“You’re right! I ain’t got no relatives an’ nobody to look after, so
thar isn’t any sense in workin’ too much. That’s just what I say.”
And that is just what he always did say, poor Simlin, but he never
ceased, notwithstanding. Nearly every body that knew him and spoke to
him about it always found him quick to acquiesce: “Thar was nothin’
plainer than what they said, and it was just what he said, too.” But it
did not make the slightest difference, for he continued to work away all
the same; so what else could be done but merely to give up the question?
Now, if he had only expressed himself in decided opposition, there might
have been something to hope for in the matter—at least, it would have
opened the way for an argument upon the subject; and, then, there was
always the possibility that he might be induced to change his mind.
However, his provoking approval put the case wholly beyond reach. And so
old Simlin, toiling early and late, quietly followed his vocation.
There was not a better moulder in the whole foundry, or one that drew
much higher wages. But, then, he was getting old. To be sure, he never
had been young, so far as they knew any thing about him, even ten years
ago, when, altogether unknown and friendless, he had first made his
appearance in the village. But these ten years combined had not worn
upon him like the last one. His head now, if once the soot had been
removed, would not have shown a single black hair; and his voice was
weak and cracked, and there was a visible trembling about the old man’s
legs. Perhaps he did imbibe liquor; but nobody had any right to say so,
for nobody could prove that it was true. Only of late he had a strangely
confused manner when anyone addressed him, and, raising his unsteady
hand nervously to his head, would repeat the sentence that had been on
his lips a hundred, yes, a thousand times, until it had long ago grown
into a stereotyped form—“I ain’t got no relatives an’ nobody to look
after, so thar isn’t any sense in workin’ too much.”
Perhaps he really thought that the people would never see that he was
straining every effort, using every moment of his time, though, before
the sun was up, and often after it was gone, the old man was at his
place. And Simlin was always the first on hand if there was an extra job
that would bring an extra cent.
But, other than making the assertion that he had no relatives, and
nobody depending upon him, and that he did not think it worth while to
work over-much, he never carried on a conversation. That there was no
one to look after _him_ was a self-evident fact. He lived utterly alone,
in a small cabin on the brow of the hill. Rarely a soul but himself ever
crossed its threshold. Under the step the gray gophers made their
burrow, and, beneath the tall beech trees, that threw down their prickly
nuts, the brown weasels played in peaceful groups. The shy quail,
sounding their whistle, fled among the ferns; and above, from the myriad
branches, the beautiful wild doves mourned out their perpetual sadness.
At evening, when the sun went down, and the long line of the Scioto
Hills flushed crimson with serene glory; when, by slow degrees, the
pageant of departing day withdrew its gorgeous colors; even when the
valley below was black with the gloom of night, the western radiance
lingered, like the transforming light of some other land, upon the rude
cabin, standing on its high and solitary perch.
Empty and bare, it afforded but little protection from the weather, for
through it the winds blew in Winter, and the rains dripped in Summer.
Simlin’s wants, however, appeared to be few and simple. He seldom had a
fire, even at the coldest season. What he subsisted upon, nobody knew.
Once, perhaps, in two or three days, he would buy a loaf of coarse bread
from the baker in the village, and his table evidently was supplied in
the most frugal manner.
The people put down his besetting sin to be avarice; and the hut, if it
contained no furniture, was reported to contain wealth enough, hidden
away in its obscure cracks and corners, to have draped its dreary boards
in the most costly velvet and lace, and encased its walls with marble.
Of course, he was a miser. More than ten years now he had been at the
foundry, and not a cent of the wages which he drew regularly had he
spent, or put so much as a farthing into the savings bank, where many of
the hands had laid up quite a pile. But, unlike the majority of misers,
the old man never complained of being poor; indeed, he never complained
at all, or spoke of money in any way. If the subject was brought up in
his presence, he either preserved utter silence or quietly got up and
left; and, if driven to the last extremity, and made to say something,
he would remark, running into the same old channel, that “It didn’t much
matter—he hadn’t any relatives nor any body dependin’ upon him.”
So lonely and forlorn did he seem, and so harmless withal—for the old
man never was known to do a mean action, or resent an angry word—that
many uncouth kindnesses had been shown him on the part of the hands,
with whom he was by no means unpopular. Especially had this been the
case latterly; for, though he himself was apparently unconscious of it,
so terribly broken had he become that the change was sorrowful to
behold; and, rude as were the foundry-workmen, what there was pathetic
in the patient manner in which the feeble old man silently worked on
told upon them by instinct.
There had even been an interest taken in him up at the great house.
Every season, “the colonel,” as the owner and sole proprietor of the
Rocky Ford Foundry was called by all the employes, brought his family
down from the city to spend a few months rusticating in the beautiful
Scioto Valley, where he had built a summer residence for that purpose,
and that he might be near his great iron-works at the same time. There
was always gay company up at the house—visitors from town, who needed no
second invitation to entice them from the dust of the city to this
peaceful retreat among the lovely hills of Ohio. Besides, the colonel
had a beautiful daughter, and every body liked the “young misses.”
Seldom, though, did she ever go down to the foundry; never, indeed
unless some special object took her there.
Coming from her home a mile distant—this home for her embowered in
perpetual Summer and wrapped in the peace that broods upon the
everlasting hills, where she could see, far off, the golden meadow-lands
and the more distant Paint Ridge, with its transparent veil of mist;
this home from which she had often looked out and listened to the blue
Scioto, unflecked with sail or skiff, struggling by day and night to
tell its mysterious story, as it flowed forever on its lonely
course—coming from this home, over the narrow path that led down the
slope to the river’s edge, where the green rushes grew and the wild
columbine hung its bells above the water—coming on, past the great
rocks, where the scarlet lichens flamed in the sun and the blossoming
alder displayed its drifted clusters; coming still with active feet over
the velvet moss—coming from the lovely valley, coming from the tranquil
hills, when she entered the foundry it seemed like stepping suddenly
from the beautiful world into some haunt of evil spirits.
Within the great dingy walls no shining sunlight brightened the air. Dim
and cheerless, it hung laden with smoke and vapor, that floated in
clouds to the rafters. The harsh clang of heavy machinery, together with
the roar of the furnaces, seemed to shake the very building. Among the
enormous wheels that whirled with frightful velocity, and the immense
belts that whizzed above their heads, the workmen, black and begrimed,
looked small, weird and unearthly, moving about upon the damp ground,
with its jet-like covering of charred cinders. The place seemed an
apparition of demons, performing in some cavern of the lower regions
their evil incantations. No wonder the young lady seldom went there. Its
gloom fell upon her with a heavy oppression, and her breath only came
freely when once more she found herself out in the clear and open
sunlight.
It happened in this manner that she first came to take any notice of old
Simlin: There were gathered quite a party of young folks; and the
colonel, who had been in Cincinnati upon business, had returned the
previous evening, bringing with him another gentleman, apparently a
stranger to the family.
It was at the breakfast-table that the company were discussing the
“sights” of the neighborhood, and debating whether they would take him
first over to Paint Creek upon a fishing-excursion, or across the river
to Mount Logan, famous for having been the rendezvous of the great
Indian chief, when the colonel spoke up,—
“Why not begin at home?” he said. “Do not fatigue him to death the first
day, and I am proud enough of my foundry to think it might be of
interest even to Mr. Safford; at least I mean to have him shown over it
before he leaves.”
The young man, of course, immediately stated that it would give him
great pleasure, and the whole company, to the most of whom it would
prove a novelty, gladly acquiesced in the proposition. So it was
decided, and two hours later they all started on their way.
When they entered the foundry it seemed more gloomy than ever, the
atmosphere more stifling, and the jar of the machinery more painfully
loud and discordant. Even the gay young people who had chatted and
laughed all the morning felt the sudden change that involuntarily
subdued their merriment. They broke up and scattered in twos and threes
over the place, following the lead of simple curiosity, but the
stranger-gentleman staid beside Helen, the “young misses.”
“What a queer, unreal place!” he said. “One would never expect to find
any thing like it in this beautiful valley. Does it not make you think,
coming upon it suddenly out of the sunlight, of the evil genii you have
read about in some fairy-tale long ago? And the workmen, at whose
bidding all this gigantic power is brought into action, how small and
weird they look!”
The two had been slowly approaching the great furnace, and, just as the
gentleman ceased speaking, the immense door was thrown open,
discovering, like a glimpse of the infernal regions, the seething flame
within. Though they were not near enough to experience any inconvenience
from the heat, Helen uttered a frightened exclamation and drew back; but
the gentleman stood as if spellbound, for immediately in front of him
from this opening streamed a broad but sharply defined streak of
blood-red light, that fell full upon old Simlin, and transformed the
blackened cinders on the ground beneath his feet into a mass of living
embers.
As the old man straightened up, and was in the act of raising his hand
to shield his eyes from the sudden illumination, they encountered the
stranger, and a mingled expression of surprise and fright instantly
struggled up through their weak color. For a moment, like an apparition,
he stood transfixed. The red glare showed the old man’s shrunken figure;
it showed his attenuated arms and death-like mouth, his tattered clothes
and the few wisps of his scant hair.
Mr. Safford had stopped simply at the startling effect which the glow of
the furnace had produced, falling by accident upon a single workman.
But, when the man rose up, he gazed at him, utterly taken aback by his
strange behavior.
For an instant, the old man stared without moving a muscle, then his
lips began to work convulsively, and, raising his hand before his face,
as if to screen it from view, he half uttered an unintelligible sentence
and sank down. At the same time, the door of the furnace had been
closed, shutting off the brilliant light that for a moment had so
strangely thrown him into violent relief.
For a second, Safford almost thought the whole thing had been an optical
illusion, or some hallucination of his own brain; then, stepping
forward, he saw the old man lying in a heap upon the ground.
The young lady, recovering immediately from her sudden fright at the
unexpected blaze, had seen the workman fall, and, coming up, asked, in a
terrified voice,—
“What is the matter? Oh, he is dead!” she exclaimed, kneeling down
beside him.
“No, he is not dead. Run for some brandy—quick!” Mr. Safford called to
the nearest hand. Then, assisted by one of the men, he raised the
prostrate figure, not a heavy burden, and carried it out into the open
air.
“I allus thought old Simlin’d come to this,” said the man who had helped
in carrying him. “We all knowd he was over-workin’ himself.”
“Why? Was he so feeble?” asked Mr. Safford, while he bathed the grimy
forehead with his wet handkerchief.
“Feebil? He’s that feebil he’s just been of a trembil all over; and he’s
getting pretty much used up here, too,” said the man, dropping his
voice, and significantly touching his forehead. “It’s my idee he’s not
booked for this world much longer.”
“Poor man!” said Miss Helen, leaning tenderly over the pale face that
still showed no symptoms of returning consciousness; “how very thin and
emaciated he is! Has he no wife or family to take care of him?”
“That’s just it, ma’am! That’s just what he’s allus harpin’ on! He says
he ain’t got no relatives, and nobody to look after, and—”
The young lady suddenly raised her hand with a warning gesture; and,
before the workman had ceased speaking, old Simlin opened his eyes. He
looked around for a moment in a bewildered way; then his uncertain
glance, falling upon the gentleman kneeling by his side, immediately
became fixed, and grew into a wild stare. Raising himself unsteadily
upon his elbow, still with his eyes fixed upon him, the old man threw
out his trembling arm with a gesture as if addressing the whole
company,—
“It’s a lie! Who said I had any relatives, or any body to look after? I
hain’t! It’s a lie—a _lie_, I say! I never seen you before. He’s a
stranger!”—still keeping his arm extended, and appealing excitedly to
those around him—“you all know he is a stranger. I ain’t got no
relatives, nor any body to look after!”
It was evident enough that what the workman had told them about his
intellect was too true, they all thought, as they looked at each other
with a quick glance.
“I tell you I don’t know you, sir! It’s all a lie. I never seen you
before! I—”
“No, you never saw me before.”
Mr. Safford had spoken, hoping to soothe him; but, instead, the sentence
appeared to act upon the old man like an electric battery, for he raised
himself into a sitting posture, and, with his head bobbing violently
about, fairly screamed, his cracked voice running into high treble,—
“That’s right!—that’s right! Do you all hear it? He says I never seen
him before. It’s all a lie about my havin’ got any relatives. I hain’t!
I never seen him before—You heerd him say so—you all heerd him?” he
inquired, for the first time, taking his pale, watery eyes from the
gentleman, and looking, in a frightened, appealing way, round the group.
Then his strength seemed to fail suddenly, and he fell back upon the
grass, panting for breath.
At this moment the colonel came up, and knelt down by his side. He
uttered his name several times, and even put his hand upon the wrinkled
forehead; but the old man, with vacant eyes fixed on the sky, paid no
heed, though his lips trembled.
“I have ordered a wagon. It will be here directly. He must be taken to
the house, where he can receive every attention. Poor man! I am afraid
this will be about the last. I have expected it for a long time. Here,
Safford, help me to lift him,” he added, as Hendricks came back with the
wagon.
“Safford! Safford! Who called me Safford?” said the old man, suddenly
looking round in a terrified manner. “I—I’ve been a dreamin’,” uttering
a weak laugh. “It’s not my—I mean nobody said it. I never heerd that
name before. It’s darned funny, ain’t it? but I never even heerd that
name before in my life! You know I didn’t”—growing wild and excited
again—“you know it’s a lie! I ain’t got no relatives, nor nobody to look
after.”
The gentlemen, without speaking, stooped to raise him; but he struggled
violently, and, keeping his eyes still fixed on the younger one, he
cried, with such an extreme distress upon his face, that they
involuntarily drew back,—
“No, no! I’m not fit to be near you. Stand off! You’re a fine gentleman;
it’s not for the likes of you to touch me!”
Then turning toward the colonel, he muttered some inarticulate apology,
and actually staggered, unaided, to his feet,—
“I’m ’bliged to ye all,” he said, nodding his head up and down, and
backing, with uncertain steps, toward the foundry, as if afraid to take
his eyes from the party as long as he was within their sight. “Thar
ain’t nothin’ the matter with me! I jest felt faint a spell from the
heat—the heat. It ain’t nothin’, an’ it’s gone now! I’ll go back to my
work agin—I’m all right—I’m ’bliged to ye! It was jest the heat as
overcum me—jest the heat—” and, with a painful smile upon his thin lips,
still muttering unintelligible excuses, he tottered into the building.
For a moment, taken by surprise, the group remained motionless. Then
Helen said; “Poor old man! I declare, it almost made me cry only to look
at him!—Father, you will have him cared for; you will not allow him to
work any more?”
“No. He is dreadfully broken down, and I have heard the hands say that,
latterly, he was breaking in his mind, too; but I did not know it was so
bad. I will see that he does as little as possible; but he will never
quit until he gives out utterly, and he can not hold on long in this
condition. Strange, Safford, how the sight of you seemed to excite him!
Did you notice with what a wild, terrified gaze he stared at you, as if
he had been hunted down? and, when you stooped to raise him up, he
almost drew himself into a knot. I did not suppose, when I saw him on
the ground, that he had strength enough left to stand on his feet
without help; and it seemed as if it was this fear of you that inspired
him with the power.”
The younger man stood leaning against the tree from which he had not
moved.
“Yes,” he replied, “it was strange; I noticed it. How long have you had
him in your employ?”
“More than ten years, and he has been about the most valuable hand in
the foundry.”
“Then I’m sure, father, you will take care of him, and not let him work
any more?” said Helen, again.
“Yes—yes, child! don’t bother yourself so—of course I will;” but the
younger gentleman turned toward her quickly, while his face lighted up,
then checked himself abruptly in what would have been an eager gesture
of gratitude, and looked away without saying a word.
They remained a few moments to hear that the old man had recovered, and
when the messenger reported him working at his place quietly as usual,
without re-entering the foundry, or waiting for their companions, the
two started homeward. Helen’s reluctance to go back into the building
again had been so manifest that the gentleman could hardly do otherwise.
Not until the straggling little village and the smoke of the great
foundry were left in the distance did she fairly draw a breath of
relief, and even then they still walked on almost in silence.
The day had reached its noon. On the river flowing past the lances of
the sun broke into a thousand flakes of fire that followed each other
over its surface in myriad ranks; and on either side, where the twisted
birch reached out its branches, the waves with a grateful murmur turned
up their cool white crests.
There was no loud hum of grasshoppers. Hardly a leaf stirred upon the
trees, hardly a bird fluttered its wings. Even the far-off mists had
disappeared, and a hush was on the hills—a hush as of awe before the
splendor of the sky. No wonder they spoke but little. Almost solemn was
the glory of the day in its noon. Yet perhaps neither one felt this
influence which rested upon the land, and subdued alike to silence the
peewee and the bobolink. It may be that the girl was not wholly
unconscious of the scene, but it was certainly some other influence that
wrapped her companion in abstraction. He saw not even the checkered
shade that fell in arch and groin upon their path.
They were half-way home. Rousing himself suddenly with an effort, as if
but just aware of this long abstraction, he said, for lack of any thing
better,—
“Miss Helen, do you like the country?”
“Dearly. I love these hills and the river. The time I spend here is the
happiest part of my life.”
“And are you not always happy?” he inquired. “You should be.”
A strange gentleness in his tone as he uttered the last words made Helen
look up quickly as she answered him with a smile,—
“I am. I never had a trouble in my life.”
They had reached the turn where the path led up the slope from the foot
of the hill.
“Do not go back to the house,” he said; “let us sit down here a little
while in the shade. I feel strangely oppressed, and the four walls of a
room would suffocate me.”
Apparently, he had uttered the last sentence involuntarily, as he took
off his hat, and passed his hand several times across his forehead, for,
catching his breath quickly, he added, as if by way of an apology,—
“It is so much pleasanter in the open air, and I am less fortunate than
you. I seldom have a chance to enjoy the country.”
He had evidently spoken truly, however, when he said he felt strangely
oppressed, for his eyes wandered up the valley, far off to the remote
Paint Ridge, yet he did not see the glittering Scioto, or how Summer sat
enthroned in royal pomp upon the hills.
There was a thoughtful, almost anxious expression on his face. Presently
he added, in a tone of voice as if they might have been discussing the
subject at the moment, and which showed his mind was still occupied
wholly by the incident at the foundry,—
“Miss Helen, had you ever seen that man before?”
“What man?” she inquired. “The workman, you mean?”
“Yes, the old moulder.”
“No. I have often heard them speak of him. I rarely go to the foundry;
it is gloomy, and the hands are so rough father does not like to have me
come in contact with them in any way, so I do not know one from another.
I did not recollect at first, but I remember now hearing him say that
old Simlin was queer, that he was a miser, and that he lived all alone
on the Spring Hill. But I am sure father did not know he was so feeble,
or how he was losing his mind. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. It
must be dreadfully sad, ignorant though he is, to grow old and have not
a soul on the earth to care for him.”
Again the gentleman turned to her, as she spoke, with a sudden emotion
in his eyes that would have called the color to her cheeks had she seen
it, but in another instant he had looked away, and the troubled cloud
settled back once more upon his features.
“The river _is_ beautiful,” he said, after a pause; “see how the fire
dances down its surface.”
He had dismissed the subject from their conversation, if not from his
own thoughts. More than an hour later Helen sprang up with a conscious
blush upon her face as the sound of approaching voices told her how the
time had fled. Ah, for her at least it had been wafted by on silver
wings! They both joined the party, and all went together to the house.
There, almost immediately, Mr. Safford excused himself and went to his
room.
Shut in alone, the same anxious, troubled expression he had worn when he
looked unconsciously up the river came back upon him as he walked
thoughtfully to and fro across the floor. The incident at the foundry
had affected him singularly. He could not throw off its depressing
influence. Why, he asked himself—why did the face of the old man haunt
him perpetually—the thin, wrinkled face, as it had looked at him with
sudden surprise and terror struggling up through its watery eyes? Why
did the cracked voice, with its accent of fright, ring constantly in his
ears? If it were but the wild vagary of an unsettled mind, why should he
give it any heed? “I am nervous,” he muttered to himself. “They said the
man was crazy, and surely I never saw him before—no, I never saw him
before. Then why should the sight of me have so excited him? Probably
another stranger would have done the same. I am foolish—and they said
the man was crazy—”
He still paced the floor of his room up and down, while he tried to
argue himself out of the unreasonable hold which the circumstance had
taken on his mind. “I wish I could forget it!” he exclaimed. Then
walking to the window, and looking out mechanically, he said slowly to
himself, as if weighing well his words,—
“It is not possible; no, it is not possible that here I am going to find
any clew. The man _was_ crazy, that is all.”
He returned again, however, not the least relieved, to his track over
the carpet, and, before he went down stairs, he had determined that he
would “wait and see.” He would not, as he had previously intended, leave
the place within a day or two. He could not go away until he had
satisfied himself about the matter wholly, and in the mean time he would
find out what he could in regard to the old man.
He did not make any inquiries of the family, and the only information he
could gain was simply what he had been already told.
His sleep that night was strangely disturbed. Over and over in his
troubled slumber a thin, shrunken figure stood with its trembling arm
stretched out toward him. It was always before him, even when sometimes
there flitted through his dreams the form of one whose face was fair as
the morning, whose hair was yellow as the reaper’s wheat. He rose
feeling little refreshed. The night, instead of lessening, had but
strengthened the hold which the incident of the previous day had taken
upon him, and against which he struggled without avail.
The colonel’s prophecy did not prove incorrect when he said Simlin could
not last long, for, just as the family were rising from the
breakfast-table, a messenger arrived, saying the old man was lying
insensible in his cabin. It seemed he did not make his appearance at the
foundry at his usual time, and, after waiting an hour in vain,
Hendricks, who suspected something might be wrong, sent one of the hands
to the hut, where he was found in this condition.
“Tell Hendricks I will see to him immediately,” the colonel said to the
messenger, as he retired; then turning to young Safford, who stood with
his hat in his hand, inquired, “Are you going out?”
“I will go with you, if you have no objection. I may be of some service,
and I am in need of exercise at any rate.”
He hesitated as he spoke, endeavoring to cover the unusual interest
which he took in the matter, and the excitement he felt that the news
had brought upon him.
“Why, my dear fellow, you are absolutely pale this morning! Our country
air ought to do better for you than this. Yes, I wish you would go with
me. I don’t know exactly what is to be done. If old Simlin is very ill,
he can not be moved, and anyhow there is no road leading up that side of
the Spring Hill, nothing but a narrow foot-path, which I guess he has
worn himself, for nobody else ever goes in that direction. The cabin
must have been originally put up by hunters. The place is so lonely and
inaccessible, I have often tried in vain to prevail upon him to come
down into the village. He is a strange man, almost a hermit in his
habits.”
“Father, can not I go along with you? Maybe I can do something for him,
too, if he is sick.”
“You, Helen?” said her father, smiling. “What can you do for such a
person? No, no, child, it is no place for you. I do not like to have you
go among any of these wretched people.”
He stooped and kissed the fair countenance raised so entreatingly to
his. A swift expression of pain had come across the younger gentleman’s
face as the colonel spoke, but the girl persisted, and her father
reluctantly gave his consent.
“Well, well, as you will! Tell Margaret to put a few things into a
basket with some wine and brandy, and tell Jake to follow us with it
immediately. We may need him anyhow, and he has no work to do about the
house this morning. I can not spare Hendricks from the foundry, and very
likely, if we can not move Simlin, the hut will have to be fixed up a
little.”
Losing no time, they started on their errand of mercy. The walk was
long, but well shaded. Down the hill, along the valley, up the hill, all
Nature seemed reveling in an excess of joy. The little song-sparrows,
wild with delight, united in a jubilant choir; the blackbirds called,
and called, and called; the orioles, in myriad numbers, fluttered their
golden wings; and sometimes a chaffinch loitered for a moment in her
flight to the far-off wheat fields.
It seemed strange that there should be any misery, any suffering. The
girl could not realize it until they came out on top of the Spring Hill
to the little clearing where the cabin stood, which, in its utter
desolation, appeared to overwhelm her. There was no sign of a human
presence any where. A silent robin sat idly on the chimney-top, while
its mate flitted wistfully over the sunburnt grass. The place was so
lonely that the gentle wind seemed to smother a sob. Below, the wide
valley stretched away to the remote sky. And in this wretched hovel, on
this solitary site, old Simlin lived, like one ostracized from society.
“Wait here a moment,” said the colonel, “while I go in first, and I will
come and tell you.”
He left them in the shade of the tall beech trees, and they saw him go
into the cabin. Though neither had spoken, they knew that upon each
heart rested the same burden of dread. In the moment that followed there
came over the young man an almost sickening anxiety, but the girl stood,
awed only by the thought that perhaps even then the black wings of Death
might be settling unknown within their very presence. Then she saw her
father come to the door and beckon—the old man at least was not dead—and
they went in together.
The place was far more bare and desolate than even its exterior had
appeared. The rough boards of the floor were shrunken apart. Through the
windows, unshielded by even a plank, the glaring light poured in a
pitiless flood. A broken chair or two were propped against the wall, and
in the corner an old pine table stood in a precarious condition upon its
uneven legs.
There, stretched across the wretched bed dressed in his grimy clothes,
just as they had seen him at the foundry twenty-four hours ago, the old
man lay insensible. All their restoratives were powerless to rouse him
from this heavy stupor. Not even a muscle responded to their efforts.
The half-closed eyes were glazed. There was no quiver now about the
bloodless lips. The thin, emaciated face seemed thinner, more emaciated,
for over all the features rested that sunk expression which those who
look upon it behold with despair at their hearts. But for the slow rise
and fall of his chest, they might have thought the last glimmer of life
had died out of that frail form forever.
It was plain that they could not dare to move him, and the colonel
carefully shaded the window with a few pieces of plank, still leaving
free access to the air. Helen had quietly taken all the things from the
basket, and set them ready for use, though there was little chance now
that they could be of any avail. Safford stood at the foot of the bed,
utterly unconscious of every thing at the moment but the prostrate
figure before him. Since he entered the room he had hardly changed his
position, only that he folded his arms across his breast, and drooped
his head a little, as if in that attitude he might the more intently
watch the sleeper.
When the colonel came and spoke to him he started up as if frightened,
like one out of a dream, so that the elder man looked at him in
surprise; but Safford, with a strong effort controlling himself, said
quickly, in a husky voice,— “I beg your pardon. You startled me!”
“I only wanted to know how long you thought he could last?”
“I can not tell. It may be until evening, hardly longer.”
He was right. The day wore on without any apparent change until about
the going down of the sun, when the old man moved a little. They had
once or twice dropped a few drops of wine between his lips, but this was
the first symptom of any break in the heavy stupor which had held him so
long in its death-like embrace. His respiration quickened, and became
audible. He muttered one or two incoherent sentences, then a tremor
passed over his features, and he opened his eyes.
Helen, whom her father had vainly endeavored during the afternoon to
persuade into going home, stood with her head turned away; and the
colonel, too intent upon watching the dying man, did not notice Safford,
from whose face, at the first struggle in the inanimate form, every
particle of color fled, and who, trembling violently all over, clutched
the bed for support.
The old man for a moment looked about the room blankly, as if a haze
obscured his vision. Raising himself slowly on his elbow, his face
lighted up, and he opened his lips to speak, but as suddenly the light
faded out, his features quivered pitiably, and he sank down, saying,
brokenly, in an accent of despair,—
“Dead—she is dead! She is dead!”