THE OLD STONE HOUSE.
It must have been a death-chill, indeed, that could long restrain the
warm heart of Barbara Stafford. Her first real impulse was to arise, and
see if the poor man at her side was indeed dead.
The effort was a painful one, but, to her, will was strength. She lifted
her two hands, parted the wet locks from her face, struggled up to a
rest on one elbow, till her eyes fell on the pale, beautiful face of the
young man. Slowly her lips parted, and her large, wild eyes filled with
holy wonder. She was like a spirit just landed on the shores of
eternity, doubting if her companion were in truth an angel.
She held the dripping hair back from her cheek with one hand, for the
sight of that young face had arrested it there, and slowly over her
singular features dawned a pale, soft light, that illuminated her
countenance without leaving a tint of color there.
After a little, Barbara Stafford drew a deep, tremulous breath, that was
long in coming, for the holy depths of her heart could not be broken up
at once. She arose to a sitting posture, and lifted the head of the
young man to her lap.
That moment Samuel Parris came up followed by the three sailors his
courage had rescued.
"Ah, me!" said the old man, clasping his hands sorrowfully over the
body. "The youth has gone to his last account; there is no life here."
The woman looked quickly around; a spasm of pain contracted her features
when she saw the ocean, the dripping sailors, and that singular old man,
stricken with sorrow, and moaning over the cold form in her arms. She
was still of earth; this conviction left her gazing wistfully in the old
man's face; she was trying to comprehend the connection of his words. At
last, understanding them, she dropped her eyes sorrowfully downward
again.
"He is gone of a verity," said Parris, dropping the hand of the youth
from his fingers, which had been tremulously searching for the beat of a
pulse. "He has gone, and those that have seen him shall see him no
more."
Again Barbara Stafford lifted a gaze full of mournful intensity upon the
old man's face.
"Dead," she echoed, in a voice that thrilled even that rough atmosphere
with pathetic sweetness. "Dead! what, does he belong to that shore and I
to this? Oh, would to God I had died also!"
Her head bent slowly downward as she spoke. With her two hands she began
smoothing the wet hair back from that pale forehead. Then, as if
overcome with unaccountable tenderness, she bent down her mouth and
kissed it slowly, lingeringly, as the first sigh of returning life had
left her bosom.
Up to that moment the young man had lain frozen lifeless, without a beat
of the pulse or a flutter of the breath. As that woman's lips touched
his forehead, a shudder ran visibly through what seemed marble a moment
before, and a low cry broke from his lips. Life had come back to him
with a pang either of pain or pleasure; no one could tell which.
"Behold," said Samuel Parris with enthusiasm, "truly our Lord has worked
a miracle in behalf of this youth; for of a verity there was no life in
him when his hand rested in mine a moment since."
Barbara Stafford had withdrawn her lips from his forehead; but, as his
quivering eyelids opened, the look of strange tenderness with which she
bent over him penetrated to every fibre of his heart. The same holy
expression that had crept over her features a little time before, came
to his also, bringing warmth and color, almost a smile with it.
"At last!" he murmured, like one just aroused from a dream, "at last you
have come."
The words were uttered in a low murmur, but Barbara Stafford gathered
them into her heart unshared by the men about her; they heard a faint
moan, which spoke of returning life, nothing more.
By this time the whole group began to feel the cold insupportably. The
old man, without cloak or coat, shook in all his limbs, while the
sailors could hardly stand, so fierce had been their struggle with the
waves.
"Tell me," said Samuel Parris, addressing one of the sailors, "to whom
were you conveying this lady?--for such I take her to be."
"We do not know," answered the man; "she gave us a guinea a-piece to set
her upon one of the wharves yonder before sunset; that is all we can
tell you of the matter."
"Lady," said Parris, addressing Barbara directly, "we must find speedy
shelter or this new-born life will go out again."
The lady lifted her face; it was cramped and so cold that a violet tinge
shadowed the mouth and lay underneath the eyes.
"Yes, he is very cold," she said, gathering her wet mantle over the
youth; "have you nothing else?"
"Arouse yourself, lady," said the old man after a moment's perplexed
thought; "to remain here would be death to us all. It is impossible for
you or this youth to reach the town to-night. Around this curve of the
hill is a farm-house, where you can have rest. It is but a brief walk."
"Let us go before this ice touches his heart!" she said, earnestly. "I
can walk; carry him among you. Which way lies the house?"
Her teeth chattered as she spoke; but even this chill gave way to her
resolution.
Two of the sailors lifted the young man between them, and moved slowly
forward, following the lady, who leaned on the minister's arm. After the
first few steps the youth planted his feet more firmly on the earth,
and, though staggering from exhaustion, insisted on supporting the lady,
walking on one side while she kept the arm of the minister on the other.
At last a farm-house of stone, low-roofed and sheltered in a hollow of
the hills, presented itself. Samuel Parris knocked upon the door with
his knuckles two or three times, when a voice bade him "come in." He
pulled a thong which lifted a wooden latch inside, and entered a low
room in which a woman sat alone spinning on one of those small
flax-wheels with which our mothers in the olden time used to fill up the
leisure hours obtained from the general housework.
She was a spare, not to say gaunt woman, a little on the sunny side of
mid age; not exactly austere of countenance, but with a certain gravity
which was in that epoch considered an outward sign of experimental
religion.
The woman arose in evident surprise when her strange guests entered.
Pushing back the spinning-wheel with her foot, she stood bolt upright,
waiting to know what had brought them under her roof. Mr. Parris stepped
forward, and told his story in a few terse words, during which the good
wife was unbanding her wheel and removing the checked apron which had
protected her dress while at work.
"Walk in and make yourself to home, ma'am," said the housewife, opening
the door of an inner room and revealing a fire-place filled with pine
branches which looked drearily cold that heavy day. "The hired man is
out, but if one of these sailor men will bring in some wood from the
yard, I'll get some pitch pine knots and have a fire in no time."
Without more ceremony, the woman went to work, and in less than half an
hour Barbara Stafford was in a warm bed, with a bowl of herb tea smoking
on a little round table by her pillow, while her young preserver lay in
a smaller room equally well provided for.
For Samuel Parris and the sailors the good wife insisted on providing a
comfortable supper; and gave up her own bed to the minister, while she
found room for the unfortunate seamen in a loft of the house. In order
to accomplish this, she was sadly put about for blue and white yarn
coverlets with which to restore them to warmth, but stripped every bed
in the house, and, when that resource was exhausted, brought out all her
linsey-woolsey skirts and aprons as a substitute.
Early in the morning Norman Lovel was aroused from a deep slumber by the
hand of Samuel Parris laid gently on his shoulder. The youth started up,
shook back his hair which the dampness had left crisp and curling over
his forehead, and cast an astonished look around, which ended in a long,
half-angry gaze at his visitor.
"Oh!" he said, sweeping a hand once or twice across his eyes, then
turning his face toward the old man, with a smile.
"This is no dream, I suppose--though you are here with the roar of
waters too--a minute since I was fighting them like a tiger; but this is
a feather bed, and you stand upon a good oak floor. Is it not so?"
"Yes, thanks to the Holy of holies, we are safe!"
"But that ship--the boat--the lady--tell me what is real and what was
dreaming."
"We have had a strange meeting, my young friend, and have struggled
together in behalf of human life, peradventure with success."
The youth again swept a hand over his face. "Yes, yes. I remember a ship
in the distance--a boat full of people rocking in the foam--a madman
jumping overboard--I--you in the waves. Tell me, old man, was this
real?"
"Truly it was."
"And the lady--this house--the woman at her spinning-wheel, who brought
herb tea to my bed. That lady--me, good friend, for I remember all--how
fares the lady?"
"She is safe--thanks to a merciful Providence--and sleeping profoundly
in the next room, at least such was the report of Goody Brown, in the
kitchen yonder, ten minutes ago. She must not be disturbed. I had not
broken in upon your sleep, either, but the sun is up, and perchance
there is some one in town who may be grieved at your absence. You must
have friends, and I would cheerfully bear them tidings of your safety."
"Friends!" cried the youth, starting up. "Indeed, there is one who will
have wept her eyes out by this time. I pray you, sir, hand me such
garments as the storm has left. We must start together for the town."
"Willingly," answered the minister, bringing the desired garments in
from the kitchen fire. "But put on your garments in haste, for the
morning wears; meanwhile I will speak a word with our host."
Half an hour after, the minister and his young friend quitted the
farm-house, leaving the woman they had saved in the deep slumber of
exhaustion.