Madge Morton's Trust Part 6

CHAPTER VII

THE RESCUE

When Madge opened her eyes the sun was shining into them. It was already broad daylight. Her boat was no longer held fast between rocks. In the night it had made its own way out and had floated toward the land. It was now only a few yards from the sh.o.r.e. With her one oar Madge pushed herself gently toward land.

Hills rose up along the river bank. The farmhouses lay farther back, she supposed. Certainly she had not the faintest idea where she was. The hills were thickly covered with scrub oaks and pines. She had not landed in a friendly spot. It was far more deserted than any place that she had ever noticed along the Rappahannock. At least, so she thought in the gray dawn of the August morning. Yet she knew that there were plenty of kind people who would be glad to help her if she could get over the hills to their homes.

From the appearance of Madge's clothes she might easily have been mistaken for a tramp. Her long coat was wet to her ankles and her shoes and stockings were muddy. She had long since lost her little cap and her hair was rough and tumbled from her night's sleep in the boat, while her face was white and haggard. Instead of following the line of the river, where she was sure to find some life stirring in another hour or so, Madge foolishly pushed up over the hill. She did not find a path, so she might have guessed that she was off the beaten track. She must have walked up the hill for half a mile when she saw a sight that at last gave her hope. An old, broken-down horse was tethered to a tree, eating gra.s.s. Surely he was a sign-post to some human habitation farther on.

Madge spied a cornfield to the left of her, though some distance off.

She knew that the Virginia farmers cultivated the low hills for their crops, and that she was near some house. She sniffed the fresh morning air. A delicious odor wafted toward her, the smell of boiling coffee, which came from the thickest part of the hillside, away to the right of the cornfield.

Madge made straight for it. She had to push aside branches and underbrush, and the place was farther off than she supposed, but she found it at last. Seated on the ground before a small fire was an old woman, the oldest the little captain had ever seen. She was weather-beaten and brown, withered like a crumpled autumn leaf. She was roasting something in the fire and muttering to herself. A little farther on a man was drinking coffee from a quart cup. They were rough-looking people to come across in the woods. But Madge knew that in the harvest season many tramps and gypsies traveled about through Virginia, living on the crops of the fruitful land. They were usually harmless people, so she felt no fear of the strangers. They had no tent, but a few logs with branches over them formed a sort of hiding place.

"Please," began Madge timidly, "will you tell me where I am?"

The man sprang up and rushed toward her with a big stick in his hand. He seemed not so angry as frightened. The little captain's appearance disarmed his suspicions. He dropped his stick to the ground. The strange girl was a gypsy or tramp herself.

"Will you give me some coffee?" asked Madge pleadingly. She was beginning to feel weak and faint.

With the instant hospitality of the road the man pa.s.sed Madge his own quart can. She took it, shuddering a little, but she was too thirsty to hesitate. She held the cup to her lips and drank. Then she went over and dropped down on the ground by the side of the old woman, who, although her eyes were fastened on the girl, had never ceased to mutter to herself. Madge began telling the story of her night's adventure.

"I haven't any money with me," she declared as she finished her story, "but if the man will get an oar and take me down the river to my friends, I will pay him whatever he thinks is right. I dragged my rowboat up on the sh.o.r.e not very far from here. I must return to my friends at once."

The old woman looked at the man questioningly. Madge's eyes were also on him. It did not dawn on her that the fellow could have any reason for refusing her simple request.

The man shook his head doggedly. "I can't row," he announced.

"Oh, that does not matter," replied Madge. "If you will get me an oar and come with me, I can do the rowing. I am rested now."

The man grunted unintelligibly, then went on with his breakfast. He paid no further attention to Madge. The old woman continued her curious muttering.

"Won't you try to find me an oar?" asked Madge again.

The man shook his head. His face darkened with anger.

"Then I might as well leave you," declared Madge haughtily. "If you are so unaccommodating, I will look for some one else." She struggled wearily to her feet to continue her search. Her body still ached with the fatigue.

"Don't be rough with her," the old crone spoke from behind Madge.

The young girl felt her arms roughly seized and drawn back. She was forced to the ground. She struggled at first, but she was powerless. The man took a small rope and bound her feet together so that she could not move them. The ropes were not tight. The fellow did not wish to hurt her, but merely to prevent her getting away.

"You can't leave this place by day, Miss," he announced quietly. "I can't have anybody following you back here and running me down. When night comes I'll let you go."

Madge bit her lips. Night! Once more she must wander alone in the darkness in a vain search for her lost friends. What would they think if a day, as well as a night, pa.s.sed with no sign of her?

Her big blue eyes were dark with grief and protest. "Please let me go,"

she entreated. "I promise, on my honor, that I will never show any one your hiding place, or say that I have seen you. I must get back to my friends, they will be so frightened." She was shaking with terror and anger, but she struggled to keep back her tears. Surely the man must relent and let her go back to the houseboat.

He turned away without paying the least attention to her demands.

Creeping under the pile of underbrush, he lay so still that no one would have dreamed that a human being was concealed there.

It came over poor Madge, at first dully, then with complete conviction, that the man whom she had come upon in the woods was a fugitive from justice--an outlaw hiding from the police.

Madge flung herself down in the warm, soft gra.s.s. For the first time in the seventeen years of her life she cried without any one to care for or comfort her. Until to-day Eleanor, her uncle or aunt, or one of her chums--some one--had always been near at hand to soothe her grief. Madge knew that her own recklessness had got her into this predicament. She had deserved some of the punishment. But she thought, as a great many other people do, that she was being judged more severely than her fault merited.

"Here, child," a voice said not unkindly, "bathe your face and eyes.

There's no use crying. We don't mean you no harm. Only you have got to wait here."

Madge sat up; the old woman, who looked like an aged gypsy, was handing her a dirty basin filled with a small supply of river water. The woman evidently went about and got what was necessary for the existence of the man and herself. At other times she kept guard over his hiding place.

Madge bathed her tired eyes and face. She was glad to have the use of her hands. She even managed to smile gratefully when the woman offered her a piece of cornbread and an ear of roasted corn.

She resolved to summon all of her courage and endurance to her aid. She would not plead or argue again. She would wait patiently until the long day had pa.s.sed. Perhaps Tom or David or one of the other boys would see her skiff on the beach and come to her aid.

The morning went by. No one spoke or moved. Only once the man crawled out from under the brush for food and water. Then he stole back again.

Madge grew more tired with every hour. It was hard to have to sit still so long in one place, so she lay down on the gra.s.s. She did not go to sleep, but was drowsy from the heat and fatigue.

The old woman came over to where she lay and stood looking at her sadly.

Her pretty white face, with its crown of sun-kissed hair, gleaming with red and gold lights, her brilliantly red lips, brought back to this ugly, time-worn crone the memory of her own youth. Madge always caused other women to think of their own youth, she was so radiant, so full of faith and enthusiasm. It was partly because of this that Miss Betsey Taylor disliked her. Her own springtime had been prim and narrow. She had wasted the years that Madge was living so abundantly, and unconsciously Miss Betsey envied Madge.

The little captain saw the old gypsy's little, beady eyes fixed on her.

She tried to sit up, but found herself too tired to do so. The woman dropped down near her and lifted her up. She had a pack of dirty cards in her hand. "Want your fortune told, honey?" she asked. "Then cross my palm with gold." The crone looked narrowly at the single gold seal ring that Madge wore. It had been a gift to her from her three houseboat chums.

Madge shook her head. "No, thank you," she answered politely, then listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. She looked up toward the crest of the hill. "'From whence cometh my strength'," she thought to herself. But she could not see or hear any one. The little spot where she was held a prisoner was surrounded with heavy shrubbery and walled in with ancient trees that had grown on the Virginia hillside for centuries.

The woman ran the cards through her withered hands. "Better let me tell your fortune; never mind the gold." She shook her head and muttered so mysteriously that Madge's cheeks flushed.

"I see, I see," the gypsy crooned, "many hearts in your fortune, but as yet few diamonds. And here, there, everywhere there is mystery. You are always seeking something. I can't tell whether it is a person, or whether you are only looking for happiness. But you are very restless."

For a long time after this the old woman said nothing more. She sighed and mumbled to herself. Two or three times she went over her pack of cards. Madge watched her in fascination.

"Now I see a light-haired and a dark-haired man. They will come together when you are older. One of them will bring diamonds and the other spades. Neither are for you, not at first, not at first. I see water all about you and a fortune in the sea. But be careful, child, be careful.

Go slow and----"

Madge was no longer interested. "There is always a dark man and a light one in everyone's fortune," she thought wearily. "What a silly old woman, and what utter nonsense she is talking! Oh, if you would only let me go away from this place?" she begged aloud.

[Ill.u.s.tration: David Came to Her Rescue.]

At some distance off there was an unmistakable sound of people coming through the woods. Madge's heart leaped within her. She gave one glad cry, when the gypsy woman clapped both hands over her mouth. Madge fought the woman off. She cried out again. The man crept from his hiding place, half dragging, half pulling Madge behind a thick cl.u.s.ter of trees, keeping his coa.r.s.e, heavy hand over her mouth.

Madge heard Phyllis Alden's and David Brewster's voices, yet she could not call out to them for aid.

She saw some one pull aside the low branch of a tree, then David's face appeared, discolored with anger as he caught sight of her. Before the man who had seized her could strike at the boy David had grasped him by both shoulders and hurled him to the ground.