THE RIVER.
The next day was excessively hot and sultry, confining the young people
to the cool, dark parlor where Lilian fanned herself furiously, while
Lawrence turned the pages of a book, and Mildred drummed listlessly upon
the piano. Oliver did not join them, and Luce, who, before dinner went
down to the Cold Spring for water, brought back the news that he was
suffering from one of his nervous headaches.
“He needs more exercise,” said Lawrence. “I mean to take him with me
this afternoon when I go down to bathe in the river.”
Accordingly, about four o’clock, he called upon Oliver, who looked pale
and haggard, as if years of suffering had passed over him since the
previous night. Still, he was so much better, that Lawrence ventured to
propose his going to the river.
“No matter if you can’t swim,” he said; “you can sit upon the grass and
look at me.”
Oliver knew that the fresh air would do him good, and he went at last
with Lawrence to the quiet spot which the latter had selected, partly
because it was remote from any dwelling, and partly because the water
was deeper there than at the points higher up. Sitting down beneath a
tree, which grew near to the bank, Oliver watched his companion, as he
plunged boldly into the stream, and struck out for the opposite shore.
“Why am I not like him, instead of being thus feminine and weak?” was
the bitter thought creeping into Oliver’s heart, when suddenly a fearful
cry rose on the air,—a cry of “Help! I’m cramped! oh, help me, Clubs!”
and turning in the direction whence it came, Oliver saw a frightened
face disappearing beneath the water, while the outstretched hand, which
went down last, seemed imploring him for aid.
In an instant Oliver stood by the river bank, and when the face came up
again, he saw that it was whiter than before, and the voice was fainter
which uttered another name than that of Clubs. At first Oliver thought
he was mistaken, but when it came a second time, he reeled as if smitten
by a heavy blow, for he knew then that the drowning man had cried out:
“Milly! dear Milly!” as if he thus would bid her farewell.
For a second Oliver stood spell-bound, while thought after thought
traversed his whirling brain. Lawrence was his rival, and yet not his
rival, for, even had he never been, such as Oliver Hawkins could not
hope to win the queenly Mildred, whose heart would break when they told
her Lawrence was dead. She would come to him for comfort, as she always
did, and how could he tell her he had looked silently on and seen him
die? There would be bitter reproach in the eyes which never yet had
rested upon him save in love, and rather than meet that glance Oliver
resolved at last to save Lawrence Thornton, even if he perished in the
attempt.
“Nobody will mourn for the cripple,” he said. “Nobody miss me but
Mildred, and Lawrence will comfort her;” and with one last, hurried
glance at the world which had never seemed so bright as on that July
afternoon, the heroic Oliver sprang into the river, and struck out for
the spot where Lawrence last went down.
He forgot that he had never learned to swim,—nor knew that he was
swimming,—for one thought alone was uppermost in his mind, and that a
thought of Mildred. Hers was the name upon his lip,—hers the image
before his mind as he struggled in the rolling river,—for her he ran
that fearful risk,—and the mighty love he bore her buoyed him up, until
he reached the spot where the waters were still in wild commotion. By
what means he grasped the tangled hair,—held up the rigid form and took
it back to the shore, he never knew, it passed so like a dream. With an
almost superhuman effort, he dragged the body up the bank, laid it upon
the grass, and then his feeble voice, raised to its highest pitch, went
echoing up the hill, but brought back no response. Through the soft
summer haze he saw the chimneys of the Beechwood mansion, and the cupola
on the roof where Mildred often sat, and where she was sitting now. But
his voice did not reach her, or if it did she thought it was some
insect’s hum, and turned again to her book, unmindful of the dying
Lawrence beneath the maple tree, or of the distracted Oliver, who knelt
above him, feeling for his pulse, and dropping tears like rain upon his
face.
“I must go for help, and leave him here alone,” he said, at last, and he
started on his way, slowly, painfully, for ere plunging into the river
he had thrown aside his shoes, and his poor, tender feet had been cut
upon a sharp-pointed rock.
But he kept on his way, while his knees shook beneath him, and in his
ears there was a buzzing sound like the rush of many waters. Human
strength could not endure much more, and by the time he reached his
grandmother’s gate he sunk to the ground, and crawled slowly to the
door. In wild affright old Hepsy came out, asking what was the matter.
“Lawrence!” he gasped;—“he’s drowned,—he’s dead!”
Then from his mouth and nose the crimson blood gushed out, and Hepsy had
just cause for screaming as she did:
“Help! Murder! Fire! Mildred Howell! Oliver is dead, and Lawrence too!”
From her seat in the cupola Mildred heard the cry, for Hepsy’s voice was
shrill and clear, and it rang out like an alarm-bell. Mildred heard her
name and that Oliver was dead, and bounding down the stairs she went
flying down the Cold Spring path, while close behind her came the
wheezing Judge, with Lilian following slowly in the rear.
On the floor, just where he had fainted, Oliver was lying, and Mildred’s
heart stood still when she saw his dripping garments and the blood
stains round his pallid lips.
“Poor, poor Oliver,” she said, kneeling down beside him, and wringing
his wet hair. “Where has he been?”
At the sound of her voice his eyes unclosed, and he whispered faintly:
“Lawrence, Milly. Lawrence is dead under that tree.”
Then, for one brief instant, Mildred fancied herself dying, but the
sight of Lilian, who had just come in, brought back her benumbed
faculties, and going up to her, she said:
“Did you hear, Lily? Lawrence is dead,—drowned. Let us go to him
together. He is mine, now, as much as yours.”
“Oh, I carn’t, I carn’t!” sobbed Lilian, cowering back into a corner.
“I’m afraid of dead folks! I’d rather stay here.”
“Fool! dough-head!” thundered the Judge, who thoroughly disliked her,
and was now out of all kind of patience. “Go to the house, then, and see
that his chamber is ready for the body,” and without waiting to see if
his orders were obeyed, he hastened after Mildred, who was flying over
the distant fields as if she sported a pair of unseen wings.
She saw the stains from Oliver’s wounded feet, and knowing that she was
right she ran on, and on until she reached the spot, whither other aid
had preceded her, else Lawrence Thornton had surely floated down the
deep, dark river of death.
Two villagers, returning from a neighboring wood, had found him lying
there, and were doing for him what they could when Mildred came up
begging of them to say if he were dead.
“Speak to him, Miss Howell,” said one of the men. “That may bring him
back—it sometimes does;” but Mildred’s voice, though all powerful to
unlock Oliver’s scattered senses, could not penetrate the lethargy which
had stolen over Lawrence, and, with an ominous shake of their heads, the
two men lifted him between them, and bore him back to the house, where
Lilian, in her own room, was sobbing as if her heart would break, and
saying to Rachel’s grandchild, who had toddled in and asked what was the
matter:
“Oh, I don’t know; I want to go home and see Geraldine.”
“Go home, then, and be——_hanged_,” the Judge finally added, speaking the
last word very naturally, as if that were what he had all the time
intended to say.
With one scornful glance at Lilian, who, as Lawrence was borne past her
door, covered her face with her hands and moaned: “Oh, I carn’t look at
him,” Mildred saw that everything was made comfortable, and then all
through the anxious, exciting hour which followed, she stood bravely by,
doing whatever was necessary for her to do, and once, at her own
request, placing her warm lips next to the cold ones of the unconscious
man, and sending her life-breath far down into the lungs, which gave
back only a gurgling sound, and Mildred, when she heard it, turned away,
whispering:
“He is dead!”
But Lawrence was not dead; and when the night shadows were stealing into
the room, he gave signs that life was not extinct. Mildred was the first
to discover it, and her cry of joy went ringing through the house, and
penetrated to the room where Lilian still cowered upon the floor. But
Lilian mistook the cry, and grasping the dress of the little child, who
had started to leave her, she sobbed:
“Don’t go,—don’t leave me alone,—it’s getting dark, and I’m afraid of
ghosts!”
“Confounded fool!” muttered the Judge, who passed the door in time to
hear the remark, and who felt strongly tempted to hurl at her head the
brandy bottle he carried in his hand. “It wouldn’t make any more
impression though, than on a bat of cotton wool,” he said, and he
hurried on to the chamber where Lawrence Thornton was enduring all the
pangs of a painful death.
But he was saved, and when at last the fierce struggle was over, and the
throes of agony had ceased, he fell away to sleep, and the physician
bade all leave the room except Mildred, who must watch him while he
slept.
“Will he live? Is he past all danger?” she asked, and when the physician
answered, “Yes,” she said: “Then I must go to Oliver. Lilian will sit
with Mr. Thornton.”
“But is her face a familiar one? Will he be pleased to see her here when
he wakes?” the doctor asked, and Mildred answered sadly:
“Yes, far more pleased than to see me.”
“Let her come, then,” was the reply, and hurrying to Lilian, Mildred
told her what was wanted.
“Oh, I carn’t, I carn’t!” and Lilian drew back. “I ain’t used to sick
folks! I don’t know what to do. You stay, Milly, that’s a dear, good
girl.”
“But I can’t,” answered Mildred. “I must go to Oliver, I’ve neglected
him too long,” and seeing that Lilian showed no signs of yielding, she
took her by the arm, and led her into Lawrence’s chamber.
“Sit there,” she said, placing her in a chair by the bedside, “and when
he wakes, give him this,” pointing to something in a cup, which the
doctor had prepared.
“Oh, it’s so dark, and his face so white,” sobbed Lilian, while Mildred,
feeling strongly inclined to box her ears, bade her once more sit still,
and then hurried away.
“There’s grit for you,” muttered the Judge, who in the next room had
overheard the whole. “There’s a girl worth having. Why, I’d give more
for Milly’s little finger than for that gutta percha’s whole body.
Afraid of the dark,—_little fool_! How can he coo round her as he does!
But I’ll put a flea in his ear. I’ll tell him that in Mildred Howell’s
face, when she thought that he was dead, I saw who it was she loved. I
ain’t blind,” and the Judge paced up and down the room, while Mildred
kept on her way, and soon reached the gable-roof.
“A pretty time of day to get here,” growled old Hepsy; “after the worst
is over, and he got well to bed. I’d save that city sprig for you again
if I was Clubs.”
“Grandmother, please go down,” said Oliver, while Mildred, unmindful of
old Hepsy’s presence, wound her arms around his neck, and he could feel
her hot tears dropping like rain upon his face, as she whispered:
“Darling Oliver, heaven bless you, even as I do. I knew it must have
been so; but why did you risk your life for him? Say, did you?”
“Grandmother, will you go down?” Oliver said again; and muttering
something about “being glad to get rid of such sickishness,” old Hepsy
hobbled off.
When sure that she was gone, Oliver placed a hand on each side of the
face bending over him, and said:
“Don’t thank me, Mildred; I don’t deserve it, for my first wicked
thought was to let him drown, but when I remembered how much you loved
him, I said I’ll save him for Milly, even though I die. It is far better
that the poor cripple should be drowned than the handsome Lawrence. Do
you love me more for saving him, Milly?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Mildred; “and so does Lilian, or she will when I
tell her, for you know you saved him for her, not for me.”
“Mildred,” said Oliver, laying his clammy hand upon her hair, “When
Lawrence Thornton was sinking in the river, whose name do you think he
called?”
“Lilian’s!” and by the dim light of the candle burning on the stand,
Oliver could see the quivering of her lips.
“No, darling, not Lilian, but ‘Milly, dear Milly.’ That was what he
said; and there was a world of love in the way he said it.”
Mildred’s eyes were bright as diamonds, but Oliver’s were dim with
tears, and he could not see how they sparkled and flashed, while a smile
of joy broke over the face. He only knew that both Mildred’s hands were
laid upon his forehead as if she would doubly bless him for the words
which he had spoken. There was silence a moment, and then Mildred’s face
came so near to his that he felt her breath and Mildred whispered
timidly:
“Are you certain, Oliver, that you heard aright? Wasn’t it Lilian? Tell
me again just what he said.”
“Milly, dear Milly,” and Oliver’s voice was full of yearning tenderness,
as if the words welled up from the very depths of his own heart.
She looked so bright, so beautiful, sitting there beside him, that he
would willingly have given his life, could he once have put his arms
around her and told her how he loved her. But it must not be and with a
mighty effort, which filled the blue veins on his forehead and forced
out the drops of perspiration, he conquered the desire, but not until he
closed his eyes to shut out her glowing beauty.
“You are tired,” she said. “I am wearing you out,” and arranging his
pillows more comfortably, she made a movement to go.
He let her think he was tired, for he would rather she should leave him,
and with a whispered “good-by, dear Oliver,” she glided from the room.