THE FLIGHT AND THE RESCUE.
The terrors of the night on which Emilia fled to escape from her
traducers produced an indelible effect upon her mind. Often in
afterlife, when the brief gleam of sunshine she was destined to enjoy
had died away, did she reflect with shudders upon the experiences of
those few pregnant hours. From the moment of her departure until
sunrise flooded the land with light, but brought only a deeper anguish
to her soul, there was an interval of darkness lasting barely seven
hours, but it seemed to her that it might have been seven times seven,
so heavily charged were the minutes with black woe. Feeble as she was,
and fragile as was her frame, she travelled a surprising distance
during these interminable hours. When, compelled by exhaustion to
rest, she had so far recovered as to be able to proceed, she ran with
fleet foot to make up for lost time, until, breathless and panting,
she came to a standstill, and caught at the nearest object for
support, generally a fence or the branch of a tree. Sometimes she
caught at shadows and fell, and lay supine awhile, to rise again in
ever-growing despair and continue her flight; but moral forces are
powerless against the forces of physical nature, and shortly after
sunrise her strength gave way, and now when she fell she was unable
from exhaustion to rise. She might have been able to continue her
flight for still a brief space, had she not been climbing a hill, the
exertion of which completely overpowered her. The spot upon which she
fell commanded a view of a river. It stretched to the north and south
of her, and in its waters were mirrored the gorgeous splendors of the
rising sun. She did not see it at first, for it came into view only at
the point she had reached; lower down the hill it was not visible to
sight.
Presently, opening her eyes, she saw the jewelled shadows playing on
the surface, and they so distressed her--yearning as she was for peace
and rest--that her eyelids drooped, and she turned her head to avoid a
picture which in happier circumstances she would have gazed upon with
delight. But she knew the river was there.
For full half an hour she lay with her eyes closed, struggling with a
horrible temptation. Then she turned to the water, struggled into a
sitting posture, and gazed with wild eyes upon it. Not voluntarily and
of her own free will; some evil spiritual power within her compelled
her to do so.
It was quieter now. The gorgeous colors had died out of the skies and
the river was in repose. "Come," it whispered, "come to my embrace,
and end your woes." But the strong religious instinct within her
enabled her to struggle with the frightful suggestion. "No, no!" she
murmured, feebly putting her hands together. "Help me, dear Lord, to
avoid the crime!" Her appeal did not banish the silent voices which
urged her to seek oblivion, and, in oblivion, peace. How the struggle
would have ended it is difficult to say, had not her fate been taken
out of her own hands.
There came to her ears the crack of a whip and the sound of a human
voice urging horses up the hill. She bowed her head upon her lap to
hide her face from the stranger who was approaching her.
He was an old man in charge of a wagon and a team of horses. The
cattle were willing enough, and fresh for their day's work, and it was
only from habit that their driver was shouting words of encouragement
to them. They reached the summit of the hill, and the wagoner,
merciful to his beasts, eased them a bit. It was then his eyes fell
upon the form of Emilia. He approached her and laid his hand upon her
shoulder. She shivered and shrank from his touch. At this human
contact, the first she had experienced since her flight from the house
of the maiden sisters, there seemed to come upon her a more complete
consciousness of the shame and degradation into which she had been
thrust. That it was unmerited mattered not. It clung to her, and was
proclaimed in her face. How, then, could she raise her head to meet
the gaze of any human being?
"In trouble, my lass?" asked the wagoner, kindly. With but an
imperfect observation of her, he knew that she was young.
Emilia made no reply, but let her shoulder droop, so that his hand
might not touch her.
"Can I help you?"
No sound, and now no further movement, from the hapless girl. He
lingered a moment or two longer, and then slowly left her. Giving the
word, his team began to descend the hill. But at the bottom of the
descent, with a level road before him, he pulled up his cattle again,
and turned with sad eyes to the spot where he had left Emilia, who was
hidden from his sight.
This man had a history--as what man has not?--and it is probable that
Emilia was saved from suicide by the remembrance of the most dolorous
experience in his life. He was nearer seventy than sixty years of age,
but he was strong and lusty still, and his heart had not been soured
or embittered by trouble. The story of his special grief is a common
one enough, and can be narrated in a few words. He was a married man,
and his old wife was waiting at home for him, five and thirty miles
away. Children had they none, but thirty years ago they had a
daughter, who left them secretly upon the persuasion of a scoundrel.
The villain took her to London, and after she had enjoyed a brief
spell of false happiness she found herself deserted and friendless. In
her despair she crept back to the home of which she had been the joy,
but she had not the courage to enter it and beg for forgiveness. Her
body was discovered in a river hard by, and in her pocket a letter to
her parents, relating her story, and praying them to think kindly of
her. That is all.
It was the memory of this daughter that caused the wagoner to turn
toward Emilia. Perhaps the poor girl was in a strait similar to that
of his own lost child. Had _she_ met a kind heart, had a helping hand
been stretched out to her, she might have been saved to them, might
have been living at this very day to comfort and cheer her aged
parents. He would make another effort to ascertain the trouble of the
lonely girl who had shrunk from his touch. Up the hill he climbed,
having no fear for his horses, who would only start again at the sound
of his voice.
Emilia had risen to her feet, and her trembling hands were extended to
the river, as though to push it from her, while her form swayed toward
it. He saw her face now, and his heart beat with pity for her. It may
have been fancy, but he fancied he saw in her a resemblance to his
lost child. So engrossed was Emilia in the terrible struggle that was
raging in her soul that she was not aware she was observed until the
wagoner seized her arm, and said,
"My dear, let me help you in your trouble."
It was like the voice of an angel who had come to her rescue. She
threw her arms about him, and cried, in a voice of exhaustion:
"Save me, save me!"
"It's what I've come for, my dear," said the wagoner, holding her up.
"Where is your home?"
"Home!" she echoed, hysterically, "I have none! I am alone in the
world--alone, alone!"
"No father or mother?"
"None."
"No friends?"
"None--not one."
"What can I do for you?"
"Take me from the river. Hark! Do you not hear what it is whispering
to me? I am exhausted; my strength is gone, and I can no longer
resist. If you leave me here I shall die!"
"But you do not know where I am going."
"It does not matter. Anywhere, anywhere, so that I can have rest. Hide
me--hide me! Oh, my heart, my heart!"
Upon this she burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and the good
wagoner saw that she was not in a fit state to answer further
questions. Endeavoring to calm her, he assisted her down the hill to
where his team was standing, but before they reached it she swooned.
It was not an easy task to lift her into the shelter of his wagon, but
he managed it, and made up a bed of straw upon which he laid her. Then
he started his horses again, and was careful to avoid ruts, in order
not to jolt his fair guest too roughly. He had the whole day before
him, and it would do if he reached his home before night. Now and
again he mounted the wagon to look at Emilia, and was concerned that
he could obtain no coherent words from her. The poor girl's trials had
produced their effect upon her weak frame, and she was fast relapsing
into delirium. All that he could distinguish in her feverish
mutterings were the words, "I am innocent, I am innocent! I have done
no wrong. God will speak for me!" Even these pathetic utterances came
from her at intervals, and he had to piece them together. Her youth
and beauty deeply impressed the kind-hearted man, and he did not
regret the course he had taken. In the middle of the day he arrived at
a village, and gave his horses two hours' rest. He utilized these two
hours by hunting up a doctor, who, feeling Emilia's pulse and putting
his hand on her hot forehead, said, "She is in a high state of fever.
The only thing you can do is to get her home as quickly as possible."
He believed her to be the wagoner's daughter, and he gave the old man
a draught which Emilia was to be persuaded to take, should she have an
interval of consciousness before they reached their journey's end. The
wagoner's anxiety now was to get home as soon as possible, and the
roads being good he put his horses to a trot. At six o'clock in the
evening the journey was over, and the team stood at the door of his
cottage. His old wife ran out to greet him, and he rapidly explained
to her what he had done, and why he had done it.
"Was it right, mother?" he asked.
The tears rushed to her eyes. It was thirty years since he had
addressed her by that endearing term, and she thought, as he had
thought, of the daughter they had lost in the time gone by. There are
memories that never die.
"Quite right, John," murmured the old woman, and together they carried
Emilia into their cottage and laid her upon a bed. There the wagoner
left his wife to attend to the young girl; he had his horses to look
after, and when this was done he returned to the cottage, to find
Emilia undressed and in bed, with the old woman standing by her side.
"We must have a doctor, John," she said, and away he went for one.
The report was not favorable; Emilia was prostrate, and now that the
strain was over a dangerous reaction had set in. The doctor gave it as
his opinion that she would not be well for weeks, and so it proved.
But long before she was convalescent Gerald, accompanied by Leonard,
made his appearance, and thus the unfortunate girl had near her one
enemy and three friends. Which side would triumph in the end?