A GOOD SAMARITAN.
"Quick!", said Mrs. Boyle. "They'll be here in a few minutes. I know
where you can hide. Come on. Oh, dear! You can't come. Lean on my
shoulder."
With the help of Mrs. Boyle John made his way through the bushes. His
lame ankle was frequently twisted in his haste. The briars scratched
the hands and faces both of him and of his companion. She conducted
him to a brush pile which was nearly grown over with running
blackberry vines; and letting go his arm, she threw back the trailing
cover from the dry sticks and leaves, among which she hastily
prepared a place for his reception. John lay down on the heap, where
he was covered by the brush which Mrs. Boyle had removed and lastly
by the long vines, the meshes of which made the signs of the
disturbance less conspicuous.
"They're right here," said the lady hurriedly. "I'll run to the house
and stay till they've gone, and then I'll come back."
Mrs. Boyle hastened to the house, which she began to sweep. While she
was thus engaged, Alf, with several companions, came to the door.
Their faces were red, their coats and vests had been taken off, their
shirts were drenched with perspiration.
"Have you seen a feller go by here?" inquired Boyle.
"What kind of looking man?" asked Mrs. Boyle.
"I don't care a--what kind of a lookin' feller," returned Alf. "Have
you seen anybody go by?"
"No, I haven't," said Mrs. Boyle.
"Some folks never see nothin'," said Alf, as he started away. "Come
on, boys. He's gone on, I guess."
"Will you be back to dinner, Alfred?" inquired Mrs. Boyle.
"'Tain't none o' your bisness when I'll be back," answered Alf. "I
ain't no little boy that's bound to give an account for every step I
take."
Other men shortly followed, scattering along as they varied in the
respective qualities of speed, endurance and determination. It was
more than an hour before all the stragglers had passed the house.
Those who were last had waited for the third trips of the
fishing-boats, or had been delayed by going around the lake. As soon
as Mrs. Boyle considered it safe to do so, she went to the
hiding-place where she had left Wrengell. She wondered, when she
reached the spot, that it had not been marked by the pursuing
parties. The vines had been drawn over the brush with such haste that
some of them were turned with the berries and upper sides of the
leaves down. She removed the covering and assisted John to rise.
"You must have thought I would never come," she said. "They were so
long in going by I didn't dare try it before. You see I've brought
you some crutches. They may be too short for you, but I think you can
use them. Alfred had them when he cut his foot. We will go to the
house now."
"It will not do for me to go there," said John. "They will certainly
find me if I do. How could I stay in the house with your son without
being discovered?"
"You can't stay here," returned Mrs. Boyle. "They'll be back, and
they'll hunt these brush all through. They won't think of looking for
you in the house. Alfred doesn't stay there much. Sometimes he's away
a week at a time. You can go up into the loft. There are no stairs
and we never go up there; that is, we haven't been up for six months.
Alfred got mad one time and he left the ladder up there. You see,
there's nothing else you can do. You can't lie on the ground with
that lame ankle, and besides, you'd be caught."
These arguments were convincing to John. In a few minutes he was in
the loft. After his ascent, Mrs. Boyle thrust a chair through the
opening, bidding him, as he valued his safety to maintain perfect
silence. She then directed John to draw up the ladder, and prepared
to build a fire. The roof of the chamber was unsealed. Its inner
portion was covered with rough boards, some of which were slabs.
Built along them at frequent intervals, were wasp-nests whose
dwellers were buzzing about the room.
In a few minutes Mrs. Boyle appeared, "We must have your boot off,"
she said.
"I have tried that," replied John, "but it will not come."
"We will have to cut it loose," said Mrs. Boyle. "Let me take your
knife now, please."
With the knife she cut stitches and leather, and in a short time she
gently removed the boot. She thought it advisable also to strip loose
the stocking in the same way. The deformed foot was badly swollen.
The sixth toe, the sole constituent of the deformity, was a squat,
dwarfish body, sticking from an extensive puff. John, wearied by his
long run and racked by suffering, was yet morbidly sensitive to an
exposure of the misshapen part. Mrs. Boyle applied hot cloths to the
injured ankle and handed him a bottle of camphor for application. She
did not wound his feelings by an allusion to the malformation, nor
did she appear to notice it. John could not explain her indifference
to so unusual a sight. It argued either that she had perfect control
over her actions, or that she had previously known of his misfortune.
"I see you haven't any coat or vest," said Mrs. Boyle. "Where did you
leave them?"
"In the grass on this side of the lake," answered John. "I was very
warm and I could run better with them off."
"Up by the dock where you can find them when you get well?"
"About two or three rods from it, I threw them near a large tree, and
I will have no trouble in finding them."
"I am afraid it will be a long time before you can walk," said Mrs.
Boyle. "You will have a tedious time of it. Be careful and don't
wrench your ankle in the least. It will get well a great deal sooner
provided you keep it perfectly still. I'll bring up your dinner now
and mine, too, I didn't eat much when Alfred was here."
"Are you not afraid of eating with a horse-thief?" asked John.
"No," returned Mrs. Boyle, "you never stole horses. As soon as you
feel strong enough, you must tell me how they came to accuse you of
any such thing. They are almost all miserable men that I saw go
by,--I mean the ones that I am acquainted with. I knew five or six of
them, and only two are what people call good citizens."
John was cautioned by Mrs. Boyle not to get so close to a window as
to be visible to a person outside. While they were eating, and while
she kept watch on the several avenues by which the house was likely
to be approached, he related a part of the adventures which he had
experienced since they parted after their first meeting. He did not
reveal the identity of the Wallaces, or allude to their conversation
respecting Montcalm.
"It is a disgrace," said Mrs. Boyle, "that Dr. Rorus will drink and
sell liquor so. He used to be called a smart man when he kept sober,
but drink has nearly ruined his mind and his practice. No one ever
sees him now, except when he has been drinking. Break o' Day used to
be a peaceful place. Now they have awful fights there, and drunken
men are around all the time. There is a law against selling liquor,
but nobody tries to put it in force, although every one but the
drunkards complain. Once in a while I think it's my duty to make
legal complaint, but I do dread it so, and then Alfred, you know, he
is, well, quick-tempered, he would be mad. I am afraid I don't always
do as I ought to, just because it isn't pleasant."
John doubted that there was a just occasion for Mrs. Boyle's fear. He
believed that she was incapable of committing a wrong act. He had
never seen another countenance which had so much benignity, such an
expression of self-forgetfulness and concern for the comfort of
others. She kept a fire in the stove, and at intervals brought up hot
water in which to dip the cloths for the swollen limb. Mrs. Boyle did
not venture to eat supper with John in the loft. She was apprehensive
lest Alf might change his mind and return when he was least expected.
At sunset she carried a feather tick and some clothes to the chamber
and arranged for John a comfortable bed, When this was done, she
descended; and a few seconds later John heard her leave the house.
Her absence was continued for an hour, but finally she reappeared in
the loft with a bundle under her arm.
"I am mad," said John. "You have been to the lake after my coat and
vest. You have worked so hard that you ought not to have gone down
there, tramping through the grass."
"It did not hurt me in the least," said Mrs. Boyle. "I found them in
five minutes."
Wrengell had reason to be thankful. He had escaped a vindictive mob,
and if he had sustained injury, he had fallen into the hands of a
good Samaritan who had dressed his wounds and paid his reckoning at
an inn. Unused to sleeping among the strange noises which pervaded
the forest, he lay awake the greater portion of the night. He heard,
oft repeated, the hooting of an owl, Sometimes distant, sometimes
near, always monotonous, more interesting to him, because he did not
know their origin, were the cries of two raccoons which were calling
to each other from different parts of the wood.
It was after daylight when he awoke from one brief nap which he had
obtained. The wasps were humming about the apartment. Below, Mrs
Boyle was stepping about briskly preparing breakfast. John was in no
hurry to rise, for he lacked a profitable occupation. He lay long
looking up at the rough roof boards, on the surface of which were
dark weather-stains and those rings which record the years of the
oak. His left leg was useless for purposes of travel. He dressed,
took his crutches and, heedless of the injunctions which Mrs. Boyle
had given him, opened a window and leaned half his body outside. The
clearing was bounded on two sides by brush. These surroundings might
have been forbidding had they not been before a background of fine
timber. Some industrious man had chopped off a considerable amount of
ground. John reached the conclusion that her son was adverse to using
the ax and the brush-hook.
The window where Wrengell was seated looked out on a fine stretch of
wood. The trees, which were mostly of oak, were clad in the full
magnificence of summer. An unusual number of them had large, straight
trunks, running many feet high without a limb and surmounted by
well-formed, wide-spreading tops.
Near the edge of the timber a monster grape-vine was coiled about a
sapling, nearly enveloping it and completely overspreading its
branches at the top.
The tree was bent, as if its heavy burden had brought in youth the
decrepitude of age. It was like some patient boy, who, deprived of
recreation, sinks without a complaint under the weight of tasks, the
endurance of which requires the strength of manhood.
A black squirrel, apparently attracted by the infrequent spectacle,
hopped leisurely to the sapling, which he proceeded to climb. He
worked his way through, and seated on the top mat of vines, began
earnestly to chatter. When he tired of this situation, he leaped to
the limb of a large white oak and again sounded his calls. He was
joined by another squirrel, which chased him round and round the body
of the tree. The second arrival made only a short stay, but the first
lingered after the departure of his companion. Going to the extreme
end of a long limb which reached within a few feet of the house, he
looked mischievously in at the window. John was pleased with the
innocent gambols of the animal. He was about to push his head through
the window, from which he had withdrawn, when the report of a gun
rang out and the squirrel tumbled to the ground. As helplessly
floundering, the little creature strove to escape, Alf rushed up and
catching him by the tail struck his head several times against the
tree. He continued the blows until the last shudder had passed
through the inanimate frame.
John, looking through a knot-hole in the side of the house, feared
that Alf might see the open window and mistrust the presence of a
stranger. He knew by the brutality which he had so often witnessed
that the ruffian, if he could avoid the penalties of the law, would
delight in taking his life. After Alf had disappeared from his view,
he crawled forward to let down the sash, but at that moment he heard
his step below.
"Here's a squirrel, ma," said Boyle. "Can you cook him for
breakfast?"
"I won't have time to dress him," replied Mrs. Boyle. "I'll cook him
for dinner."
"No, you don't have time for nothin'," rejoined Alf. "It can't keep
you very busy to cook for two. I won't be here to dinner. I s'pose,
though, you can eat him ail yourself if you want to."
"Why can't you be here at dinner?" asked Mrs. Boyle. "Don't you think
I ever get lonesome?"
The conversation between Alf and Mrs. Boyle was limited. As the young
man was about to leave, he said: "I want a dollar."
"I can't very well spare it," replied Mrs. Boyle.
"I've got to have it," returned Alf. "They ain't no use o' talkin', I
must have it."
"I have use for it. It was only last Monday that I let you have two
dollars."
"That ain't got nothin' to do with to-day. If I didn't need it, I
wouldn't ask you. You might just as well git it as to fool around,
for I won't be monkeyed with."
Mrs. Boyle reluctantly procured the desired sum for Alf, who departed
on receiving it. She looked troubled when she brought John his
breakfast.
Wrengell's quarters were tolerably comfortable. He had not, indeed,
many luxuries. Mrs. Boyle furnished him a few books, but they were of
a character such as, it must be confessed, is interesting to few
young persons. They were religious works, treatises on piety, and
biographies of religious people. A strong recommendation for perusing
them, however, was the daily life of the woman by whom they were
read. She was never idle, and rarely working for her own benefit. She
daily visited the sick woman, Mrs. Blake, and John guessed that she
carried her medicine, delicacies and staple provisions. There were,
besides, others to who she ministered. She did not tell John of her
charity, but he saw direct and circumstantial evidence to convince
him that his surmises were correct. One afternoon a small boy came to
her house and alluded to a coat which she had given him.
John was awakened the fourth night after his arrival by the gruff
voice of Alf in the lower room. The worthless fellow was repeating
his demand for money, which Mrs. Boyle was resisting.
"You want to know about every cent I spend," he said, "just as though
I was a two-year-old young one. I thank you, I ain't tied to your
apron-strings now."
"I can't give it to you to-night, Alfred," said Mrs. Boyle.
"Can't is a big word with you," said Alf. "That's what you say every
time, but you manage to find money when you want to. I've got to have
it to-night because I'm goin' away, I won't be back in a week, maybe
never."
"Why, what have you been doing?" cried Mrs. Boyle, "You have got into
trouble."
"S'posin' I have," said Alf. "I can git out of it without consultin'
you. You git what I want, and I'll manage the rest."
"I have let you have all I can," replied Mrs. Boyle. "I'm afraid you
don't make good use of it."
"It don't make no difference what use I make of it," returned Alf,
"If you don't git it, I'll burn your ole shanty down. Now you can bet
your boots on that."
"It is the Lord's," returned Mrs. Boyle firmly, "and I must keep it."
"Then, if it's His, he hadn't ought to have it layin' round here,"
said the profane Alf.
"Oh, Alfred," cried the distressed woman, "how can you be so wicked?
I have tried to bring you up right and cried about you and give you
more than I keep myself. But this I have promised to apply to the
Lord's purpose. Don't talk so, and don't try to make me sin by
breaking my promises!"
"Be you a-goin' to git me that money?" asked Alf.
"No," said Mrs. Boyle, "it is God's and I must keep it."
Alf was furious with rage. He uttered a savage oath, raised his fist,
struck her a blow which sent her reeling against the wall and ran
from the room. As soon as the dispute threatened a serous
termination, John arose and began to dress. The blow from Alf's fist
was struck just before Jig reach the opening which led below. Without
waiting to use the ladder he lowered himself by his hands, falling in
a heap on the floor.
"Where has he gone?" cried John. "I will teach him better than that!"
"Oh, stop John!" Mrs. Boyle pleaded, sobbing in spite of her efforts
to be calm. "You mustn't say anything! You must keep still or he will
kill you!"
"But I will not keep still," replied John. "He struck you, and I will
punish him. I will shoot him!"
"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Boyle, "you wouldn't shoot my son?"
"He is not your son," answered John. "No such mother ever had such a
son."