CAUGHT IN A BLIZZARD
Tibby had foolishly dallied in her home-coming. Even after mounting her
horse she sat in the saddle and indulged in the prolonged exchanges of
good-bys so common to young girls, until the blackening sky and
threatening flakes of snow admonished her, forcibly, to return in haste.
Tempest, glad to have permission to go at last, sped over the ground
with wonderful strides, covering the first half of the journey in a
short space of time; but as the wind arose and the soft flakes gave way
to hard, rice-like, cutting kernels of snow that beat in his face, he
became staggered in his pace, and finally, as the storm in all its fury
bore down upon them, both horse and rider lost all knowledge of distance
and location, their only effort being to keep the road. Tibby, blinded
by the storm, and forced to ride with her head bent forward and down,
felt her faithful beast stop and whirl half around as a furious blast,
chill as the arctic snows, struck them. The icy flakes cut into her
flesh like splinters of steel as she lifted her face to look about her.
She could see nothing except the whirling deluge of white enveloping
her. She was lost, lost.
“O Tempest, good Tempest!” she wailed, “can you see the path no longer?
Will not your instincts guide you home? Try again, Tempest! Alas, I know
not which way to turn you! But go, Tempest, go! We shall freeze if we
stay here. Go!”
But the horse, buffeted by the driving storm in his face, would move
forward only a few paces, then turn his head and stop, bewildered.
“O my God, what shall I do?” she moaned.
The cold was creeping up her limbs and benumbing her. She felt that she
must die there, and so near home. She thought she must have traversed
nearly the distance, if they had kept the road. Ah, if they had kept the
road. She was in doubt as to that. The horse, cowering and baffled, had
turned around. She turned him back, facing the storm, and with hand and
voice she urged him forward. For several moments he plunged into the
opaque snow-world before them, then again blinded, baffled, and
storm-beaten, the faithful animal stopped, and bowed his head to the
fury of the elements.
Tibby lost courage, and laying her face on the poor beast’s neck, sobbed
in despair. Oh! why had she been so wilful and neglectful of Donald’s
warning? He had been anxious about her, and tried to save her, but she
had in her silly pride and egotism ignored him and his counsel, and now
she must die. How cold she was. Her breath came in short, hard pants.
The wind seemed to take it from her and carry it away. It seemed to her
that the elements sported with life, and the wind, with demoniac shrieks
of frenzy and laughter, pounded and pommeled and bruised her as she lay
upon the neck of the trembling, cowering beast which had borne her so
gallantly that morning.
“O Tempest, Tempest, we are surely lost, lost!” she wailed. “God has let
loose all his furies upon us; no where on the bleak, cold, storm-driven
and storm-beaten prairie is there shelter for us. If a stable were but a
rod away we could not find it. We must die, must die, good horse!
Die—i—i—i—ie!” Her chattering teeth would scarcely permit the words to
pass.
Tibby tried to pray, but the words would not form themselves. She could
only think of her child’s prayer of “Now I lay me down to sleep,” and
she remembered reading once of a man who, upon the neck of a maddened
bull, thus prayed, and in a hysterical revulsion of emotion she
laughed,—laughed and shrieked with the shrieking wind, in hysterical
gasps,—laughed even in the face of death. Then, chill and trembling, she
felt as if the hand of the grim reaper was upon her, and she lay
motionless upon the neck of the horse, half unconscious.
Suddenly she was startled by a sound—the crack of a rifle not far
distant. The horse started and lifted its head, then whirled around
again in the direction of the sound. She felt the quiver of the animal
beneath her, and with an effort roused herself. There was hope in that
sound. Some one was near.
“Go, Tempest, go!” she cried. “There is some one near! Some one is
looking for us!”
The horse, as if understanding the meaning of the rifle-shot, was
already plunging forward, and Tibby clung sobbing, in convulsive
reaction, to his neck.
She tried to shout, but the howling wind drowned even her powerful and
far-reaching voice. It was blowing fearfully now. Each gust nearly tore
her from the saddle by its violence, benumbed as she was by the cold.
Again the friendly rifle-crack sounded its peal of deliverance in her
ears. And farther away she heard, more faintly, a second sound, like an
echo, respond.
“They are searching for us, and it must be—Donald!” she thought. Good
Donald, whom she had treated so illy! If she ever lived through this
terrible time—but how cold it was. She must not die now, so near, almost
within sound of his voice. The horse, animated by the nearness of the
deliverer, was struggling ahead, not swiftly, but desperately, in the
persistent, whirling phalanx of snow. Again, a third time, the friendly
rifle spoke, and its tone rang sweetest music to the nearly paralyzed
and helpless girl. She felt her faithful horse turn, guided by the
sound; she felt his heaving flank, against which her feet were placed
for warmth, sway, as he pressed onward, and then she heard him neigh,
loud and strong. Good creature! She tried to pat his neck with her numb
fingers. His voice was stronger than hers. Hark! Is that an answering
neigh borne to her? She cannot shout, for her voice is spent; but
Tempest, good Tempest, is calling for her. She clings with desperate
grip to his mane. Is that a voice coming out of the darkness of the
snow-world? A roar, deeper than the roar of the storm, sounds in her
ears, and she feels herself sinking, sinking, down, down.
“Tibby, Tibby!”
She hears a voice at her side and Donald is clasping her and enveloping
her in something woolen and warm. She tries to reach to him her poor
frozen hands as she sobs “Don, Don!” and then in a thankfulness too deep
for words she snuggles down in the warm folds of the blanket and again
drops her head upon the neck of her noble horse.
“That is right, keep your head down! I will lead Tempest,” she hears
Donald say, shouting in his strong voice to her, and again Tibby
realizes they are yet in the clutches of the merciless blizzard; but her
fear is gone, for Donald is with her and will save her.
“Now don’t be frightened. I must discharge the gun to get my direction,”
he shouts again when he has tucked her comfortably in the blankets.
Tibby hears the detonation answered by a fainter sound at their left.
“We are all right, child. Alice is signaling us. Try and hold out a
little longer.” And Tibby feels the motion of the horse as it sways
beneath her, and is dimly conscious of a sense of warmth and relief
unutterable. And she forgets the storm, the danger, the oppression of
death which was upon her, and sinks away into a half-sleeping state,
from which she is aroused only when, at the door of Mark’s home, Donald
lifts her from the saddle and carries her into shelter somewhere. She
hears, as though far away, the repeated echoes of the rifle; she hears
murmured words of encouragement from her rescuer, and then she opens her
eyes in bewildered uncertainty as to her surroundings and feels that she
has awakened from a harassing dream to find herself safely at home, and
with a sigh of relief she lays her head more heavily upon Donald’s
shoulder and sinks away to sleep again.
Not until afterwards did she realize the struggle Donald had undergone
while bringing her home. Not until the neighbors had gathered about her,
days later, and commented on the terrible severity and destruction of
the storm, which had lasted three days and brought death and sorrow to
many homes. Then Tibby heard of those who but a stone’s-throw from their
own doors had perished; of others who, like herself, had been lost and
wandered about to finally lie down and die; of horses and cattle, in
large numbers, frozen to death; of a whole school of children who,
headed by the teacher, had tried to make their way through the
impenetrable snow and fallen to be gathered in the icy embrace of the
blizzard, and delivered into the arms of Death.
And as Tibby reflected upon her narrow escape from the grim harvester,
she turned in horror from her wilful self, as she stood with the light
of recent experiences upon her. How nearly fatal had been that foolish
ride across the prairie which she had wilfully persisted in taking in
the face of better counsel. But for Donald, whom she had snubbed and
abominably ill-treated, she would have perished. Ah, she was punished,
and yet she would not be willing to owe so much to any other man. Donald
had been forced to remain at Mark’s until the storm lessened in its
severity, but he had gone away before Tibby had fully recovered from her
lethargy. He had aided in caring for her frost-bitten ears and hands,
but he had not returned to make inquiry concerning her since then. Tibby
was becoming restless at his continued absence. Was he thoroughly
disgusted with her behavior that day of the storm? she questioned.
Could any one have been more exasperating and unladylike? Yes, she
merited his contempt—and he had saved her life, saved her from such a
terrible death. Ah, if she could blot out the memory of that morning.
How she despised herself, her foolish, egotistical self. He would be
divine if he ever forgave her. She had tried to make him angry, and how
she had been punished. She had even mocked at him when he paid her the
highest compliment a man can pay a woman. Why had she acted thus? Why
must a woman always be false to herself?
Thus, bitterly, Tibby cogitated, and scourged herself, and shed tears of
contrition. But the second week went by and still Donald came not to see
her. Tibby became hysterical. She was wildly mirthful and hilarious at
times, and again her eyes showed signs of weeping.
Mrs. Wylie became anxious concerning her protege, fearing she was ill.
Tibby ate little, and was in every way capricious, and unlike her
strong, forceful self. “The shock of her dangerous ride has unnerved
her,” Mrs. Wylie reiterated. She believed she ought to consult a
physician, but as the nearest one was twenty-five miles away she put off
doing so, hoping for an improvement in her child.
At last Tibby could stand the uncertainty no longer. She must know if
she was forgiven and reestablish the friendship between them, and thank
Donald for preserving her life.
She resolved to interrogate Mrs. Cramer, and act upon her advice.
For some reason she felt less reluctant to advise with her than with
Mrs. Wylie. She found her hostess putting on her wraps preparatory to
going out.
“My dear Mrs. Cramer,” she said coaxingly, “I want to see Donald
Bartram, and thank him for rescuing me. I was too ill to do so when he
was here, and besides I did not know the magnitude of the risk he ran.
Do you think it would be proper for me to send him a note, asking him to
call?” There was a touch of anxiety in Tibby’s tone.
“Why, certainly,” replied Alice. “We are not at all conventional here.
Besides, the straightforward way is always the best, I think.”
“I hope so,” responded Tibby soberly.
“Yes, you write your note, and I will take it over to him now. Mrs.
Wylie and I are going over to Lissa’s.”
“Here it is, I have written it beforehand,” Tibby returned, a flush of
carmine vividly emphasizing her embarrassment. “I would rather you did
not—that is—Mrs. Wylie need not know of it—at least not now,” she
stammered.
“Certainly not. I’ll give it to Donald myself.” And Alice took the
gingerly proffered note and slipped it into her pocket.
“It is all right, dear,” she smiled cheerily, in answer to the pathetic
questioning of Tibby’s eyes, and she tripped away blithely, happy at the
thought that she had made a discovery which would aid in adjusting
matters to her liking.
Alice awaited her opportunity to place the missive in Donald’s hand,
unobserved by any one else, and was pleased to see the start he gave as
he looked at it.
Alice Cramer, like every other womanly woman, was a born matchmaker, and
this evidence of contrition on the part of Tibby filled her benevolent
heart with delight. This submissive, questioning air of the girl was so
unlike her usual imperious manner that Alice augured much from it.
“You will go, Don?” she whispered when he again approached her.
“Yes, if you think best.” He met her eyes with an inquiring look.
Alice nodded.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Donald set out across the fields toward Mark’s home with some
reluctance. He knew he had, by rescuing Tibby, put her, in a sense,
under obligation to him, and he dreaded to meet her upon such a footing.
He had remained away from her, resolved that until the remembrance of
that struggle in the storm had become less vivid, he would never force
his attentions upon her; would never annoy her with words of love.
“If she really cares for me she will be conscious of it in time, and I
shall know it,” he reflected. “I will not trade upon the service I have
done her. I want her _love_, not her _gratitude_.” And he set his lips
firmly in the resolution not to be betrayed into a renewal of his suit
until a more fitting season.
Donald found Tibby sitting dejectedly by the stove, her feet upon the
fender and her dimpled chin resting upon her pink, upturned palm, while
her eyes studied intently the red coals before her. This was the picture
of which he caught a glimpse through the low window as he approached the
door. At the sound of his footsteps she sprang up and came forward to
meet him, the scarlet flame of the fire blazing in cheek and lip.
“It is so nice of you to come,” she said, giving him her hand in
welcome. “You have been so shy of receiving thanks that you have
remained away an age.”
“I am glad if it has seemed an age to you,” he answered, smiling. “One
likes to have his absence noticed.”
“I didn’t realize how much—how very much I am indebted to you,” she
began shyly.
“Don’t, please, Miss Tibby. You know there is no question of debts or
credits between friends. I am thankful God gave me strength and
direction to find you. It is a serious thing to battle with the elements
in the West, Miss Waring.” Donald spoke gently and soberly.
“I realize it now. Can you ever forgive me for my dreadful talk that
morning?” Tibby’s lip quivered slightly and she dropped her eyes.
“Why, was it dreadful? I don’t remember it to have been so.”
“And my wilfulness in going against your—advice?” she continued,
resolved to finish her confession.
“Ah, that was nothing strange. One could not expect an Eastern
born-and-bred maiden to be weather-wise on the prairies or realize the
kind of storms we have here until she had some experience with them.”
“But she might have sense enough to take some one else’s word for it,”
Tibby replied, tapping the floor with her foot.
“Ah, Miss Tibby, I’m afraid we all like to experience for ourselves. We
don’t relish excitements second-hand, nor always have faith in the words
of others.”
“Well,—I—hope I’m forgiven,” Tibby faltered.
“Indeed, yes, if there was anything to forgive. I didn’t think there
was. In fact, I am sure there was nothing of the kind. However, it must
be pleasant to exercise the divine function and have no room in one’s
heart to remember a wrong. How pleasant this fire is. Nature makes
recompense for all the cold and storm outside by giving us the blessing
of fire.”
“Yes,” absently replied Tibby, twirling her handkerchief about her
finger, and gazing before her in abstraction.
“I am afraid you are thinking, Miss Tibby,” Donald said, after an
interval of silence, in which both had studied the fire.
Tibby turned and looked at him with challenging eyes.
“Would you know of what I am thinking?” she asked.
“If I might dare ask so much, yes.”
“I was wondering what one should do who has done what she regrets.”
“Undo it, if she can,” Donald replied, speaking lightly. “What is it you
do when you are sewing? Pull out the wrong stitches and do it all over
again, do you not?”
“I wonder if you could or would help me in the undoing.”
“Most assuredly, if I can.” Donald saw a roseate flame, deeper than that
in the stove, blaze in her cheeks.
Tibby put her two hands to her forehead and shaded her eyes.
“But you don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what? I do not understand you.”
“You don’t help me.”
“But you must first tell me how.”
“O, you are bound to make me go down in the dust before you,” she said.
“You will not—help me. Suppose you unravel the work, back to—to—that
time—when you—asked me to be your wife,” she whispered.
“Tibby, Tibby, darling, do not jest with me!” Donald took the pink
fingers in his, and the downcast eyes were uncovered save by the dark
lashes. “Look at me, Tibby, and tell me—if I ask you the same question
again, what will you say?”
“Yes, Donald, if you can bear to take such a wilful, good-for-nothing
girl as I have been.”
“Tibby, dear, it is love I want, not gratitude. If it is because I saved
your life—”
“Indeed, indeed, Donald, it is because—I—I love you, have always loved
you,—ever since—”
“Since when, sweetheart?”
“Since I found you were the one man I could not control,” she whispered.