When Queenie threw herself down upon the wet grass in a weariness so
utter that she could no longer hold her aching limbs upright, she had
thought that a minute of rest would put new strength into her exhausted
frame, and enable her to pursue her journey.
But exhausted nature could bear no more. Her unbroken fast of nearly
three days, and her wet and draggled condition combined to weaken and
depress her. Her limbs trembled under her, and when she fell down for
one minute's rest, a deep unconsciousness stole upon her, wrapping her
senses in lethargy. Her last conscious thought was one of agonized
terror, lest ere she revived her enemy should discover her escape, and
set out to trace her.
While she lay there mute and still, the dawn began to grow brighter in
the east, the rain slackened, and a few pale beams of sunshine striking
upon the scene, showed that she had fallen almost at the gate of a
little farm-house from whose chimneys the blue smoke curled cheerfully
up, showing that the inhabitants were already up and about their daily
labors.
Presently a middle-aged man, in the rough, coarse garb of a farmer came
out of the house and strode down to the gate, whistling a merry tune,
and snapping and cracking the great leathern whip he carried in his
hand.
As he stepped outside the gate his cheerful whistle suddenly ended in an
exclamation of terror.
His glance had fallen on the still form lying just outside the gate,
with its lovely, white face and closed eyes upturned to the light.
He stood still a moment, looking down at her in awe and consternation.
"What a pretty young un," he said, aloud, "And she's dead, I
mistrust--stone dead!"
The next moment he leaned over the gate and called loudly:
"Wife, wife, come out!"
The door opened and a middle-aged, pleasant-looking woman appeared. She
was flushed as if she had been over the fire, and held some small
cooking utensil in her hand.
"Well, Jerry," she said, "what do you want now?"
"Come out and see," he answered.
"Well, but I can't leave the cakes," said she, intent on her housewifely
cares; "they will burn."
"Tell Jennie to mind the gridiron," he said, "and do you come out to
me."
She went in and reappeared after a minute, coming down the path with her
homely check apron thrown over her head.
"What now, Jerry?" she said, half-pettishly, half good-naturedly. "What
is lost this morning? A pity I have to mind the farm-tools as well as
the frying-pans!"
Jerry, whom this home thrust betrayed to be a good-natured, shiftless
fellow, dependent on his better-half's more orderly ways, looked up to
laugh, then checked himself, awed by the presence of that still form at
his feet.
"There's naught misplaced this time, my dear," he said; "you shouldn't
be forever twitting a poor, careless fellow with his faults."
"What is't amiss, then?" she said, as she came up to the gate.
"Look _there_!" he answered, pointing down. "A poor tramp dead in the
road!"
The good woman looked, started, and her healthy, red cheeks turned
white.
"Oh, my Heavenly Father!" she ejaculated. "Who is't, Jerry?"
"How should I know, woman?" asked her husband. "I've but just stepped
outside the gate and found her."
"And is she really, truly _dead_, Jerry?"
"She looks like it," he said. "But stoop down and feel of her heart,
Jane. See if it beats."
The woman came out of the gate, and bending down, put her hand
half-timorously inside of Queenie's cloak and felt her heart.
"Yes--no--yes, it does beat just the leastest bit," she said. "Poor
creature! Take her up and carry her into the kitchen, Jerry. Perhaps we
may revive her."
"That's like your good heart, Jane," said the farmer, as he lifted up
the limp form and conveyed it into the kitchen.
A rosy, exceedingly pretty, dark-eyed girl who was busily frying
corn-cakes over the fire came forward with an exclamation of surprise as
he laid his burden down upon the lounge that stood in one corner.
"Never mind the cakes, Jennie," said her mother. "Come and lend a hand
to save a poor creetur as your father found perishin' in the road."
"What can I do, mother?" asked the girl.
"Take them muddy things off her feet, and rub the poor creetur's limbs
dry," said the good woman, busying herself in removing the wet cloak, "I
declare to gracious!" she said, after a moment. "How blind men are.
Jerry called her a tramp. Look at them rings on her fingers! Look at
that dress, fine enough for the finest bride! Is that the way tramps
dress, Mr. Thorn?"
"She's of the finest quality, mother," said the girl called Jennie. "Her
slippers are white satin, her stockings pure silk, and worked all over
with flowers."
"Never mind the shoes and the stockings, Jennie," said her father, "but
rub the little un's feet. See how cold and blue they are."
Thus adjured, Jennie brought a warm flannel cloth, and began to rub the
icy little feet of the wayfarer, while her mother brought strong camphor
and bathed the pale face; now and then applying a bottle of ammonia to
her nostrils.
Under this vigorous treatment, and the revivifying heat of the room, the
patient's heart began to beat quicker, and a faint, thread-like pulse to
flutter in her blue-veined wrist.
"Poor soul!" exclaimed Mrs. Thorn. "I _do_ wonder how she came to be out
in such a storm? All in her party dress, too! She'd be as pretty as a
pink, with her eyes open, and a bit more color in her cheeks."
The farmer now approached with a cup of warm coffee and a teaspoon.
"Belike she needs summat to warm her up," he said. "Take the spoon,
Jane, and force a wee bit of coffee between her lips."
Mrs. Thorn did as requested, but with no visible result for the better.
The patient still lay with closed eyes and lips, showing no sign of
life, save in the tremulous beat of her heart and the faint, faint pulse
of her wrist.
Mrs. Thorn still worked patiently over her, but at the end of an hour
looked disheartened.
"I mistrust that this is a case for the doctor," she said; "we have done
what we could, but all to no use."
"I could bring a doctor, but who's to pay him?" said the farmer. "We
have no money, Jane, and Jennie's out of work."
"The lady could pay him, herself," suggested Jennie. "There's them rings
on her fingers worth a mint of money."
"Yea, that's so," said the mother. "Go and get the doctor, Jennie. The
lady will die, I'm afraid, if she lays in this state much longer."
"I'll go and bring Dr. Pillsbury, then," said the farmer, going out,
followed by repeated injunctions from his wife to hurry.
"There's not a minute to lose," she said. "Even now it may be too late
to raise the poor creetur to life again, so low as she has sunk."