IN THE PATH OF THE STORM.
While Mollie Ainslie thought of these things with foreboding, her
steed had turned down his favorite road, and was pressing onward
with that persistency which characterizes an intelligent horse having
a definite aim in view. The clouds were gathering behind her, but
she did not notice them. The horse pressed on and on. Closer and
closer came the storm. The road grew dark amid the clustering oaks
which overhung its course. The thunder rolled in the distance and
puffs of wind tossed the heavy-leafed branches as though the trees
begged for mercy from the relentless blast. A blinding flash, a
fierce, sharp peal, near at hand, awoke her from her reverie. The
horse broke into a quick gallop, and glancing back she saw a wall
of black cloud, flame-lighted and reverberant, and felt the cold
breath of the summer storm come sweeping down upon her as she sped
away.
She saw that it would be useless to turn back. Long before she
could reach any shelter in that direction she would be drenched.
She knew she was approaching the river, but remembering that she
had noticed some fine-looking houses just on the other side, she
decided that she would let the horse have his own way, and apply at
one of these for shelter. She was sure that no one would deny her
that in the face of such a tornado as was raging behind her. The
horse flew along as if a winged thing. The spirit of the storm seemed
to have entered into him, or else the thunder's voice awakened
memories of the field of battle, and for once his rider found
herself powerless to restrain his speed or direct his course. He
laid back his ears, and with a short, sharp neigh dashed onward
with a wild tremor of joy at the mad race with wind and storm.
The swaying tree-tops waved them on with wild gesticulations. The
lightning and the thunder added wings to the flying steed.
Just before reaching the river bank they had to pass through
a stretch of tall pines, whose dark heads were swaying to and fro
until they almost met above the narrow road, making it so dark
below that the black horse grew dim in the shadow, while the gaunt
trunks creaked and groaned and the leaves hissed and sobbed as the
wind swept through them. The resinous fragrance mingled with the
clayey breath of the pursuing storm. The ghost-like trunks stood
out against the lightning flashes like bars before the path of flame.
She no longer tried to control her horse. Between the flashes, his
iron feet filled the rocky road with sparks of fire. He reached
the ford and dashed knee-deep into the dark, swift stream, casting
a cool spray around him before he checked his speed. Then he halted
for an instant, tossed his head as if to give the breeze a chance
to creep beneath his flowing mane, cast a quick glance back at
his rider, and throwing out his muzzle uttered a long, loud neigh
that seemed like a joyful hail, and pressed on with quick, careful
steps, picking his way along the ledge of out-cropping granite which
constituted the ford, as if traversing a well-remembered causeway.
The water grew deeper and darker; the rider reached down and
gathered up her dark habit and drew her feet up close beneath her.
The current grew swifter. The water climbed the horse's polished
limbs. It touched his flanks and foamed and dashed about his rugged
breast. Still he picked his way among the rocks with eager haste,
neighing again and again, the joy-ringing neighs of the home-coming
steed. The surging water rose about his massive shoulders and the
rider drew herself still closer up on the saddle, clinging to bow
and mane and giving him the rein, confident in his prowess and
intelligence, wondering at his eagerness, yet anxious for his footing
in the dashing current. The wind lifted the spray and dashed it
about her. The black cloud above was fringed with forked lightning
and resonant with swift-succeeding peals of thunder. The big drops
began to fall hissing into the gurgling waters. Now and then they
splashed on her hands and face and shot through her close-fitting
habit like icy bolts. The brim of the low felt hat she wore and
its dark plume were blown about her face. Casting a hurried glance
backward, she saw the grayish-white storm-sheet come rushing over
the sloping expanse of surging pines, and heard its dull heavy roar
over the rattle of the aerial artillery which echoed and re-echoed
above her.
And now the wind shifted, first to one point and then to another.
Now it swept down the narrow valley through which the stream ran;
now it dashed the water in her face, and anon it seemed about
to toss her from her seat and hurl her over her horse's head. She
knew that the fierce storm would strike her before she could reach
any place of shelter. The wild excitement of a struggle with the
elements flamed up in her face and lighted her eyes with joy. She
might have been a viking's daughter as her fair hair blew over her
flushed face, while she patted her good steed and laughed aloud
for very glee at the thought of conflict with the wild masterful
storm and the cool gurgling rapid which her horse breasted so
gallantly.
There was a touch of fun, too, in the laugh, and in the arch
gleaming of her eyes, as she thought of the odd figure which she
made, perched thus upon the saddle in mid-river, blown and tossed by
the wind, and fleeing from the storm. Her rides were the interludes
of her isolated life, and this storm was a part of the fun.
She enjoyed it as the vigorous pleasure-seeker always enjoys the
simulation of danger.
The water shoaled rapidly as they neared the farther shore. The
black horse mounted swiftly to the bank, still pressing on with
unabated eagerness. She leaned over and caught up the stirrup,
thrust her foot into it, regained her seat and seized the reins,
as with a shake and a neigh he struck into a long easy gallop.
"Go!" she said, as she shook the reins. The horse flew swiftly along
while she swayed lightly from side to side as he rose and fell with
great sinewy strides. She felt him bound and quiver beneath her,
but his steps were as though the black, corded limbs were springs
of steel. Her pride in the noble animal she rode overcame her fear
of the storm, which followed swifter than they fled. She looked
eagerly for a by-path leading to some farm-house, but the swift-settling
darkness of the summer night hid them from her eager glance, if
any there were. Half a mile from the ford, and the storm over-took
them--a wall of wind-driven rain, which dashed and roared about
them, drenching the rider to the skin in an instant. In a moment
the red-clay road became the bed of a murky torrent. The horse's
hoofs, which an instant before echoed on the hard-beaten track,
splashed now in the soft mud and threw the turbid drops over her
dripping habit and into her storm-washed face. A quarter of a mile
more, and the cold streams poured down her back and chilled her
slight frame to the marrow. Her hands were numb and could scarce
cling to the dripping reins. Tears came into her eyes despite
herself. Still the wild cloud-burst hurled its swift torrents of
icy rain upon them. She could scarcely see her horse's head, through
the gray, chilly storm-sheet.
"Whoa! whoa, Midnight!" she cried, in tremulous tones through her
chattering teeth and white, trembling lips. All her gay exultant
courage had been drenched and chilled out of her. She tried to
check his stride with a loose convulsive clutch at the reins as she
peered about with blinded eyes for a place of shelter. The horse
shook his head with angry impatience, neighed again, clasped the bit
in his strong teeth, stretched his neck still further and covered
the slippery ground with still swifter strides. A hundred yards
more and he turned into a narrow lane at the right, between two
swaying oaks, so quickly as almost to unseat his praticed rider,
and with neigh after neigh dashed down to a great, rambling, old
farm-house just visible under the trees at the foot of the lane,
two hundred yards away. The way was rough and the descent sharp,
but the horse did not slacken his speed. She knew it was useless to
attempt to check him, and only clung to the saddle pale with fear
as he neared the high gate which closed its course. As he rose with
a grand lift to take the leap she closed her eyes in terror. Easy
and swift as a bird's flight was the leap with which the strong-limbed
horse cleared the high palings and lighted on the soft springy turf
within; another bound or two and she heard a sharp, strong voice
which rang above the storm with a tone of command that betrayed no
doubt of obedience:
"Whoa, Satan! Stand, sir!"
The fierce horse stopped instantly. Mollie Ainslie was thrown heavily
forward, clasped by a strong arm and borne upon the piazza. When
she opened her eyes she saw the torrents pouring from the eaves,
the rain beating itself into spray upon the ground without, the
black horse steaming and quivering at the steps of the porch, and
Hesden Le Moyne gazing anxiously down into her face. The water
dripped from her garments and ran across the porch. She shook as
if in an ague-fit. She could not answer the earnest inquiries that
fell from his lips. She felt him chafing her chill, numbed hands,
and then the world was dark, and she knew no more of the kindly
care which was bestowed upon her.