In the first volume of this series,
entitled, “Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill; Or,
Jasper Parloe’s Secret,” is related how
Ruth and Helen and Tom came to be such close friends.
The Camerons had been with Ruth when the lost cash-box
belonging to Uncle Jabez Potter was found, and out
of which incident Ruth’s presence in the Camerons’
automobile on this beautiful September morning, and
the fact that she was accompanying Helen to school,
arose.
Mr. Macy Cameron, a wealthy dry-goods
merchant, and a widower, had selected the best school
for his daughter to attend of which he could learn.
Briarwood Hall, of which the preceptress was Mrs.
Grace Tellingham, was a large school (there being
more than two hundred scholars in attendance for the
coming term), but it remained “select”
in the truest sense of the word. It was not an
institution particularly for the daughters of wealthy
people, nor a school to which disheartened parents
could send either unruly girls, or dunces.
Without Mrs. Murchiston’s recommendation
Helen Cameron could not have gained entrance to Briarwood;
without the attested examination papers of Miss Cramp,
teacher of the district school, who had prepared Ruth
for entering Cheslow High School before it was supposed
that she could go to Briarwood, the girl from the
Red Mill would not have been starting on this journey.
“My goodness me!” exclaimed
Helen, when Ruth had sat down and Cheslow was coming
into view before them. “I’m just
as excited as I can be. Aren’t you afraid
of meeting Mrs. Tellingham? She’s got an
A. B. after her name. And her husband is a doctor
of almost everything you can think!”
Mrs. Murchiston smiled, but said with
some sternness; “I really hope, Helen, that
Briarwood will quell your too exuberant spirits to
a degree. But you need not be afraid of Dr.
Tellingham. He is the mildest old gentleman
one ever saw. He is doubtless engaged upon a
history of the Mound Builders of Peoria County, Illinois;
or upon a pamphlet suggested by the finding of a fossilized
man in the caves of Arizona.”
“Is he a great writer, Mrs.
Murchiston?” asked Ruth, wonderingly.
“He has written a great many
histories if that constitutes being a great
writer,” replied the governess, with a quiet
smile. “But if it was not for Mrs. Tellingham
I fear that Briarwood Hall could not exist. However,
the doctor is a perfectly harmless person.”
From this Ruth drew the conclusion
(for she was a thoughtful girl thoughtful
beyond her years, as well as imaginative) that Mrs.
Grace Tellingham was a rather strong-minded lady and
that the doctor would prove to be both mild and “hen-pecked.”
The car sped along the beautifully
shaded road leading into Cheslow; but there was still
ample time for the travelers to catch the train.
On the right hand, as they advanced, appeared a gloomy-looking
house with huge pillars upholding the portico roof,
which was set some distance back from the road.
On two posts, one either side of the arched gateway,
were set green lanterns. A tall, stoop-shouldered
old gentleman, with a sweeping mustache and hair that
touched his coat collar, and a pair of keen, dark
eyes, came striding down the walk to the street as
the motor-car drew near.
“Doctor Davison!” cried Helen and Ruth
together.
The chauffeur slowed down and stopped as the doctor
waved his hand.
“I must bid you girls good-bye
here,” he said, coming to the automobile to
shake hands. “I have a call and cannot
be at the station. And I expect all of you to
do your best in your studies. But look out for
your health, too. Take plenty of gym work, girls.
Tom, you rascal! I want to hear of you standing
just as well in athletics as you do in your books.
Ah! if Mercy was going with you, I’d think the
party quite complete.”
“What do you hear from her, Doctor?” questioned
Ruth, eagerly.
“My little Goody Two-sticks
is hopping around pretty lively. She will come
home in a few days. Too bad she cannot see you
before you go. But then perhaps you’ll
see her, after all.”
“What do you mean?” demanded
Helen, looking sharply at the physician. “You’re
hiding something. I can see it! You’ve
got something up your sleeve, Doctor!”
“Quite so my wrist!”
declared the physician, and now, having shaken hands
all around, he hurried away, looking vastly mysterious.
“Now, what do you suppose he
meant by that?” demanded Helen. “I’m
suspicious of him. He’s always bringing
unexpected things about. And poor Mercy Curtis ”
“If she could only go to Briarwood
with us,” sighed Ruth.
“She would make you and Helen
hustle in your work, all right,” declared Tom,
looking over the back of his seat. “She’s
the smartest little thing that I ever saw.”
“That’s what Dr. Davison
says,” Ruth observed. “If the surgeons
have enabled her to walk again, and dispense with
the wheel chair, why couldn’t she come to Briarwood?”
“I don’t think Sam Curtis
is any too well fixed,” said Tom, shaking his
head. “And Mercy’s long illness has
been a great expense to them. Hello! here we
are at the station, with plenty of time to spare.”
Mrs. Murchiston was not going with
them; the trio of young folk were to travel alone,
so Tom took the tickets, got the trunk checks, and
otherwise played escort to the two girls. There
were several friends at the station to bid the Camerons
good-bye; but there was nobody but the stationmaster
to say a word to Ruth Fielding. It was his lame
daughter whom they had been discussing with Dr. Davison an
unfortunate girl who had taken a strong liking for
Ruth, and for whom the girl from the Red Mill, with
her cheerful spirit and pleasant face, had done a
world of good.
The train was made up and they got
aboard. Just below Cheslow was the Y where this
train branched off the main line, and took its way
by a single-track, winding branch, through the hills
to the shore of Lake Osago. But the young folks
did not have to trouble about their baggage after
leaving Cheslow, for that was checked through Tom’s
grip and box to Seven Oaks, and the girls’ over
another road, after crossing Lake Osago, to Lumberton,
on Triton Lake.
Lake Osago was a beautiful body of
water, some thirty miles long, and wide in proportion;
island-dotted and bordered by a rolling country.
There were several large towns upon its shores, and,
in one place, a great summer camp of an educational
society. Steamboats plied the lake, and up and
down the rivers which either emptied into the Osago,
or flowed out of it, as far as the dams.
The trio of school-bound young folk
left the train very demurely and walked down the long
wharf to the puffy little steamboat that was to take
them the length of the lake to Portageton. Tom
had been adjured by his father to take good care of
his sister and Ruth, and he felt the burden of this
responsibility. Helen declared, in a whisper
to Ruth, that she had never known her twin brother
to be so overpoweringly polite and thoughtful.
Nevertheless, the fact that they were
for the very first time traveling alone (at least,
the Camerons had never traveled alone before) did not
spoil their enjoyment of the journey. The trip
down the lake on the little side-wheel steamer was
very interesting to all three. First the Camerons
and Ruth Fielding went about to see if they could find
any other girl or boy who appeared to be bound to
school like themselves. But Tom said he was alone
in that intention among the few boys aboard; and there
were no girls upon the Lanawaxa, as the little
steamboat was named, save Ruth and Helen.
Tom did not neglect the comfort of
the girls, but he really could not keep away from
the engine-room of the Lanawaxa. Tom was
mightily interested in all things mechanical, and
in engines especially. So the girls were left
to themselves for a while upon the upper deck of the
steamboat. They were very comfortable under the
awning, and had books, and their luncheon, and a box
of candy that Tom had bought and given to Ruth, and
altogether they enjoyed the trip quite as much as anybody.
The breeze was quite fresh and there
were not many passengers on the forward deck where
the girls were seated. But one lady sitting near
attracted their attention almost at first. She
was such a little, doll-like lady; so very plainly
and neatly dressed, yet with a style about her that
carried the plain frock she wore, and the little hat,
as though they were both of the richest materials.
She was dark, had brilliant eyes, and her figure
was youthful. Yet, when she chanced to raise
her veil, Ruth noted that her face was marred by innumerable
fine wrinkles just like cracks in the face
of a wax doll that had been exposed to frost.
“Isn’t she a cunning little
thing?” whispered Helen, seeing how much Ruth
was attracted by the little lady.
“She’s not a dwarf.
There’s nothing wrong with her,” said
Ruth. “She’s just a lady in miniature;
isn’t she? Why, Helen, she’s no
taller than you are.”
“She’s dainty,” repeated her chum.
“But she looks odd.”
Below, on the other deck, the music
of a little orchestra had been tinkling pleasantly.
Now a man with the harp, another with a violin, and
a third with a huge guitar, came up the companionway
and grouped themselves to play upon the upper deck.
The three musicians were all foreigners French
or Italian. The man who played the harp was a
huge, fleshy man, with a red waistcoat and long, black
mustache. The waistcoat and mustache were the
two most noticeable things about him. He sat
on a little campstool while he played.
The musicians struck into some rollicking
ditty that pleased the ear. The two girls enjoyed
the music, and Helen searched her purse for a coin
to give whichever of the musicians came around for
the collection at the end of the concert. There
was but one person on the forward deck who did not
seem to care for the music. The little lady,
whose back was to the orchestra, did not even look
around.
All the time he was playing the huge
man who thrummed the harp seemed to have his eyes
fixed upon the little lady. This both Ruth and
Helen noted. He was so big and she was so fairy-like,
that the girls could not help becoming interested
in the fact that the harpist was so deeply “smitten.”
“Isn’t he funny?”
whispered Helen to Ruth. “He’s so
big and she’s so little. And he pays more
attention to her than he does to playing the tune.”
Just then the orchestra of three pieces
finished its third tune. That was all it ever
jingled forth before making a collection. The
man who played the guitar slipped the broad strap
over his shoulders and stood up as though to pass
his cap. But instantly the huge harpist arose
and muttered something to him in a guttural tone.
The other sat down and the big man seized the cap
and began to move about the deck to make such collection
as the audience was disposed to give for the music.
Although he had stared so at the unconscious
lady’s back, the big man did not go in her direction
at first, as the two girls quite expected him to do.
He went around to the other side of the deck after
taking Helen’s toll, and so manoeuvred as to
come to the end of the lady’s bench and suddenly
face her.
“See him watch her, Ruth?”
whispered Helen again. “I believe he knows
her.”
There was such a sly smile on the
fat man’s face that he seemed to be having a
joke all to himself; yet his eyebrows were drawn down
over his nose in a scowl. It was not a pleasant
expression that he carried on his countenance to the
little lady, before whom he appeared with a suddenness
that would have startled almost anybody. He wheeled
around the end of the settee on which she sat and
hissed some word or phrase in her ear, leaning over
to do so.
The little woman sprang up with a
smothered shriek. The girls heard her chatter
something, in which the word “merci”
was plain. She shrank from the big man; but
he was only bowing very low before her, with the cap
held out for a contribution, and his grinning face
aside.
“She is French,” whispered
Helen, excitedly, in Ruth’s ear. “And
he spoke in the same language. How frightened
she is!”
Indeed, the little lady fumbled in
her handbag for something which she dropped into the
insistent cap of the harpist. Then, almost running
along the deck, she whisked into the cabin. She
had pulled the veil over her face again, but as she
passed the girls they felt quite sure that she was
sobbing.
The big harpist, with the same unpleasant
leer upon his face, rolled down the deck in her wake,
carelessly humming a fragment of the tune he had just
been playing. He had collected all the contributions
in his big hand a pitiful little collection
of nickels and dimes and he tossed them
into the air and caught them expertly as he joined
the other players. Then all three went aft to
repeat their concert.
An hour later the Lanawaxa
docked at Portageton. When our young friends
went ashore and walked up the freight-littered wharf,
Ruth suddenly pulled Helen’s sleeve.
“Look there! There behind
the bales of rags going to the paper-mill. Do
you see them?” whispered Ruth.
“I declare!” returned
her chum. “Isn’t that mysterious?
It’s the little foreign lady and the big man
who played the harp and how earnestly they
are talking.”
“You see, she knew him after
all,” said Ruth. “But what a wicked-looking
man he is! And she was frightened when
he spoke to her.”
“He looks villainous enough
to be a brigand,” returned her chum, laughing.
“Yet, whoever heard of a fat brigand?
That would take the romance all out of the profession;
wouldn’t it?”
“And fat villains are not so
common; are they?” returned Ruth, echoing the
laugh.