WHAT FOLLOWED.
There was a bright light in the sitting-room, and through the
half-closed shutters Hugh caught glimpses of a blazing fire. ’Lina had
come home, and half wishing she had staid a little longer, Hugh entered
the room, starting with an exclamation of surprise at the sight which
met his view. Divested of her gorgeous apparel, her ample dimensions
considerably reduced, and her face indicative of her feelings, ’Lina
stood upon the hearth, wringing her long black hair, which hung loosely
about her shoulders, while her mother bent with deep concern over the
mud-bespattered, ruined dress, which had cost so much.
Poor ’Lina! The party had proved a most unsatisfactory affair. She had
not made the sensation she expected to make. Harney had scarcely noticed
her at all, having neither eyes nor ears for any one save Ellen Tiffton,
who surely must have told that Hugh was not invited, for, in no other
way could ’Lina account for the remark she heard touching her want of
heart in failing to resent a brother’s insult. Added to this, it was
very annoying to be quizzed, as she was, concerning _Adah_, of whom
everybody seemed resolved to talk. In the most unenviable of moods,
’Lina left at an early hour, and though Harney did accompany her to the
carriage, saying something about being sorry that she should go so soon
when he meant to see more of her, it did not atone for his past neglect
or for his holding the umbrella so that the little greenish streams of
water dripped directly down her back, making her fidget with terror lest
her rose-colored dress should be soiled. Coolly bidding him good night,
she bade Cæsar drive carefully, as it was very dark, and the rain was
almost blinding, so rapidly it fell.
“Ye-es, Mis-s, Cæs—he—he done been to party ’fore now. Git ’long dar,
Sorrel,” hiccoughed the negro, who, in Colonel Tiffton’s kitchen had
indulged rather too freely to insure the safety of his mistress.
Still the horses knew the road, and kept it until they left the main
highway and turned into the fields. Even then they would probably have
made their way in safety, had not their drunken driver persisted in
turning them into a road which led directly through the deepest part of
the creek, swollen now by the melted snow and the vast amount of rain
which had fallen since the sun-setting. Not knowing they were wrong,
’Lina did not dream of danger until she heard Cæsar’s cry of “Who’a dar,
Sorrel. Git up, Henry. Dat’s nothin’ but de creek,” while a violent
lurch of the carriage sent her to the opposite side from where she had
been sitting.
“What is the matter, Cæsar? Where are we?” she screamed, as she heard
the waters splashing almost against the windows.
“Lor’, Miss, I do’ know whar we is, ’cept we’re in the river. I never
seen no creek so high as this,” was the frightened negro’s answer as he
tried to extricate the noble brutes floundering in the stream and
struggling to reach the opposite bank.
A few mad plunges, another wrench, which pitched ’Lina headlong against
the window, and the steep, shelving bank was reached, but in endeavoring
to climb it the carriage was upset, and ’Lina found herself in pitchy
darkness, her mouth and nostrils filled with the soft mud, which, at
first, prevented her screaming, and herself wet to her neck with the
rushing water. Perfectly sobered now, Cæsar extricated her as soon as
possible, and carrying her up the bank placed her upon her feet beneath
a tree, whose leafless branches but poorly shielded her from the rain.
The carriage was broken—one wheel was off entirely, he said, and thus
there was no alternative save for ’Lina to walk the remaining distance
home. It was not far, for the scene of the disaster was within sight of
Spring Bank, but to ’Lina, bedraggled with mud and wet to the skin, it
seemed an interminable distance, and her strength was giving out just as
she reached the piazza, and called on her mother for help, sobbing
hysterically as she repeated her story, but dwelling most upon her
ruined dress.
“What will Hugh say? It was not paid for either. Oh dear, I most wish I
was dead!” she moaned, as her mother removed one by one the saturated
garments.
The sight of Hugh called forth her grief afresh, and forgetful of her
dishabille, she staggered toward him, and impulsively winding her arms
around his neck sobbed out,
“Oh, Hugh, I’ve had such a doleful time. I’ve been in the creek, the
carriage is broken, the horses are lamed, Cæsar is drunk, and—and—oh,
Hugh, I’ve spoiled my dress!”
The last came gaspingly, as if this were the straw too many, the
crowning climax of the whole, the loss which ’Lina most deplored. Surely
here was a list of disasters for which Hugh, with his other trouble, was
not prepared. But amid it all there was a glimmer of light, and Hugh’s
great, warm heart seized it eagerly. ’Lina’s arms were round his neck,
’Lina’s tears were on his cheek, ’Lina herself had turned to him for
comfort, and he would not withhold it. Laughing merrily he held her off
at a little distance, likening her to a mermaid fresh from the sea, and
succeeding at last in quieting her until she could give a more concise
account of the catastrophe.
“Never mind the dress,” he said, good humoredly, as she kept recurring
to that. “It isn’t as if it were new. An old thing is never so
valuable.”
“Yes; but, Hugh—you don’t know—oh, dear, dear,” and ’Lina, who had meant
to tell the whole, broke down again, while Hugh rejoined,
“Of course I don’t know—just how a girl feels to spoil a pretty dress,
but I wouldn’t cry so hard. You shall have another some time,” and in
his generous heart the thought arose, that the first money he got should
be appropriated to the purchase of a new dress in place of the one whose
loss ’Lina so loudly bewailed.
It was impossible now for Mrs. Worthington to accompany Hugh to the
cottage, so he returned alone, while ’Lina, with aching head and
shivering limbs, crept into bed, crying herself to sleep, and waking in
the morning with a burning fever, scarcely less severe than that raging
in Adah Hastings’ veins.
During the gloomy weeks which followed, Hugh’s heart and hands were
full, inclination tempting him to stay by Adah, and stern duty, bidding
him keep with ’Lina, who, strange to say, was always more quiet when he
was near taking readily from him the medicine refused when offered by
her mother. Day after day, week after week, Hugh watched alternately at
their bedsides, and those who came to offer help felt their hearts glow
with admiration for the worn, haggard man, whose character they had so
mistaken, never dreaming what depths of patient, all-enduring tenderness
were hidden beneath his rough exterior. Even Ellen Tiffton was softened,
and forgetting the Ladies Fair, rode daily over to Spring Bank,
ostensibly to inquire after ’Lina, but really to speak a kindly word to
Hugh, to whom she felt she had done a wrong. How long these fevers ran,
and Hugh began to fear that ’Lina’s never would abate, sorrowing much
for the harsh words which passed between them, wishing they had been
unsaid, for he would rather than none but pleasant memories should be
left to him of his only sister. But ’Lina did not die, and as her
disease had from the first assumed a far more violent form than Adah’s,
so it was the first to yield, and February found her convalescent. With
Adah it was different, and the neighbors grew tired of asking how she
was and receiving always the same doubtful answer. But there came a
change, a morning when she awoke from the deathlike stupor which had
clouded her faculties so long, and the attending physician said to Hugh
that his services would be needed but a little longer. There was joy at
the cottage then, old Uncle Sam stealing away to his accustomed place of
prayer down by the Willow Spring, where he so oft had asked that Miss
Adah might be spared, and where now he knelt to thank the God who had
restored her. Joy at Spring Bank, too, when Mrs. Worthington wept tears
almost as joyful as any she had shed when told that ’Lina would live.
Joy, too, unobtrusive joy in Hugh’s heart, a joy which would not be
clouded by thoughts of the heavy bills which he must meet ere long.
Physicians’ bills, together with that of Harney’s yet unpaid, for
Harney, villain though he was, would not present it when Hugh was full
of trouble; but the hour was coming when it must be settled, and Hugh at
last received a note, couched in courteous terms, but urging immediate
payment.
“I’ll see him to-day. I’ll know the worst at once,” he said, and
mounting Rocket, he dashed down the Frankfort turnpike, and was soon
closeted with Harney.