. It’ll be something worth while, I can tell you!”

“If it’ll just bring a mite of color into her face, and drive them black shadders from under her eyes, I won’t ask for nothing more,” said Lydia. “Oh, Ben! how sorry I am that you ever minded me about them strawberries and the horse and things! What bissness had I to drive her friends away?”

“Well, it can’t be helped now anyway, so let’s see about making up for the feller’s reading. It’s that she’s a pining after.”

“Yes, of course it’s the reading. I only meant that. I miss it myself since he’s given up coming. It’s the lonesomeness that ails her.”

“Well you run over and speak to marm about cooking the trout, Lydia, and I’ll fix up the dug-out so that you won’t believe it’s her.”

Ben was as good as his word. Like many persons to whom nature has been a chief companion, he had unconsciously acquired a love of flowers, ferns, and mosses that was almost artistic. From the banks of the river, the stone walls, and meadows, he gathered golden rod and wild asters, everlasting, clematis vines and ground pine, which he brought on his shoulders like a great bundle of wheat from across the river. With these he decked the canoe; placing a tall plume of golden rod in the prow, and twining the vines and field flowers in gorgeous wreaths down both sides till they united in a glowing mass at the stern, and trailed a yard or two out on the water.

“If that isn’t a craft that she can sail in and be proud of I don’t know how to rig one up,” said Ben confidentially to himself, as he stood on the bank surveying his own dainty work. “It floats like a bird’s nest and looks like—like a poppet show.”

For a minute or two Ben stood rubbing his hands with great satisfaction, then casting his eyes toward the house, he saw the young lady coming toward the river, followed by the two girls.

“There she comes, tired out before she starts. I wonder if she’ll ever get back that springy walk agin, or laugh as she used to. There, she sees me now and is trying her best to smile like old times; but, dear me, she can’t do it.”

Ben was wrong. For one minute the old bright smile came to Clara’s lips when she saw the canoe rocking like a great cradle of flowers upon the water.

“Ah, how beautiful!” she said, seating herself in the stern and looking around as if the outer world were new to her. “Will your little craft hold us both, Ben?”

“No danger,” answered Ben, stepping into the dug-out, which rocked under him till the flowers on one side were under water.

“Would it be safe to take Nancy?” questioned Clara, with a kind glance at the girl, who was following them with wistful eyes.

“If you want to, miss. She don’t weigh more than a kitten.”

Clara beckoned the girl with her hand; but Nancy hesitated, not quite understanding the gesture.

“Come, jump in, you image, if you want to,” said Ben, reaching out his hand.

Nancy sprang in with a joyous leap.

“Oh, how splendid you look!” shouted Lydia, quite content to be left behind.

The canoe shot into the stream like an arrow barbed with flowers.

The sunset was just flinging its golden veil over one portion of the river, while the rest lay in shadow. From her childhood the stillness of an hour like this would have possessed Clara with a feeling of gentle sadness; but now the sensation deepened into a melancholy that was almost weird. The contrast between her grave face and the sparkle of happiness lighting up the features of her little companion was painful. While she was looking upon the shadows as if a pall were dropping around her, this girl turned her face to the shifting gold of the sunset. All the way up stream she was bending her beautiful head over the side of the canoe, holding her hand in the water and laughing as the waves rippled through her tiny fingers. Now and then her red lips parted, as with a sweet pressure of music, and sent forth a burst of wild melody like the gushing notes of a wood thrush; but frightened at her own audacity she would dart a glance into the dreary eyes that were looking so far away, and hush her truant voice into silence.

Before their return down the stream the moon had risen, and was raining her silver down upon the water where the bright stars were mirrored, and black shadows lay among the bushes on either side. Even Nancy felt the beauty and the quiet, for her head was thrown back and her eyes lifted to the expanse above with wondering thoughtfulness; while Ben, sharing the general impression, allowed his canoe to drift as it were through the stillness.

They drifted thus, by the elms, across the ford, into deeper water and darker shadows. On and on till the stream became narrower, gliding heavily along toward a hollow where its stagnant waters gathered in a dark eddying pool, fearfully deep, overshadowed by thick undergrowth and low bending trees.

Here the gloom frightened Nancy, who started up screaming aloud.

“Sit down! sit down!” shouted Ben. “We are close by the deep hole!”

This only intensified the girl’s terror. All her life she had been warned against this dangerous place, toward which Ben had imprudently allowed his canoe to drift, but to avoid it was steering close to the shore, where the limb of an old tree projected from the bank.

Nancy did not sit down, but leaning forward, caught at this limb desperately. The branch broke with a quick, sharp crash. Nancy tottered—reeled—the canoe shivered under her, curved suddenly, recoiled, and drifted on half full of water, but otherwise empty.

Nancy came out of the depths first—a circle revolved in the water—a score of bright bubbles—another circle, and she rose to the surface. The moonlight was full on the spot to which she had drifted—her eyes were open and turned upon the shore in despairing agony—her arms were tossed wildly up—her golden hair was tangled about her hands, and a suffocating cry broke from her lips—

“Help! help! oh, help!”

The cry reached Lydia, who had followed the canoe in its progress down the river. She sprang down the bank, seized upon a sapling that grew upon the edge, and with desperate strength bent it down to the water.

The girl made an effort to cry out, but could not. She saw Nancy’s hands dart upward, clenching blindly among the leaves. A moment and all was under water—another and the young tree was drawn back, scattering the drops about in a shower, and with it Nancy was lifted within reach of Lydia’s outstretched hands, that dragged the girl ashore.

As these two girls lay wet, shivering and helpless on the bank, something like the staggering rush of some fierce animal tearing through the underbrush made them cling closer together; for the agony of great terror was upon them yet. It was Ben, who plunged into the moonlight with Clara Anderson in his arms.

He almost flung her upon the grass, and was making a wild rush for the water again, when Lydia found breath and cried out—

“Oh, Ben, Ben, she is here! Nancy is here in my arms!”

Ben strode toward his sister—saw that she was alive—turned and met the eyes of Clara, who had lifted herself to a sitting position on the grass and was looking around in wild bewilderment.

Then, and not till then, the brave lad fell upon the earth, and, covering his face with both hands, sobbed like a child.