She had gotten rid of all tokens of surprise as I was speaking. Now, with the ready action of a woman of the world, she came forward and held out the bucket.
"You may stow that away.... I"m going to visit my lines."
"Lines?" I repeated, blankly.
"Trot lines," she explained, adjusting a pin in her hat when I was absolutely sure such a thing was unnecessary. "I set them yesterday afternoon."
"Oh! You"re a fisherman!" I exclaimed. "Well, I hope you"ve had luck."
She stepped into the boat before I could offer a.s.sistance, got down and took the oars--then stopped. She appeared to be thinking. I stood ready to shove off at her word. Suddenly she looked up with a half smile.
"Would you like to go?"
I was not surprised. Poor little world-worn creature. How many men had she molded with that half smile! I answered without hesitation.
"Certainly!"
There could be no harm to either of us. It was unconventional, but conventionality is a terrible bugbear. She was lonely, I knew, and the echo from a civilized world which I would get in her company would be most welcome to me.
"Come on, then. Day before yesterday I caught a ba.s.s which almost wore me out before I could get him aboard. You see you could be of help on an occasion of that kind."
I offered to take the oars, but she declined, and subsequently displayed a degree of skill in rowing that surprised me. She took the middle of the stream and went with the sluggish current. From my position in the stern I faced her, and feeling that conversation was almost imperative, I said:
"Surely you don"t live at Hebron?"
She smiled--a bright, winsome smile which somehow awakened a deeper pity in me. Her true nature seemed revealed in that expression. She was not wicked; not inherently bad, but was weak-willed, easily swayed, susceptible to a.s.sociation and environment. One who loved the smooth road of pleasure more than the stony highway of rect.i.tude; one who had given gratis and unthinkingly the perfume of the fresh flower of her girlhood. Kind of heart, warm of sympathy, impulsive of temperament, irresponsible.
"Yes," she said, with a cheery nod; "I live at Hebron."
"But you don"t _belong_ there?" I insisted.
She laughed in a high, not unmusical key, and suddenly dipping her oars, began to propel the boat swiftly through the water. Rowing shows a graceful girl off to advantage, and my companion was richly endowed in this particular. Her little russet shoes were firmly braced, the short skirt revealing a few inches of tapering, tan-stockinged legs; her brown hands gripped the oars firmly, and as she swayed forward and backward with the rhythmic strokes I was conscious of a feeling of admiration for her prowess. In a few moments we had rounded a bend, and here I saw a line stretched across the river, with smaller lines depending from it into the stream. The girl glanced back over her shoulder, dipped one oar and adroitly piloted the boat toward a certain hook, before she spoke.
"I belong up yonder--for the summer," she said.
I followed her short gesture, and discovered upon a hill to my right what I took to be a brick church, with a brick dwelling near it.
As I turned to make reply I saw that something was happening. The girl was doing her best to haul in one of the sunken lines, but the hidden force beneath the surface was combatting her strength fiercely. Before I could offer a.s.sistance she had loosed her hold, and instantly the line shot out and tightened, swaying this way and that, cutting the water silently.
"I believe I have a whale!" she declared, in big-eyed seriousness, shifting her position and kneeling before taking up her task afresh.
"No, don"t help me yet"--as I made a forward movement--"it"s lots more fun to land one"s own fish!"
She bent again to the vibrating line, while I held the boat steady and eagerly awaited developments.
"I"m from Kansas City," she flung over her shoulder all at once, "and I"m spending the summer with my uncle, the Rev. Jean Dupre--Father John, the villagers call him. I am Beryl Drane."
The catastrophe cannot be told in detail. It may have been partly my fault, for my guard was lax at the moment. Before I realized what had happened Miss Drane was gone and I was in the water clinging to the upturned boat. A sucking, gurgling whirlpool was moving down the stream, and the cable line had disappeared. For a moment a cold horror crept to my vitals and chilled me so that I could not move. Then my duty swept over me with a swift rush, and, letting go the boat, I dived desperately. Madly I swept my arms to left, right, everywhere, grasping blindly for the touch of flesh or clothing. Dimly I seemed to realize that I was in a measure responsible for the accident, and that I must find the lost girl. Back and forth I fought through the water savagely, my lungs hurting, my head throbbing. I could not give up. I had to find her. She was there, somewhere in that silent, treacherous element. Into my chaotic mind leaped the thought that perhaps she had risen to the surface. Instantly I ceased my efforts and rose. Dashing the streaming drops from my eyes and mouth I gulped in a deep breath, and glared around despairingly. Silence; solitude; a shining, disc-like spot where the reflection of the sun lay, and a dozen feet off the glistening bottom of the boat. That was all. A man"s length to the south I saw some bubbles rise and burst. There can be no bubbles without air. Maybe--
Resurgent hope filled my breast as I plunged downward again, striking out with all my might. I grasped a sodden something. I opened my eyes.
The water was clear and the sunlight filtered dimly through it. A confused shadowy shape confronted me. I could get no outlines. An instant later I touched a hand, and knew it was Beryl Drane. A conception of the truth came then. When the fish, or whatever it was, had dragged her overboard, she had become entangled in the lines, and the thing which had power to pull her from the boat likewise had power to hold her below the surface while it struggled to escape. I clasped her in my arms, gave a tug, and together we shot upward. I looked at her as we reached light and air. She was limp, and to all appearance perfectly lifeless. Her lips had a bluish tinge, and were parted the least bit. Her eyes were half closed; she did not breathe.
Filled with foreboding which trembled on the verge of certainty, I swam for the sh.o.r.e. The distance was short, and presently I was struggling up the slippery mud bank with the senseless form of the girl. My mind had been busy while I was swimming. Should I stop on sh.o.r.e and attempt resuscitation, or should I hurry on to the priest"s house, just up the hill? I decided on the latter course as the most expedient, as the delay would be practically nothing, and proper restoratives could be had at the house. There probably was a road. Straight up the wooded slope I dashed. My exertions in the water had tired me, and now as I made my way through the dense undergrowth up the steep hill I was conscious of intense physical fatigue. But I pressed grimly on, with a dread in my heart which far outweighed any physical weakness.
At length I reached a rail fence. How I surmounted it with my burden, I do not know. Beyond the fence was a pasture lot with only a gentle incline, and across this I raced. Another fence, the back yard of the parsonage, wherein squalling chickens fled precipitately as I tore by, around the house to the front porch, where sat a little old man in a swinging chair, clad in a priest"s robe. I knew it was Father John. He was quietly reading, and smoking a meerschaum pipe with a stem as long as my arm, but the sound of my feet aroused him, and he raised his head.
"_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, jumping up, dropping his book, but holding to his pipe, which he waved wildly. "In ze name of heaven, m"sieu! What was it zat has happen?"
The front door stood open, and I rushed into the house without replying.
A couch was in the hall, and on this I laid the form of the girl. Father John, his wrinkled face stamped with terror and anguish, was beside me in an instant.
"Madonna! Jesu!" he wailed. "My blessed Bereel!"
I began the treatment for the drowned, explaining hurriedly how the accident had occurred.
"Call your housekeeper!" I added. "Her clothes must be loosened. Quick!
If no doctor is near there is no use sending. I know what should be done. Bring brandy, or whiskey--hurry!"
Father John ran from the hall crying at every step:
"Marie! Marie! Marie!"
His tremulous voice receded in the rear.
I unfastened the girl"s belt, tore open her clothing at the waist, and as I worked feverishly, was conscious of a gaunt, austere woman of fifty-five or sixty suddenly falling on her knees at my side, and unhooking the tight corset which my rude haste had exposed. Thereafter we worked together, in silence, moving the arms up and down and striving for artificial respiration. Father John hovered just out of reach, an uncorked flask in one shaking hand; the long stemmed pipe, which he had never abandoned, in the other. In the stark silence which accompanied our efforts I could hear him whispering incoherent but fervent prayers in his native tongue.
Closely I watched the pallid face--the poor, peaked face which had looked upon so much that a woman ought not to know exists--but no signal flare came to the waxen cheeks. I took the flask and carefully poured some brandy between the parted lips--poor lips, which I knew had taken kisses not given by love. The fiery liquid trickled down her throat, but there was no movement, no attempt to swallow. I gave more, for this was the sovereign test for life. There came a rigor, so slight that I was not altogether sure of it. More brandy. A shiver pa.s.sed over the limp form; a choking, gasping sound issued from her throat, followed by a moan of pain. I stood erect, looking down at her intently. Almost imperceptibly the faintest glow showed in the marble pallor of her skin.
She was reviving. The danger was past. The gaunt woman crouched at my feet looked up at me mutely, interrogatively.
"Continue to rub her hands and feet," I said. "Keep all her clothing loose. Give her very small quant.i.ties of liquor from time to time. She had better not see me immediately on awaking."
Then I took the priest by the hand and silently led him out on the porch. A wooden settee was placed against the railing at one end. I conducted him here, and we sat down. My clothes were still wet, but I gave this no thought.
I proceeded first to a.s.sure Father John that his niece was practically out of danger, then recounted everything in detail pertaining to the accident in the river. He listened in eager silence, his expression still one of amazement and distress. I looked at him as I talked. He was a very small man. His skin was yellowish brown, like parchment. His brows projected; his eyes were black and keen; his nose was straight and thin, but quite large. His chin protruded into rather a sharp point, and his mouth was the most sensitive I have ever seen on a man. His lips were beautifully bowed, and had retained their color. They were never in perfect repose, but were constantly beset by what I am tempted to describe as "invisible" twitchings. As I spoke on, he gradually became calmer, after a while relighting his pipe. This seemed to act magically upon him, for soon after he began to smoke the wild expression vanished from his face.
"So you are ze stranger on ze Bal" k.n.o.b?" he queried, when I had finished my recital.
"Yes; I am out after health."
"Health?" he repeated, sweeping his keen eyes over my stalwart form in open astonishment.
"I don"t appear to be an invalid, I"ll admit," I hastened to add. "But something started up in here"--I touched my chest--"and the doctor sent me to the woods."
"Ah! Ze--ze--ze lungs.... You never struck me to have ze consumption.
You are ze stron" man."
"It was just a beginning--a fear, rather than an actuality. I have been there a month, and I am already much better."
The housekeeper appeared in the doorway.