THE SAIL ON THE RIVER.
The morning succeeding the party was hot and sultry, and two, at least,
of the young ladies at Schuyler Hill were cross, and tired, and worn
when they joined the family at breakfast. Alice had slept but little,
and her temper was still at the boiling point when she went down to the
table, where she scarcely spoke at all, while Julia, who had a headache,
was not much better. Both were fagged out, and after breakfast announced
their intention to keep their rooms the entire morning.
“But I thought we were to have a sail up the river, and call at the
Piersons’,” Godfrey said; and Alice, to whom the remark was addressed,
replied:
“I’ve changed my mind, and do not care to go. You can take Gertie in my
place.”
“Very well,” Godfrey answered, accepting the gauntlet she threw down;
and going at once to Gertie, he explained that he and Robert and his
sisters were going to call upon the Misses Pierson, and he would like
her to accompany them.
Of all the city people in the neighborhood the Piersons had been the
most polite to Gertie, and she signified at once her willingness to go.
Ten was the hour fixed upon, and before that time came Alice had changed
her mind, and when Godfrey and Robert joined the ladies upon the piazza,
preparatory to starting, they found Miss Creighton with them, her face a
little brighter and herself very anxious about her fluted dress, which
she was afraid would be crumpled with _so many_ in the boat. Gertie paid
no attention to the hint, and of all the party seemed to enjoy the sail
and the call the most. The Misses Pierson were glad to see them, and
kept them till after lunch, when Godfrey hurried them to the boat,
pointing out a mass of thunder-clouds in the west, and saying they must
get home before the shower. There was ample time for it, he said, but
for once he miscalculated, and though he and Robert rowed with all their
strength, they were but little more than half way across the river when
the first rain-drops began to fall, and in a few moments the storm was
upon them in peals of thunder and dashes of rain and gusts of wind which
rocked the boat from side to side, and made Alice cry out with fear as
she sprang up to avoid a wave which came plashing in and wet her fluted
dress.
“Keep quiet, Allie, or you’ll upset the boat,” Godfrey said, sternly.
Alice began to cry, and whimpered that her dress was spoiled, and said
some of them ought not to have come; there were too many in the boat,
and she knew it all the while.
“Why didn’t you stay out, then?” Julia asked; and then Alice cried
harder, and wrung her hands in fear as peal after peal of thunder rolled
over their heads and crashed up the mountain side, while the lurid
lightning, flash after flash, broke through the inky sky, and blinding
sheets of rain and wind swept down the river, threatening each moment to
engulf the boat, as yet riding the waves so bravely. It was a terrible
storm, and seemed to increase each moment, while the white faces looked
at each other anxiously, and the pale lips made no sound until Godfrey’s
oar snapped in two, and a wave carried it far out upon the angry waters.
Then Alice shrieked: “We are lost; we shall all be drowned,” and
bounding up she lost her balance and fell heavily across one side of the
boat, which was instantly upset, and six human beings were struggling
madly in the river.
“Godfrey, Godfrey,” two voices called above the storm, one loud,
piercing and peremptory as if it had the right, the other tender,
beseeching and low, as of a spirit going out into the darkness and
saying a farewell to one it had loved so fondly.
Two voices called, “Godfrey, Godfrey,” above the storm; but Godfrey
heard only one, and freeing himself from something which held him fast,
and which in his mad excitement he did not know was a pair of clinging
hands, he struck out for the place where, just above the water, he
caught one glimpse of a white, scared face, and tresses of long bright
hair disappearing from his sight. With a courage and energy born of love
and despair he reached the spot, and plunging his hand beneath the wave,
reached for the long bright hair, felt it, clutched it firmly, and drew
again into view the pallid face on which the hue of death had settled,
and winding his arm about the slender waist, swam for the shore, which
was fortunately so near that his feet soon touched the bottom, and he
struggled up the bank with his unconscious burden. Laying it gently
down, and pressing one kiss upon the white lips, he turned to retrace
his steps, for a thought of Alice and his sisters had come over him, but
when he saw them at some little distance down the river, struggling on
their feet, he went back to Gertie, who lay in the same death-like
swoon, with her hands folded upon her breast, and a smile wreathing her
lips, as if her last thought had been one of peace and happiness. Very
gently Godfrey lifted her up, and wringing the water from her hair, held
her head upon his breast while he showered kiss after kiss upon her
forehead and lips, murmuring as he did so: “Gertie, my darling, you
cannot, you must not be dead. Oh, Gertie, open your eyes on me once, and
hear me tell how much I love you.”
But the eyes did not unclose, nor the lips he kissed so passionately
kiss him back again, and without knowing to whom he spoke, or stopping
to think _who_ was standing by him, he said, so sadly:
“Gertie is dead.”
There was a rain of tears upon his face as he spoke, and a look of
anguish in his eyes, but he met with no answering sympathy from the
motionless figure near him. It was _Alice_, who stood there drenched to
the skin, the fluting and the starch all out of her dress, the crimp all
out of her hair, and the fire of a hundred volcanoes in the eyes which
gazed so pitilessly upon the unconscious Gertie, while a smile of bitter
scorn curled her lips and intense anger sounded in her voice as she
said:
“Godfrey Schuyler, from this moment our paths diverge. I can have no
faith in one who deliberately thrusts aside his promised wife to save
the life of another. You did _this_, Godfrey Schuyler, when you knew I
was drowning, and I hate you for it, and give you back your freedom with
your ring.”
Alice’s temper had increased with every word she uttered, and snatching
off the superb diamond selected by herself at Tiffany’s, she threw it
toward Godfrey, who, stunned and bewildered, did not at first realize
what she was saying, or what she meant by it. A faint recollection he
had of being clutched by somebody in the water and freeing himself from
the grasp, but he did not know it was Alice, who, when she realized that
he was putting her from him, felt that all hope was gone, until Julia’s
voice called out: “Cling to the boat, Alice; cling to the boat, as I am
doing.”
The next she knew she was clinging to the boat to which she and Julia
held until aid came from two boatmen who had been near them on the river
when the accident occurred, and who took them safely to the shore, which
Robert had reached before them with Emma at his side! Julia had been
deserted, too, and though Robert had not put her from him, he had made
no effort to save her, but had grasped her sister’s arm and said, in her
hearing: “Don’t be afraid, Emma, darling, the shore is very near; keep
your head above the water and I will not let you drown.”
But for the name _Emma_, Julia might have fancied he made a mistake, but
that settled it beyond a doubt; and a pain like the cut of a knife ran
through her heart as she held to the side of the boat, and saw her
sister borne away by one whom she had appropriated to herself so long.
Once safe upon the land she went to the spot where Robert stood wringing
the water from her sister’s dress, and then, overcome with nervousness,
and terror, and bitter disappointment, she uttered a low cry and fell
half fainting upon the sand. Ordinarily, Alice would have stopped to
help her, but her interest was centred in that other group, farther up
the river, and making her way thither, she reached it in time to hear
Godfrey’s words: “Open your eyes once more and hear me tell how much I
love you!”
And he who said this was _her_ promised husband, and she to whom he said
it an obscure girl, whom, a few weeks since, Alice would have thought it
impossible for one in Godfrey’s position really to love. Even now she
could not believe him in earnest, but there was bitter anger and
resentment in her heart, prompting her in the heat of her passion to
give him back his freedom with the ring, which, striking against his
shoulder, bounded off and fell on Gertie’s death-white face.
“Don’t, you hurt her,” Godfrey said, softly, as he picked up the ring
and turned it over in his hand, while a perception of the truth began to
dawn upon him.
“What did you say?” he asked; and Alice replied:
“I told you you were free to love your Gertie all you please, and I
meant it, too, for I hate you.”
“Thank you, Alice; thank you so much, only it has come too late,”
Godfrey replied; and slipping the ring upon Gertie’s cold finger, he
continued, “See, it fits; and I’d rather have it there on her dead hand
than on the hand of any other woman living, but it is there too late.”
Was he going crazy because of that pale girl lying there in a state so
near resembling death, that it was not strange for the eye of love to be
mistaken? Alice did not know; but something in his voice and manner
roused the little womanly sympathy she had remaining in her then, and
she said to him sharply: “I tell you she is not dead. It is only a
faint, but she ought to have care. Take her somewhere, can’t you? or let
these men do it for you;” and she turned to the boatmen who had saved
her own and Julia’s life, and who had now come up with offers of
assistance.
“She must be seen to; she’s in a _swound_,” they said, pointing to
Gertie. “Shall we carry her to the town?”
But Godfrey would not let them touch her, and buoyed up with hope which
gave him strength, he gathered the limp form in his arms and ran rather
than walked toward the village.
Our house stands at the entrance of the town just on the brow of the
hill, and as the storm was over I had opened the door to let in the
cool, sweet air, when I saw the strange procession coming,—Godfrey with
something in his arms, which I at first mistook for a child, so small it
looked and so closely he held it to him; Alice following after, more
like a mermaid in appearance than the ruffled and fluted and furbelowed
young lady whom I was wont to see, and the two boatmen bringing up the
rear with Godfrey’s hat and Alice’s parasol.
“What is it, Godfrey?” I asked, as I went out to meet him, and when I
saw what it was, I bade him bring her in at once, for there was no time
to lose.
He laid her on my bed, and then, while one of the men went for the
doctor, we did for her all we had heard must be done for the drowning,
and with such good result, that when the doctor came the patient had
already shown signs of returning consciousness, and the breath was
plainly perceptible through the pale lips whose first word was,
“Godfrey, save me!”
She thought herself still in the river, and when Godfrey, unmindful of
us all, and caring little that just outside the door Alice watched and
waited, bent over her, and said:
“I am here, darling; I have saved you!” she put up both her arms and
wound them round him with a convulsive clasp, while Alice came a step
nearer, and stood within the room. She had exchanged her saturated
clothes for a suit of mine, and with a shawl wrapped about her, stood,
with chattering teeth, watching Godfrey as he unclasped the hands from
his neck and rubbed them with his own, and rubbed the fair arms, and the
pale forehead, and smoothed the long, damp hair, and gave the
restoratives, until the blue eyes unclosed and looked at him with
something more than recognition in their glance. Then Godfrey was
persuaded to leave her and don the dry garments of my brother, which had
been waiting for him in an adjoining room.
As he passed out he stumbled over a little crumpled figure sitting upon
a stool just inside the door, and looking down upon it, he saw that it
was Alice.
“Why, Allie,” he exclaimed; “I thought you had gone home! Have you been
here all the time?”
“Yes, Godfrey, all the time!” and a tear stood on Alice’s eyelashes, and
her voice was not much like the voice which an hour before had said so
bitterly, “I hate you.”
Alice never harbored resentment long, and her heart was very sore as she
recalled the scene on the river-bank, and wondered if Godfrey had taken
her angry words in earnest and felt himself free from her. He could
not,—he must not,—he was not free. He had been hers for years, and
though she did not know what love was in its full extent, she had a
pride in him and a liking for him such as she had never felt for any
other man, and as she sat there by the door and watched him bending over
the still form on the bed, she was conscious of a new sensation
throbbing through her heart, and when he passed her on his way out she
could hardly restrain herself from stopping him and suing for pardon.
She did _not_ mean what she said when in her madness she had set him
free, and thrown back the ring now flashing on Gertie’s finger. Alice
knew where it was, and watched it with a strange gleam in her eyes,
while a resolution was forming in her mind. The ring was hers, and she
would have it; and rising from her seat she went swiftly to the bedside,
and seizing Gertie’s hand, wrenched the ring from the unresisting finger
and placed it on her own.
The act must have hurt Gertie, for she winced, and, opening her eyes,
said:
“Is it you, Miss Creighton? Are you safe?”
Alice did not reply: she had heard the sound of wheels, and hastened out
to meet Col. Schuyler and Edith, who had come to take her and Gertie to
the Hill.
Julia had recovered from her half-faint, and, supported by Robert and
Emma, had walked home, and gone at once to her room, where she was
attended by her maid; while Emma and Robert explained what had happened,
and told where the rest of the party could be found.
Greatly alarmed at the account given of Gertie, Edith had come at once
to take her home, if possible; but this neither the doctor nor myself
thought advisable. It was better for her to remain quietly where she was
for a few days, and so the carriage returned without her, Edith
promising to come again the next morning and see how she was.