AFTERMATH.
That storm of March, 19—, claimed many a victim. More than one was
frozen to death, many died from the exposure, and many more were
invalids for months as the result of it. All that terrible night Dr.
Black worked over old Charles, with Mammy and Hadyn to aid him, and
Constance to vibrate between the house and the cottage, for with the
first peep of dawn Mr. Henry’s man came over to dig out the snow-bound
family and make a path from house to cottage. Mrs. Carruth, upon
learning of Jean’s desperate rush for Dr. Black and her collapse at his
doorstep, started instantly for his home. Charles could claim a great
deal from her, but the claim of her own was far greater, and Dr. Black’s
sleigh and powerful horse carried her to Jean as quickly as the great
snowdrifts permitted.
But Jean was really none the worse for her mad ride once she was warmed
and had partaken of Mrs. Black’s cup of steaming hot chocolate. She was
as strong and pliable as a hickory sapling, which, the storm having
passed over it, springs erect and is as vigorous as ever. Mrs. Black
soon reassured Mrs. Carruth, and at length had the satisfaction of
seeing them both fast asleep in her guest room, Mrs. Carruth’s arm, even
in her sleep, laid caressingly and protectingly across Jean’s shoulder.
Both were worn out, and noon had struck before they wakened to reproach
themselves for their long rest and to make inquiry for Charles. Dr.
Black had just returned, and reported a decided improvement in the old
man.
“And Baltie—dear old Baltie?” demanded Jean.
“Baltie is sure enough in clover, little girl,” answered the good
doctor. “Dried clover, and last summer’s clover, to be sure, but none
the less clover, for Dick has nearly buried him in it, and the old
fellow seems none the worse for his struggle through snowdrifts. But you
are both trumps—the queen of hearts and the king, by George! I don’t
know how you did it!”
“We _had_ to do it. There wasn’t anyone else to.”
Dr. Black took the earnest face in both his hands, and, looking into the
hazel eyes, said:
“It is a pity a few more are not convinced of that ‘we had to.’”
Then he drove his guests back to their home. It was agreed that Baltie
should not be taken out of Dr. Black’s stable until the weather
moderated.
A week passed. Charles was out of danger, but still required the closest
attention, and Constance insisted upon a nurse from Memorial Hospital.
Mammy protested, but her protests were of no avail. Constance saw very
quickly that weeks of careful nursing lay ahead, and she would not
permit her mother to overtax her strength. Mammy must attend to her
cooking and the luncheon counter, now that Charles could not. Constance
had her own hands full with her candy kitchen, for, even with Mary and
Fanny Willing to assist her, she had all she could do to keep abreast of
her orders. So the nurse took command in Mammy’s bedroom, and Mammy had
to yield.
Perhaps no one felt the situation half as keenly as Hadyn did. That he
had dozed off in that hour and a half in which so much occurred filled
him with a remorse he could not overcome. He had been left at a post of
duty at a critical hour, and he had failed ignominiously. He would not
admit any extenuating circumstances, for he sincerely felt that there
were none. If others had kept awake when it was imperative to keep
awake, why had he not done so? If little Jean had been able to do so,
and when he had failed her had undertaken such a ride, undaunted by the
hour, the darkness, the loneliness and the terrific storm, while he
dozed snugly before the open fire—oh, it was intolerable, disgraceful!
And these friends had done so much for him! True, no harm had come to
Jean or to the others, but Hadyn shuddered when he pictured what might
have happened in those ninety minutes. Coax and urge as he would he
could not induce Jean to admit that she had signalled to the house for
aid, albeit he felt as certain that she had done so as if he had seen
the electric light flashed. When he urged she simply closed her lips and
shook her head, and as no one else, not even Constance, could enlighten
him, he had to let the matter drop.
In the course of the next week Baltie came hobbling back to his home. In
spite of all the care given him at Dr. Black’s, the old horse showed the
effects of his exposure and the terrible tax upon his strength that wild
night; yet none who loved him so well dreamed that the great summons had
really come to the animal which had given more than thirty years of
faithful service to his friends. From little colthood he had been
Grandfather Raulsbury’s pet until the old man’s death. Then had come the
dreadful interval of evil days when Jabe Raulsbury had so misused him,
to be followed by the happier ones with the Carruths—days of unremitting
care, affection and happiness for Baltie and those who loved him, and
especially to Jean and Mammy. And how generously he had requited their
devotion to him! Indeed, the last act of his life was to be recorded as
one of service to those he loved—a service which had undoubtedly saved
the life of one who had tenderly ministered to his comfort. But for
Baltie’s devotion Charles’ life could not have been saved, all agreed,
and the one who loved the blind horse more than any other excepting Jean
would have mourned her old husband. Mammy’s heart was large enough to
take in all the world if they needed her love and care, though she often
hid that fact beneath an assumed aggressiveness. That was Mammy’s way.
From the hour that Baltie had become the joint property of Jean and
Mammy, and later the ownership had embraced Charles, they had not missed
visiting his stable the first thing in the morning. For a long time
Mammy’s was the first voice the blind old horse heard when he greeted
the morning sunlight which streamed into his big box stall; Mammy’s the
first hand to minister to his comfort and caress him. Then, as soon as
she was dressed, Jean flew to the stable, and a pretty scene always
followed. When Charles came into the family he was the one to go first
to the stable; but neither Jean nor Mammy ever failed to visit Baltie a
little later, and during those years he had become almost human. Only
human speech seemed denied him, but this lack he supplied by his own
Houyhnhum language, and the silent but most eloquent language of the
eyes and ears which God has given mute creatures—each so very wonderful
if dull humans will only try to learn them. In the audible one are
almost as many inflections as in the broader range of the human voice,
and it is a dull intellect indeed which cannot interpret:
“I love you. I am cold. I am hungry. I am parched with thirst,” and a
hundred other sentences, or read the language of the eyes and ears.
And Baltie’s vocabulary was a liberal one; his conversational powers,
exceptional; his friends understanding the keenest.
As often occurs, that blizzard, which is now history, was followed by
weather as soft and balmy as mid-April rather than late March. As if by
magic the snow disappeared, running away in rivers of water and leaving
the turf beneath showing promising bits of green, which made one feel
little tingles of joy at the hint of springtime. Only in sunless spots
did banks of snow linger surlily and soiled, like some malign creature
beaten, but yet too vindictive to withdraw. The stable fronted south,
and all the graciousness of that early spring sunshine fell upon it and
entered its doors the minute they were opened. In spite of her anxiety
for Charles, and her increased labors as the result of his illness and
convalescence, Mammy had somehow found time to visit Baltie each day,
though she was not often able to do so early in the morning. It was Jean
who ran out to him long before anyone else was astir, and more than once
had Constance been obliged to go out after her, lest she forget
breakfast, school, and everything else.
Baltie had been back in his own stable about a week when he began to
show signs that the wonderful machinery which had endured for so many
years was wearing out. Had Charles or Mammy been looking after him then,
they would have recognized the signs; but Mr. Henry’s man, though he did
everything for Baltie’s comfort, saw in him nothing but a worn-out old
horse, which must very soon go the way of all old worn-out horses, and
Jean lacked experience to understand. So the climax came when no one
dreamed it was pending.
It was a wonderful morning in mid-April. Out in the garden some pioneer
robins had ventured into the northern world, and were calling madly to
one another of the grave responsibilities of selecting building sites,
and constructing homes against the arrival of their wives, who had, like
themselves, been wintering in the South. On the southern terrace a few
venturesome crocuses popped their heads up through the moist earth to
smile a “howdy, friend,” at a passerby. Off in the distance the river
lay like a mirror, with vast ice floes dropping down stream with the
tide, crystal barges for Elaine, and moving as silently, each duplicated
in the water mirror that floated them, as were also the opposite shore
and mountains. A wonderful picture, mirage-like in its outline and
exquisite coloring. Those who knew that river best read the signs
unerringly. The farmers living in the environs of Riveredge called this
peculiar atmospheric condition a “weather breeder.”
There was something in Jean which fairly leaped out to meet the newly
awakened world and springtide. From a little child she had lived very
close indeed to nature’s heart. The first balmy breath of spring seemed
to intoxicate her; the first bird-call could throw her into an ecstacy;
an early spring blossom invariably caused a rapture; summer’s languor
and richness bore her off into a beautiful world of her own; autumn’s
“mellow, yellow, ripening days, floating in a golden coating of a
dreamy, listless haze,” conveyed her instantly into dreamland; winter’s
frost and sparkle produced the wildest exhilaration. Was it any wonder
that, coming out into the early morning sunlight of that soft springlike
day, with bird notes filling the air, and her own pulses thrilling with
life at its dawn, Jean’s cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled with the
very joy of living?
It was still very early and no one yet astir. Over in Mammy’s cottage a
faint smoke wraith floated up from the chimney, telling that Mammy was
astir. Jean had thrown a warm cape about her, for the morning air still
had its chill, and, enticed by the sunlight, she ran down the piazza
steps, inhaling deep breaths of the delicious air. Pausing a moment to
revel in it all, her eyes fell upon the stable. The next second she was
darting away like a swallow, no premonition in her heart of what lay
behind its closed doors.
Opening the door she entered with a soft whistle. When had there failed
to be an instant response to that whistle? This time there was silence
only.
“Oh, Baltie, dear! Come, Baltie!” she called, running across to the box
stall and opening the door. Then there was a low cry, and Jean stood for
a moment as though petrified. On the sweet, clean straw lay the old
horse, body inert, limbs relaxed, head resting upon its bed of soft
straw as a tired, worn-out veteran’s might rest upon his pillow, his
eyes closed, and without a flutter of the delicate nostrils to indicate
breathing. Life seemed extinct. With a piteous cry Jean glided to the
horse’s head and dropped upon her knees, clasping her arms about the
silky neck.
“Baltie, oh, Baltie, dear, look at me! Speak to me,” she begged.
The eyelids fluttered, and the faintest possible nicker was breathed
through the nostrils as he strove to raise his head. Too late! The angel
of death was about to claim one of his most faithful creatures, and, let
us hope, the recording angel was already checking off the deeds of a
devoted life and a disposition which many of his friends claiming
immortality might emulate.
“Oh, my Baltie, my Baltie!” sobbed Jean, slipping into a sitting
position and lifting the horse’s head into her lap. “Must you leave me?
Must your life end now? I love you so, Baltie, I love you so! You have
been so good, so faithful! How can I let you die? how can I?” and with
heartbreaking sobs Jean buried her head in the silky forelock as her
arms clasped the great head.
Slowly the sunlight which Baltie and Jean so loved crept around and
looked into the window of the stall. On a branch just beyond the window
a bluebird caroled as though not in all the sunlit world was there
sorrow or death.
In the stall Jean sat motionless. Her first impulse had been to rush for
aid; but who could aid in this extremity? Instinctively the girl knew it
to be the end, and somehow, in her great love for her pet, she did not
wish anyone else to intrude upon the moment of his passing. She had no
idea of the flight of time. Ten minutes or an hour might have passed
without her noting them. Baltie lay perfectly still, his head in her
lap, her arms clasping his neck. Gently, sweetly as he had lived, so was
Baltie slipping out of the world of sentient creatures. Only the
faintest flutter of breath indicated that life lingered. His effort to
greet the one he loved seemed to have demanded his last atom of
vitality. After a little Jean’s sobs ceased, though tears still fell
upon the satiny head. She did not know how long she had been in the
stall, when just the softest sigh was breathed from the delicate
nostrils, a faint quiver passed over the great frame, and Baltie was at
rest forever. Gently as he had lived, so had Baltie died.
Two hours later Mammy came out to the stable in quest of Jean.