My Lady Caprice Part 18

"That's what I told him," returned Dorothy, "but he said that Indians didn't have any aunts, and then I didn't know what to say. What do you think about it, Uncle d.i.c.k?"

"Well," I answered, "now I come to consider, I can't remember ever having heard of an Indian's aunt."

"Poor things!" said Dorothy, giving the fluffy kitten a kiss between the ears.

"Yes, it's hard on them, perhaps, and yet," I added thoughtfully, "an aunt is sometimes rather a mixed blessing. Still, whether an Indian possesses an aunt or not, the fact remains that water has an unpleasant habit of wetting one, and on the whole, I think I'll go and see what Spotted Snake is up to."

"Then I think I'll come with you a little way," said Dorothy, as I rose. "You see, I have to get Louise her afternoon's milk."

"And how is Louise?" I inquired, pulling the fluffy kitten's nearest ear.

"Very well, thank you," answered Dorothy demurely; "but oh dear me!

kittens 'are such a constant source of worry and anxiety!' Auntie Lisbeth sometimes says that about Reginald and me. I wonder what she would say if we were kittens!"

"Bye the bye, where is your Auntie Lisbeth?" I asked in a strictly conversational tone.

"Well, she's lying in the old boat."

"In the old boat!" I repeated.

"Yes," nodded Dorothy; "when it's nice and warm and sleepy, like to-day, she takes a book, and a pillow, and a sunshade, and she goes and lies in the old boat under the Water-stairs. There, just look at this naughty Louise!" she broke off, as the kitten scrambled up to her shoulder and stood there, balancing itself very dextrously with curious angular movements of its tail; "that's because she thinks I've forgotten her milk, you know; she's dreadfully impatient, but I suppose I must humour her this once. Good-afternoon!" And, having given me her hand in her demure, old-fashioned way, Dorothy hurried off, the kitten still perched upon her shoulder, its tail jerking spasmodically with her every step.

In a little while I came in view of the Water-stairs, yet although I paused more than once to look about me, I saw no sign of the Imp.

Thinking he was most probably 'in ambush' somewhere, I continued my way, whistling an air out of "The Geisha" to attract his notice. Ten minutes or more elapsed, however, without any sign of him, and I was already close to the stairs, when I stopped whistling all at once, and holding my breath, crept forward on tiptoe.

There before me was the old boat, and in it--her cheek upon a crimson cushion and the sun making a glory of her tumbled hair--was Lisbeth--asleep.

Being come as near as I dared for fear of waking her, I sat down, and lighting my pipe, fell to watching her--the up-curving shadow of her lashes, the gleam of teeth between the scarlet of her parted lips, and the soft undulation of her bosom. And from the heavy braids of her hair my glance wandered down to the little tan shoe peeping at me beneath her skirt, and I called to mind how Goethe has said:

'A pretty foot is not only a continual joy, but it is the one element of beauty that defies the a.s.saults of Time.'

Sometimes a b.u.t.terfly hovered past, a bee filled the air with his drone, or a bird settled for a moment upon the stairs near-by to preen a ruffled feather, while soft and drowsy with distance came the ceaseless roar of the weir.

I do not know how long I had sat thus, supremely content, when I was suddenly aroused by a rustling close at hand.

"Hist!"

I looked up sharply, and beheld a head, a head adorned with sundry feathers, and a face hideously streaked with red and green paint; but there was no mistaking those golden curls--it was the Imp!

"Hist!" he repeated, bringing out the word with a prolonged hiss, and then--before I could even guess at his intention--there was the swift gleam of a knife, a splash of the severed painter, and caught by the tide the old boat swung out, and was adrift.

The Imp stood gazing on his handiwork with wide eyes, and then as I leaped to my feet something in my look seemed to frighten him, for without a word he turned and fled. But all my attention was centred in the boat, which was drifting slowly into mid-stream with Lisbeth still fast asleep. And as I watched its sluggish progress, with a sudden chill I remembered the weir, which foamed and roared only a short half-mile away. If the boat once got drawn into that--!

Now, I am quite aware that under these circ.u.mstances the right and proper thing for me to have done, would have been to throw aside my coat, tear off my boots, etc., and "boldly breast the foamy flood." But I did neither, for the simple reason that once within the 'foamy flood'

aforesaid, there would have been very little chance of my ever getting out again, for--let me confess the fact with the blush of shame--I am no swimmer.

Yet I was not idle, far otherwise. Having judged the distance between the drifting boat and the bank, I began running along, seeking the thing I wanted. And presently, sure enough, I found it--a great pollard oak, growing upon the edge of the water, that identical tree with the 'stickie-out' branches which has already figured in these narratives as the hiding-place of a certain pair of silk stockings.

Hastily swinging myself up, I got astride the lowest branch, which projected out over the water. I had distanced the boat by some hundred yards, and as I sat there I watched its drift, one minute full of hope, and the next as miserably uncertain. My obvious intention was to crawl out upon the branch until it bent with my weight, and so let myself into, or as near the boat as possible. It was close now, so close that I could see the gleam of Lisbeth's hair and the point of the little tan shoe. With my eyes on this, I writhed my way along the bough, which bent more and more as I neared the end. Here I hung, swaying up and down and to and fro in a highly unpleasant manner, while I waited the crucial moment.

Never upon this whole round earth did anything creep as that boat did.

There was a majestic deliberation in its progress that positively maddened me. I remember to have once read an article somewhere upon the "Sensibility of Material Things," or something of the sort, which I had forgotten long since, but as I hung there suspended between heaven and earth, it came back to me with a rush, and I was perfectly certain that, recognising my precarious position, that time-worn, ancient boat checked its speed out of "pure cussedness."

But all things have an end, and so, little by little the blunt bow crept nearer until it was in the very shade of my tree. Grasping the branch, I let myself swing at arm's length; and then I found that I was at least a foot too near the bank. Edging my way, therefore, still further along the branch, I kicked out in a desperate endeavour to reach the boat, and, the bough swaying with me, caught my toe inside the gunwale, drew it under me, and loosing my grasp, was sprawling upon my hands and knees, but safe aboard.

To pick myself up was the work of a moment, yet scarcely had I done so, when Lisbeth opened her eyes, and sitting up, stared about her.

"Why--where am I?" she exclaimed.

"On the river," I answered cheerfully. "Glorious afternoon, Lisbeth, isn't it?"

"How-in-the-world did you get here?" she inquired.

"Well," I answered, "I might say I dropped in as it were." Lisbeth brushed the hair from her temples, and turned to me with an imperious gesture.

"Then please take me back at once," she said.

"I would with pleasure," I returned, "only that you forgot to bring the oars."

"Why, then, we are adrift!" she said, staring at me with frightened eyes, and clasping her hands nervously.

"We are," I nodded; "but, then, it's perfect weather for boating, Lisbeth!" And I began to look about for something that might serve as a paddle. But the stretchers had disappeared long since--the old tub was a sheer hulk, so to speak. An attempt to tear up a floor board resulted only in a broken nail and bleeding fingers; so I presently desisted, and rolling up my sleeves endeavoured to paddle with my hands. But finding this equally futile, I resumed my coat, and took out pipe and tobacco.

"Oh, d.i.c.k! is there nothing you can do?" she asked, with a brave attempt to steady the quiver in her voice.

"With your permission, I'll smoke, Lisbeth."

"But the weir!" she cried; "have you forgotten the weir?"

"No," I answered, shaking my head; "it has a way of obtruding itself on one's notice--"

"Oh, it sounds hateful--hateful!" she said with a shiver.

"Like a strong wind among trees!" I nodded, as I filled my pipe. We were approaching a part of the river where it makes a sharp bend to the right; and well I knew what lay beyond--the row of posts, painted white, with the foam and bubble of seething water below. We should round that bend in about ten minutes, I judged; long before then we might see a boat, to be sure; if not--well, if the worst happened, I could but do my best; in the meantime I would smoke a pipe; but I will admit my fingers trembled as I struck a match.

"It sounds horribly close!" said Lisbeth.

"Sound is very deceptive, you know," I answered.

"Only last month a boat went over, and the man was drowned!" shuddered Lisbeth.

"Poor chap!" I said. "Of course it's different at night--the river is awfully deserted then, you know, and--"

"But it happened in broad day light!" said Lisbeth, almost in a whisper. She was sitting half turned from me, her gaze fixed on the bend of the river, and by chance her restless hand had found and begun to fumble with the severed painter.

So we drifted on, watching the gliding banks, while every moment the roar of the weir grew louder and more threatening.

"d.i.c.k," she said suddenly, "we can never pa.s.s that awful place without oars!" and she began to tie knots in, the rope with fingers that shook pitifully.