How long Margaret laid there, she never knew, but when she came to
consciousness she found herself in her own room, and her father bending
over her, with a look she had never seen on his face before,--one of
deep anxiety for her.
“All this ere comes from letting her go out in the air every day,” were
the first words which broke the silence, and conveyed to her senses that
any one beside her father was in the room.
All the recollection of her misery came over her then. She had forgotten
all, save that her father looked with eyes of love upon her. The shrill
voice broke the heavenly spell, and Magdalen knelt again in prayer at
the Saviour's feet.
She closed her eyes as though she would shut out the sorrow from her
soul, while a look of deep pain settled on her features which her father
mistook for physical suffering. There was something in her pale face
then, that reminded him of her dear, dead mother. It touched the long
buried love which had lain in his uncultured nature many years, and he
drew his sleeve roughly across his eyes to wipe away the tears which
would come, despite the searching glance of his wife, who looked upon
any demonstration of that kind as so much loss to herself.
He thought Margaret would surely die. It must be some terrible disease
that caused her to look so white, and made her breathing so low and
still, and he resolved to go for a physician.
His decision met with little favor from Mrs. Thorne, who fretted
continually about the extra work and expense of a sick person,
interspersing her growls with the remark which seemed stereotyped for
the occasion:
“A nice job I've got on my hands for the summer.”
“Come, I 'll have no more grumbling to-night. How long the poor girl
laid in the woods nobody knows. May-be she fainted and fell, and them
ere faintin' spells is dreadful dangerous, and I'm going for the doctor,
if it takes the farm to pay for 't.”
When Caleb Thorne spoke like that, his wife well knew that words of her
own were of little avail, and she wisely concluded to keep silent.
Margaret might have remained as she had fallen, faint and uncared for in
the woods, for a long time, had not the faithful dog, who instinctively
knew that something was wrong, ran furiously to the house, and by
strange motions and piteous pleading moans attracted the attention of
Mr. Thorne from his work. Trot would not act as he did without cause.
Caleb knew that, so he left his work and followed the dog, who ran
speedily towards the woods, momentarily looking back to be sure that his
master was close at hand, until he reached the spot where Margaret laid.
He thought her lifeless, and raising her from the ground, bore her home,
while a heavier burden at his heart kept his eyes blinded, his steps
slow, and his walk uneven.
When the physician arrived, he saw, at a glance, that some great trouble
rested, like a dense cloud, on the girl's mind. Her restless manner
and desire to remain silent, showed plainly that some great anguish was
working its sorrow within, and silently he prayed to heaven, that the
young heart might find that relief which no art or skill of his could
impart. He could only allay the fever into which her blood was thrown,
and as he went out, left his orders, saying, he would call again on the
morrow.
“She's as well able to work as I am, this blessed minit,” impetuously
exclaimed Mrs. Thorne, who could ill brook the state of affairs.
“If looks tell anything, her pale face aint no match for yourn in
health, Huldah,” remarked Caleb, as he glanced somewhat reproachingly at
the full, red features of his wife.
“A white face aint allus a sign of sickness; here I might be next to
death, and my face be getting redder and redder at every pain,--but then
who cares for me? No one, as I knows on.”
She turned and found she might have left her last words unspoken, for
Caleb had gone to milk the cows, and she was alone.
It was no sudden thought. Every hour since the day they found her in the
woods insensible, she had busily matured her plans. Those words,--“You
can never be my wife,” made life to her of no moment, save to find
a spot of obscurity in which to conceal her shame, and spare her old
father the grief she knew it must bring him.
She must leave her home, none but strangers must know of her sorrow; and
when health returned and she went about her daily toils, a short time
prior to the crisis of her grief, she deeply thought upon where she
might turn her weary steps. She had heard of a factory in N--, a town
twenty miles distant, where girls earned a great deal of money. She
would go there and work until-O, the pain, the anguish of her heart, as
the terrible truth came close and closer every day upon her. And then
she would go. Where? No mother's love to help her, no right granted her
to bring another life into being. How keenly upbraiding came to her
at that moment the great truth, a truth which cannot be too deeply
impressed upon every human mind, that no child should be ushered into
this world without due preparation on the part of its parents for its
mental, moral and physical well-being. Let pity drop a tear, for sad
indeed was her lot.
One day she gathered what little clothing she possessed, and made up
a small parcel preparatory to her departure, and as her only time of
escape would be in the night, she carefully concealed it, and went about
her work in her usual, silent manner.
One moonlight night when all was still, she took her little bundle and
went softly down stairs. Noiselessly she trod across the kitchen floor,
pulled the bolt, lifted the latch, and stood outside. For an instant she
paused. A rush of feelings came over her, a feeling of regret, for it
was hard even for her to break away from familiar scenes, and leave the
roof that had sheltered her; but it would not do to linger long, for
Trot might bark and arouse her father. Then she could not bear the
thought that she should never see the faithful old dog again; and almost
decided to go to him, but the thought had scarcely entered her mind ere
her old companion was at her side. His keen sense of hearing had caught
the sound of her movements, though to her they had seemed noiseless,
and he had come from his kennel and stood at her side, looking up in her
face as though he knew all her plans.
Her courage almost forsook her as he stood there, wagging his tail and
eyeing her so closely. She feared that he would follow her, and thought
she must go back to her room and make a new start; but now she was out
of the house, and, perhaps she could not escape another time without
disturbing her parents. This thought nerved her to carry out her
resolve, and she walked rapidly away. One look at the old house, as her
step was on the hill which would soon hide it from her view. One more
look at old Trot, then she waved her hand for him to go back, and
swiftly walked as though borne by some unseen power. The grey light of
morning touched the eastern hills just as she lost sight of her native
village.
New scenes were before her, and from them she gathered fresh
inspiration. The houses scattered along the roadside, from which persons
were just coming forth to labor, gave her new feelings and enlivened her
way, until at length something like fear that she might be recognized
and sent back came upon her; but her fears were groundless, and she
passed on and soon came to a deep, wooded road, closely hedged on
either side by tall trees, whose spreading branches seemed to her like
protecting arms. There she could walk slower, and breathe more free, and
for the first time for many days her mind relaxed its tension.
She was plodding along, musing upon the past and trying to discern some
outline of her future, when the sound of steps following her caused the
blood to leap to her face. Looking around she beheld Trot, and ordered
him back; but words were of no avail; he had scented her footsteps thus
far, and seemed determined to follow her to her journey's end.
“Poor fellow,” she said, patting his head, “I would not send you back if
I had a home for you,” and she tried again to induce him to return, but
he only gave a sigh, or sort of moan, as though imploring her to keep
him with her.
She could no more bid him depart. Was he not her only friend, and did he
not love her as none other did? So she patted him again and said,--
“Perhaps God will provide for us both. Come on, dear, old brave fellow,”
and then the faithful animal's eyes lit up with almost human gratitude,
and he ran on joyfully before her.
The tall trees waved their branches in the morning breeze, and their
music touched her soul, and attuned it to sweeter harmony than it had
known for years. The flame of hope began to kindle anew. There might be
some one, after all, who would pity her, who would not wholly condemn
her; while the music of the tall pines seemed like angel voices, saying:
“Yes, love her, pity her, and all on whom the blight of sorrow falls.”
She loved the music of the singing trees, and was grieved when the
road turned off towards a hill, and she was obliged to part with the
protection and seclusion which they afforded her. But taking fresh
courage from the guide-board, which indicated her approach to N--, she
travelled bravely on. She had provided herself with provisions for
a single day only, and had scarcely dared to take even that from the
plenty of her father's home. Reaching a sheltered spot by the roadside,
and feeling faint and weary, she sat down and shared her food with her
dog.
Ten miles of her journey had been passed, and more rapidly than she
could hope to continue, and she found that on a renewal of it, she must
proceed more leisurely.
A sad, but interesting picture they made. She, with her young, fair
face, touched by lines of grief; the once dreamy eyes, so soft, now full
of nervous fire, and wild with restless fear. Her bonnet was thrown back
from her shoulders, and the golden sun of morning touched her wavy hair,
till it glowed and seemed like a halo of light about her pale brow.
When their little repast was over, she rested her head upon her hands,
and from her soul went forth a prayer for guidance and protection,--more
deep and earnest than words can portray.