miserable roof, and chinks and crannies which let in the wind and
damp, was no place for a sick child on these cool August nights; and
now that Dolly could be moved without putting her to so much pain,
it was thought best it should be done. The poor-house was many miles
away, and now that Maggie and Bessie had come to take such an interest
in her, and she in them, Mr. Porter said it would be cruel to send her
so far, and offered to have her put in the old tool-house. So, for two
or three days, the four boys and Starr busied themselves in repairing
it for her, papa and Uncle Ruthven furnishing what they needed to
make it comfortable. A few planks and nails, a little whitewash and
paint, a sash-window, and some willing hands, soon made it secure
against wind and rain. Then Mrs. Porter had it cleaned, and a cot-bed,
a pine-table, and two chairs were put in it. Plain and bare enough it
was, to be sure, but a wonderful contrast to Dolly's former home; and
the children thought with great pleasure of seeing her brought there.
This was to be done in a few days, but Dolly was not to be told of it
until the time came.
As Maggie and Bessie were on their way home with their mother, they
met Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie, the Colonel and Mrs. Rush, all
going for a walk, and were invited to join them. Mamma agreed, if
Bessie were not too tired, but the little girl declared she was not;
and Uncle Ruthven promised to take her on his shoulder if she gave
out before they reached home. Many a ride had the little "princess"
taken on this kind, strong shoulder during their mountain rambles,
and she now often wondered that she could ever have had "objections"
to this dear, loving uncle who was always so ready to help and please
her. So they all turned back together, and, passing by the end of the
lake, struck into the road which led down the mountain. They strolled
slowly down this for some little distance, and then Mrs. Bradford,
and Colonel and Mrs. Rush, sat down to rest before they began their
homeward walk; while Mr. and Mrs. Stanton and the two little girls
wandered about, gathering wild flowers and mosses. Blue gentians,
golden-rod, Michaelmas daisies, and the pretty, red partridge-berry
grew all about, and the children soon had their hands full.
Suddenly, Maggie spied a cluster of bright scarlet maple leaves, the
first of the season. The gravelly side of the mountain sloped away
here for a few feet, then fell sheer down in a tremendous precipice
to the valley beneath; and a foot or so below the edge grew this
beautiful, tantalizing bunch of leaves. It was quite beyond Maggie's
reach, for she had been forbidden to go near that side of the road,
where a slip, or false step, might have sent her down, down a thousand
feet.
"O Aunt Bessie!" she cried, "look what a lovely bunch of red leaves.
It is just what you said you wanted for that c'llection you are
making. I wonder if Uncle Ruthven could not reach it for you."
Aunt Bessie turned and looked.
"I can reach it for myself," she said. "Uncle Ruthven is upon the
rocks, after those climbing-ferns. I will stand here and hook it up
with this crooked stick."
"Take care, Bessie, take care!" called her brother, the Colonel; "that
is loose gravel there; if it slips with you, you are lost;" and, "Come
back, Bessie, come back!" called her husband from above, seeing the
danger more plainly than any of the others.
It was too late. She looked up, kissed her hand gayly to her husband,
and turned to obey. But her foot was already upon the treacherous
gravel, and she slipped a little, recovered herself; then, startled,
tried too suddenly to spring upon firmer ground, and slipped again.
The gravel gave way more and more beneath her weight. She went
sliding, sliding down, and, in an instant, had disappeared from the
sight of the terrified group above.
"Ruthven! O Ruthven!" was the wild cry that rang out on the still
summer air, followed by a shriek of terror from the two little girls,
and a groan from the Colonel's lips. Then a stillness like death
itself, and the next moment Uncle Ruthven stood among them.
But--how very strange Maggie and Bessie thought it--he did not seem
frightened at all. His face was very white, to be sure; but his voice
was steady and quiet, only it did not sound like Uncle Ruthven's
voice, but like that of some stranger, and as if it came from far, far
away.
"She is holding by the bushes below," he said; and, as he spoke, he
threw himself flat upon the ground, half on, half over, the edge of
the precipice, and, reaching one arm, he succeeded in grasping, and
but just grasping, the wrist of his wife.
For it was as he had said. As she slid downwards, Mrs. Stanton had
clutched wildly at the bushes growing below, and had succeeded in
laying hold of them. But the bushes were slender, and not deeply
rooted in the loose gravelly soil, and though Mrs. Stanton was a
small, slight woman, even her light weight was too much for them, and
they were just giving way, when her husband's strong, firm grasp was
upon her wrist. Yes, he had her fast, holding back the precious life;
but for how long? and what was to be done next?
Mr. Stanton dared not rise upon his feet or even upon his knees, and
so try to draw her up; he was a large, heavy man; the treacherous
edge, which would not bear his wife's far lighter weight, would give
way beneath his, and send them both to a fearful death below. Even
now loose pebbles and gravel were falling down, and striking upon the
sweet, upturned face which looked to him for help. Had her feet even
been upon the slope, or the ledge beneath it, he might have drawn her
up; but they were below it, hanging over that terrible precipice.
In vain did the Colonel, kneeling beside his brother-in-law, clasp his
arms about his waist, and so try to draw both him and his sister to a
place of safety; the ground only broke away more as the added strain
came upon Mr. Stanton's arm, and a fresh shower of gravel and stone
went rolling down upon the poor sufferer below.
Then came her voice in feeble tones. "Ruthven, it is of no use, love;
my clothes are caught and I cannot free them. Let me go, my husband:
it is only throwing away your life."
"Not while God gives life and power to this hand. Courage, my darling,
courage. Go, some of you, for help, ropes and men," he said, turning
his haggard face towards the others, and still speaking in that
strange tone, so unlike his own.
In an instant, Mrs. Bradford was far up the road on her way to the
house. To her little girls she seemed scarcely to touch the ground; to
herself, it seemed as though leaden weights were upon her feet, and
that she made no way at all. Just as she reached the lower end of the
lake, she met her husband coming down to join them. Scarcely pausing,
she spoke half a dozen words which sent him in haste on his way; then
herself sped on towards the house.
Meanwhile, how long the moments seemed to the agonized group below.
There was nothing more to be done till help came. Could Mr. Stanton
hold on, could that cruel gravel bear them both, till that should be?
God, in whom alone they trusted, only knew.
Mrs. Rush sat white and sick upon the bank, the little girls clinging
to her and crying bitterly, but quietly. No sound broke that terrible
stillness, except Uncle Ruthven's voice as he now and then spoke a
few words of hope and encouragement to his wife, till a bird lighted
a little way off, and broke into a joyous song. Maggie could not bear
it: it seemed a mockery of their grief and agony; and, although at
another time she would have been shocked at herself for doing such a
thing, she now chased it away.
"Oh! why don't help come to us?" she sobbed out. "Why don't God send
us help?"
Bessie raised her head from Mrs. Rush's lap, where she had hidden her
face.
"Maybe we did not ask Him quite right," she said. "Aunt May, say a
prayer for Aunt Bessie and for us all."
Mrs. Rush tried to speak, but could not. One ceaseless, agonized
prayer had been going up from her heart; but she could not put it into
words, and only shook her head. Bessie looked at her for a moment, and
then, as if she understood, said,--
"Shall I say it, Aunt May?"
Mrs. Rush nodded assent; and, kneeling at her side, Bessie clasped her
little hands, and looking up to heaven, said,--
"Dear Father in heaven, we are so very troubled, we don't any of us
know quite what to say; but you know what we want, even if we can't
find the words, and our heart-prayers do just as well for you. Please
send dear Aunt Bessie some help very quick. Have pity on her, and make
her know our Father don't forget her. Amen."
It was said with many a gasp and sob of terror and distress; and, when
it was finished, the little one hid her face in Mrs. Rush's lap again.
But she was right. The all-merciful Father had heard their earnest
"heart-prayers," which could not be put into words; and help, such as
they did not look for, was at hand.
None saw the figure bounding down the mountain side with such headlong
speed--now swinging itself down some steep ascent by the branches of a
tree, now springing from rock to rock like a wild goat--till it stood
among them, breathless and eager.
The Colonel had risen to his feet, and, going a few steps up the bank
where the ground was firmer, grasped the trunk of a tree for support,
and looked over the edge at his poor sister. God had been merciful to
her, and now sense and feeling had left her, and she hung unconscious
in her husband's hand. Colonel Rush saw now what he had not known
before,--a narrow ledge of rock, scarce six inches wide, jutted beyond
the slope of gravel, and, on this, his sister's form partly rested.
Well that it was so, or not even her husband's tremendous strength
could have supported the strain so long. The Colonel eyed this ledge
eagerly. It must have been on this that his brother-in-law relied,
when he called for men and ropes. Could some one but reach it, and be
held from above, they might fasten a rope about his sister's waist,
and so she be drawn safely up. Could Ruthven hold on till then?
The Colonel looked around him, for a moment, with a wild thought of
trying to reach it himself; the next he put it away as worse than
folly. There was no rope, nothing to hold him or his sister; and if
there had been, who was there to support and guide it? No one but a
weak woman and two little children. He himself was a tall man, of no
light weight, and with a lame foot: the attempt was sure to bring
destruction upon himself, his sister, and her husband.
As he turned away, with another silent appeal for help, Lem stood
before him.
"I seen it up there," he said, hurriedly, "and thought I'd never git
here. I say, mister,"--to Mr. Stanton,--"if I only had a rope, or a
bit of something to fasten about me, I know I could get down there,
and put it about her, so you could histe her up."
The quick eye of the boy, used to all manner of make-shifts and
hair-breadth escapes, had taken it all in, and saw a way of safety, if
the means were but at hand. He looked around, and spied a light shawl
lying unheeded upon the ground. He snatched it up, tried its strength,
and shook his head.
"'Twon't do," he said, "'taint long enough so; and, if we split it,
'twon't be strong enough."
The children and Mrs. Rush had risen, and were listening; and now a
quick thought darted into Maggie's mind.
"Uncle Horace," she said, springing eagerly forward, and pointing to
the broad plaid ribbon about her sister's waist, "there's my sash and
Bessie's. Wouldn't they be of any use?"
"Thank God! the very thing!" exclaimed the Colonel; and, in an
instant, the broad, stout ribbons were untied from the children's
waists, and strongly knotted together.
"Can you hold the boy, Horace?" asked Mrs. Rush.
"With God's help, and what you can give me, I trust so," he answered.
"You must keep far enough from the edge not to slide over yourselves,
you see," said Lem, coolly, as he and the Colonel drew strongly upon
the knot.
The Colonel measured the ribbon with his eye. Tied around Lena's
waist, it would scarcely give the length they needed, and it was
not safe to fasten it to any of the boy's ragged, worn-out clothes.
He snatched up the shawl, twisted and wound it about Lem's waist,
fastening it securely, then drew the ribbon through it. As he did so,
Bessie cried out,--
"Papa! here's dear papa! That is help."
No one could bring such help as papa, Bessie thought; and there he
came, running down the hill, and stood among them. A few words made
him understand what they were about; and, as Lem was now ready, he,
with the Colonel, took fast hold of the long ribbon.
Slowly and carefully, with the Colonel's cane in his hand, the boy
stepped over the edge,--not just above Mrs. Stanton, but at the spot
where the Colonel had looked over at her,--down, step by step, till
he had disappeared from the sight of all but Mr. Stanton, who, lying
over the edge, watched him, God only knows, with what sickening hope;
the loose soil crumbled and slid beneath him; but, light and sinewy
as he was, his bare feet, trained to all kinds of mountain climbing,
took hold where those of a heavier person, with shoes upon them, must
have faltered and slipped past all recovery. He had reached the ledge,
and now, step by step, slowly neared the lady. Sure-footed as a goat,
steady of head and nerve, reckless of danger, yet with sense enough
to remember the Colonel's charge not to look below him, he reached
her side, freed her clothes from the clinging bushes; then, with a
care and steadiness which Mr. Stanton, spite of his agonizing anxiety,
wondered to see, unrolled the shawl from his own body, and fastened it
about that of the senseless figure beside him; then gave the word to
raise her.
Up, up, steadily, inch by inch, was the precious form drawn, till her
husband's arm could grasp her waist, and she was lifted safe,--but
oh! so white and still,--and laid upon the grassy bank; while Uncle
Ruthven, almost as white, fell exhausted beside her. But he was on his
knees and bending over her, by the time that Mr. Bradford and Colonel
Rush had lowered the ribbon again; and Lem, flushed and triumphant,
was drawn up unhurt. The boy was very proud, and perhaps justly so, of
the feat he had performed, and would have broken out into some loud,
exultant expressions, if Mr. Bradford had not checked him; and then,
before a word was spoken, the gentlemen uncovered their heads, and Mr.
Bradford spoke a few words of earnest, solemn thanksgiving for the
wonderful mercy just shown them. Lem stared, open-mouthed; and the
instant he was allowed to speak, sprang forward to Mr. Stanton,--
"I told you I'd do you a good turn, if I got the way, mister; and I
did, didn't I?"
"By God's mercy, yes," said Mr. Stanton. "May he bless you for this,
my brave boy. I will be a friend to you as long as I live."
Lem immediately turned half a dozen somersets, which, in spite of
their admiration and gratitude, greatly disgusted Maggie and Bessie;
for they did not see how he could have the heart to do such a thing
while dear Aunt Bessie lay there, so white and still. They could
scarcely believe Aunt May's assurance that she was not dead, but had
only fainted, and were still filled with terror and distress.
And now, Uncle Ruthven lifted her in his arms, and they all set out
on the way home; Lem keeping close to Mr. Stanton with his precious
burden, as if he felt that he had some sort of a claim on her. But
when they were about half way home, they met all the men and boys from
the Lake House coming down the road with ropes, and Lem was taken with
a sudden fit of shyness, and, turning about, rushed away without a
word.
[Illustration]
XVI.
_LEM'S SORROW._
IT would be impossible to tell what joy and gratitude filled the
hearts of all at the Lake House that night. It was true, indeed, that
the dear one who had been snatched from such a fearful death was very
ill from the fright and shock, weak and exhausted, and dreadfully
nervous. Her arm, too, was badly hurt with the long-continued strain
upon it, and her sweet face scratched and bruised with the falling
stones and gravel; but the precious life had been spared, by God's
great mercy, and they might hope, that, in a few days, she would be
herself again.
The whole family had been sadly shaken by the terrible accident. Not
only on that night, but for several succeeding ones, Maggie and
Bessie were constantly starting awake with cries of fear, and then
they would sob and tremble so, that it was difficult to quiet them.
Maggie would burst into tears for the merest trifle,--sometimes,
even if she were spoken to suddenly, and then would cry and laugh
by turns; and Bessie was often found in some corner, with her face
hidden, sobbing as if her heart would break. "Just because I could not
help it, mamma," she would say, when asked the reason; and she would
shudder and quiver all over, at the least mention of that dreadful
day. The shock had been too much for the tender young hearts, and it
took them some time to recover from it.
It was necessary to keep the house very still, on account of Aunt
Bessie, who was so very nervous that the least sound disturbed her;
and roguish, noisy Frankie was, by Aunt Patty's earnest request,
allowed to go to her house, where, for a few days, he lorded it over
that humble servant of his to his heart's content. But there was no
need to send the little girls away; they were only too quiet, and
moped about the house in a way that was quite melancholy to see. The
weather was damp and rainy, so they could not be much out of doors;
and, although their friends did all they could to divert them with
stories, reading aloud, and games, they did not seem able to shake
off their sadness. The truth was, they could not forget Aunt Bessie's
face, as they had seen it lying on Uncle Ruthven's shoulder, white and
still; and it scarcely seemed possible to them that she could ever be
well again.
But one day, grandmamma, coming out of Aunt Bessie's room, found the
two little maidens sitting disconsolately on the stairs, looking
wistfully at the door of the sick-room. She stepped back, spoke a few
words to those within, and then, coming to the children, asked them if
they would like to go and see the dear invalid. Bessie sprang eagerly
forward, but Maggie, with the fear of seeing Aunt Bessie look as she
had done on that dreadful day, hung back a little, till Bessie urged
her forward.
They went in with hushed steps, for grandmamma said they must be very
quiet, stay but a moment, and on no account must they speak of the
accident. There lay Aunt Bessie on the pillows. Very white still was
her face; but life and love looked out at them from the dear eyes: it
was Aunt Bessie's own sweet smile which welcomed them, her own gentle
voice which told them how glad she was to see them, her own warm kiss
which met theirs.
"Aunt Bessie!" said her little namesake, and then she nestled her face
on the pillows beside her, and said no more. But there was no need:
there was a whole world of tenderness and joy in those two words, and
Aunt Bessie felt it.
Maggie said nothing, but stood with swimming eyes, and rising color,
gazing at her aunt, till Mrs. Stanton said,--
"Have you not a word for me, dear Maggie?"
Then Maggie gave a wistful kind of a smile, and tried to speak, but
broke down in a half-choked sob.
"Do not be worried about me, dearie," said Aunt Bessie; "I shall be
quite well again in a few days."
Maggie did not answer, except by gently kissing the poor hurt hand,
which lay upon the coverlet; but it was plainly to be seen that she
was a good deal excited; and Uncle Ruthven, fearing one of her sudden
bursts of crying, said the children had stayed long enough, and led
them from the room.
Then Maggie's tears came forth, but they were happy tears, for she and
Bessie were both satisfied about Aunt Bessie now; and she soon wiped
them away, and from this time was her own bright, merry self.
And that afternoon there was a new subject of interest for them, for
the weather cleared up warm and beautiful, and it was thought safe to
bring Dolly to the better quarters provided for her. Mrs. Bradford
and Mrs. Porter went to tell her what was to be done, and then came
John Porter and one of his brothers to carry her over. They lifted her
bed between them, and moved as carefully as possible, but it was a
rough way, with many ups and downs, and spite of all their care Dolly
suffered very much.
As they left the shanty, the sick child raised her head a little, and,
looking towards the side where her flower-pots stood, cried out,--
"Oh! my posy boxes, bring 'em along, Lem."
Lem obeyed, and, taking up the two flower-pots which contained the
scragly, sickly looking plants, trotted along beside Mrs. Bradford
with one on each arm.
"She sets such a heap on the old things," he said to the lady as if in
excuse. "I'm sure I don't know what for; but since she's been better,
she's like crazed about 'em, and would have 'em brought in every day
for her to see. I've watered 'em all along 'cause _he_ told me to."
The _he_ of whom Lem spoke was Mr. Stanton; and whatever he said
and did had become right in the boy's eyes. Lem had improved a good
deal during these three weeks, though the change was by no means
so surprising in him as it was in Dolly. Dolly was trying in her
own simple, ignorant way, to please that Heavenly Friend of whom
she had so lately learned; while Lem, as yet, looked no higher than
man's praise. Still it was much that such a hold had been gained
upon the boy. He looked up to Mr. Stanton with a blind admiration
and desire for his approval, which kept him from much mischief and
wrong-doing. It was very strange, he thought, that this magnificent
gentleman--whose appearance, tremendous strength, and wonderful
adventures, made him a great hero in Lem's eyes--should trouble and
interest himself so much about a poor, ragged boy, for whom every one
had a hard word; and who, Lem knew very well, richly deserved all that
could be said of him. To please Mr. Stanton had now become the aim of
Lem's life, and with this purpose he was learning to give up many
of his old bad ways. Mr. Stanton had even partly succeeded in curing
him of his habit of using bad words every time he spoke. One day when
he was telling the boy a story in which he was much interested, Lem
suddenly broke out with some expression of delight, mingling with it
a dreadful oath. Mr. Stanton immediately ceased his tale; and, when
asked by Lem why he did so, told him that he could not talk to a boy
who dared to take the name of his Maker in vain. Lem was disappointed,
and angry too, but it did him good; and when, the next day, the
gentleman offered to finish the interrupted story, he was very careful
not to offend again. This happened more than once, and each time Lem
became more unwilling to risk not only the loss of his story, but also
the look of grave displeasure on his new friend's face. He also tried
to keep the old place a little tidier, and, when he knew that any of
the family from the Lake House were coming there, would wash his face
and hands; and a comb having been brought by some of the ladies for
Dolly's use, he would draw it a few times through his tangled locks.
On the day before this, Mrs. Bradford had given him an old suit of
Harry's, and he was now dressed in this, which, though too large for
him, was at least clean and whole; and a proud boy was Lem as he
walked by the lady's side.
Lem thought himself rather a hero, and not without reason, for the
share he had had in saving young Mrs. Stanton's life; and was much
inclined to talk of it to any one who would listen to him. He was
still rather shy of the boys; but since the little girls had been so
often to see Dolly, he had been quite friendly with them; and they
were ready enough to allow him all the credit he deserved for the
service he had rendered to their dear Aunt Bessie. Poor boy! praise
and encouragement were so new to him, that it was perhaps no wonder he
craved all that could fall to him.
On that memorable afternoon, he had been sitting on the rock in front
of the hut, watching our friends as they sauntered down the road
below him. He saw them stop, some sitting down to rest, while Mr. and
Mrs. Stanton and the little girls wandered about in search of flowers.