DENISE TO THE RESCUE
Down the rough mountain-road wound the party, Hart, as usual, well in
the lead, for Pinto hated to travel behind the others, but this time
Denise kept close by the carriage, and, for some reason best understood
by herself, Flossy chose to remain beside her.
The greater part of the journey had been accomplished without mishap,
and, even though he had from time to time demonstrated his dislike
of the bumping bag of apples by tossing his head from side to side,
Comanche had behaved far better than the older members of the party had
expected he would, and they were beginning to breathe freer. But, alas!
it is never safe to feel too sanguine, for the “slip” comes when we
least look for it.
“Who’s for a race?” cried one of the boys, when the last plateau was
reached, and a long stretch of smooth, inviting wood-road stretched out
before them. They were barely two miles from home, and the horses knew
that stables and oats were not far away.
“We are! we are!” was quickly shouted from all sides, and, before a
word of remonstrance could be spoken by the occupants of the carriage,
away dashed the riders, hot upon the track of the leader. As the other
ponies and horses sprang forward, Comanche gave a plunge which caused
the bag of apples upon his withers to shift dangerously to one side,
and nearly fall to the ground. Flossy quickly changed her reins to one
hand and with her free one made a wild grasp to steady the bag, just as
Mrs. Lombard cried in a tone very unlike that generally used by her:
“Flossy, stop! That bag must be put into the surrey!”
Too late. Comanche was off like the wind, the bag pounding and banging
upon his sides, and his young rider tugging with all her might to
hold him in. The other boys and girls were not aware of the serious
situation just behind them, and the cry of alarm which rose from the
carriage as the pony sped forward was entirely drowned in the shouts of
laughter and the challenges called from one to another of the racers.
Denise gave one terrified look at her mother, and then there settled
upon her face the look which showed her Lombard determination once she
recognized the necessity for prompt and decisive action.
Comanche was larger by at least two hands than Ned, but nothing like
so sure-footed, for Ned had come straight from the mountains of Wales,
where for generations his ancestors had scrambled over the wild
mountain-passes and kept their footing like goats. Comanche had spent
his entire life upon the grassy plains, and until within the past three
months had never seen a mountain, much less scrambled over one.
What Denise meant to do she could not have told, but she felt that
she must keep beside that fleeing pony as long as Ned Toodles could
run. For a pony of his size, Ned was wonderfully fleet of foot, and
their perfect mutual understanding made many things possible for them
which would have been quite impossible for an animal and rider less in
sympathy.
“Go!” said Denise in a low, tense voice, and “go” Ned did, bounding
along the mountain-road like a roebuck, and keeping neck and neck with
the wild little gray, which seemed to have lost his senses altogether.
As they drew near the end of the level road the other riders began
to check their horses, and prepare for the last short but very steep
descent, leading into the town. But, even though Flossy tugged with the
strength of desperation upon his reins, she failed to lessen the speed
with which he was nearing that dangerous hit of road. Had she held the
curb rein her chances would have been greater, but she had let it fall
when she steadied her apples, and had not been able to regain it. Ned
instinctively slackened his pace as he drew near the down grade, but
Flossy’s pony was less wise, and tore ahead.
“Oh, Ned, Ned!” cried Denise, as she bent over the shaggy neck, and
poured her fears into the ears which seemed to have almost human
understanding, “he will kill her! he will kill her! Please, please,
let me catch him!” and as though he realized the peril, Ned gathered
himself together for a mighty effort. By this time the others had
awakened to the situation, and some were urging their horses forward,
some were stopping stock-still in dismay, and others calling orders
which fell upon unheeding ears, while those in the carriage were
hastening after the runaway as rapidly as a well-laden carriage could
travel over such a road. Mrs. Murray was shrieking aloud, but Mrs.
Lombard, white to the very lips, sat rigid and with hands clasped as
though asking the only aid which could help her in such a crisis. She
had not called to Denise, for she understood all too well the resolute
spirit which was urging the girl forward, and could not censure her for
the very act which she herself would have been the first to perform.
The brink was reached, and down it tore Comanche, with Ned sweeping
behind him, bent upon bringing that lunatic horse to his senses if one
well-conducted beast could compass it. Once upon the down grade the
plains-bred pony began to flounder and swerve from one side of the road
to the other, and that gave Ned his chance. Clatter, clatter! Click,
click! went the flying hoofs, and with Ned’s next bound Denise reached
forward and caught the dangling curb rein. How that bag of apples had
remained upon the saddle until that moment was a mystery to all who
saw its wild bumps and bounds, and had it only fallen off sooner it
would have been far better for all concerned. But stick it did until
Denise caught the rein, and then, with a jerk given to Comanche, down
it fell, straight beneath his feet, to nearly throw him down, and cause
the saddle to shift dangerously to his left side. Wild before, he was
simply frantic now, and began to plunge and rear, Denise guiding Ned
with one hand and jerking upon Comanche’s curb for dear life with
the other. Ned never swerved, but seemed to understand that he had a
duty to perform, and did it nobly. But neither Ned nor his mistress
were equal to the terrified mustang, and, with one wild plunge, up he
reared, swerved sidewise, sending his rider out of her saddle, and
jerking the reins from Denise’s hand, to go tearing down the mountain
at a rate which threatened instant destruction.
At his last plunge a piercing cry came from Flossy’s lips, and she lay
helpless in the ditch at the roadside, for Comanche’s flying hoofs had
struck one final and crushing blow as he rushed off, shattering the arm
which had been vainly striving to control him.
Ned’s impetus made it impossible for him to come to a sudden
standstill, and before Denise could stop entirely she had gotten nearly
twenty yards beyond Flossy. Meanwhile, the rest of the party had
hurried to her, and were doing all within their power for the suffering
girl. But the moment had come when the mother in Mrs. Lombard cried out
for her own, and as Denise came rushing back, a pair of outstretched
arms awaited her and a tense voice cried: “My darling! Thank God you
are unharmed, my brave little daughter!” as Denise dropped her reins
and almost fell into the beloved arms awaiting her, for the tension was
removed and she began to realize the situation as she had not been able
to realize it earlier. “Oh, mamma, mamma! Is she killed?”
Flossy was not killed, but was suffering keenly, and it would be many
days before she recovered from that wilful ride. Willing hands helped
to remove the baskets from the carriage, and make it ready for her,
and a very subdued party of boys and girls made their way down the
mountain. Comanche had rushed home as fast as he could go, and, when
he arrived there, his saddle, or what was left of it, was dangling
beneath his stomach. Mrs. Murray was too unnerved to do anything but go
straight to her home, but Mrs. Lombard remained in the carriage to take
Flossy to hers. Some of the party had already gone on ahead to secure a
physician, and by the time he arrived at Mr. Bennett’s home poor Flossy
had been placed in bed, and all was in readiness for the trying ordeal
of setting the fractured arm. Feeling that Denise had experienced
enough of a strain already, Mrs. Lombard had left her at their own
home, where grandma came promptly forward with soothing words, and
comforting ministrations, while John gave Ned the best rub-down and
feed a small horse could wish for, to say nothing of praise enough to
have turned his head had it not been a very “level” one indeed.
Two hours later Flossy was lying weak and wretched upon her bed, and
Mrs. Lombard was giving directions to the distraught governess before
taking her departure for home and the rest of which she was sorely
in need herself, for she had stayed to give all possible assistance,
and, with two inexperienced maids, and a governess but little better
qualified to meet an emergency, she had found her hands full. The
girl had borne her suffering bravely, but had scarcely spoken a word
to any one. After a few final words, Mrs. Lombard, with the governess
following closely upon her heels, came to say good-by, and, taking
Flossy’s hand, bent over to kiss her.
“Send her out of the room. I want to speak to _you_,” were the words
which came faintly from the girl’s white lips.
“Oh, I must not leave you! I will do anything you wish!” was the none
too wise answer made by the governess.
“Please go and leave us together for a few moments,” said Mrs. Lombard,
quick to understand that she could be helpful in a way which the
governess never suspected, but ought to have fully understood if she
would fill such a position as the one she held.
“What can I do for you, dear?” she said very gently, as she sat upon
the bedside, and smoothed back the tousled golden hair with a touch
which was wonderfully soothing and quieting.
Flossy reached up and rested her own hand upon the one upon her
forehead, and looked into Mrs. Lombard’s eyes with the hungry, yearning
look sometimes seen in a young girl’s eyes when the strongest of all
ties--mother love--is wanting. Mrs. Lombard smiled encouragingly at her
and waited.
“Denise might have been killed,” Flossy whispered.
“Let us thank the dear Father that you both escaped,” replied Mrs.
Lombard gently.
“But how can you forgive me?” continued the whisper.
“Because you have no mother to help you exercise the one thing we all
need to exercise at times--self-control. We have both had a trying
experience to-day, and one we shall not soon forget. Let us strive to
profit by it, dear. I know how hard it must be for you at times, but
you can conquer the desire to carry your point if you will only believe
it.”
“I can’t; I just can’t, and I never shall because I am rubbed the wrong
way all the time. I hate it, and almost wish Comanche had killed me and
ended it all outright.”
Mrs. Lombard laid her finger ever so gently upon the lips which were
forming the bitter words, and said:
“Don’t try to talk any more to-night. You are sorely unnerved.
To-morrow you will feel differently, and then we will have what Denise
calls one of our ‘comforting talks,’ and the world will look less
dismal, I know.”
“If I could have some one to talk to as she does I wouldn’t be so
hateful. Somehow, I seem to need setting straight about a dozen times a
day, and there is no one to set me.”
“Will you let me try?” asked Mrs. Lombard very tenderly.
“If you only would, oh! if you _only_ would,” wailed such a despairing
voice that Mrs. Lombard’s heart ached to hear such a tone from one
only a little older than her own sunny daughter, whose life was so
well ordered from one day’s end to the next that very little “setting
straight” was ever needed.
“Then I shall have to call you my adopted daughter, and shall expect
you to come to me with all the little vexations which come to young
people at times, and which older people were made to smooth out. Do you
think that you can do this, dear, and let me feel that I am helping
another girl just as I would wish to have Denise helped if I had
slipped from her life when she was a little child? Try, Sweetheart,
and meantime we will see how we can make less trying the weeks which
must bring some suffering and some weary hours to you. I will come
to see you in the morning, and Denise will come also, if you would
like to have her. I hope your night may not be a very trying one, but
know that you will do your best to bear the pain bravely. Good-night,
adopted daughter mine,” and, with a final motherly caress, Mrs. Lombard
took her departure, leaving behind her the beginning of a far happier
condition of things in that misdirected home, and the developing of a
character which only needed the union of wisdom and affection to make
it a very lovely thing indeed.