AFTER THE RESCUE—ANTIPATHIES AND REPULSIONS—JOSHUA’S ANGUISH.
Mrs. Leonard started up, left Laura prostrate on the floor, with her
head resting on Arnold’s knee, and went to the help of her own child.
“Oh! Amy! Amy! how did this come about?” she cried, while the tears
rained down her face. “You in danger in the water, and I staying here
with her! Oh! Joshua, Joshua, I did not know it! I did not know it!”
“Get some blankets hot. Don’t wait to cry!”
“But she is dead. Her face is cold as snow!”
“No, her heart beats against mine,—a weak flutter, but it is life!” said
Leonard, while great tears of thankfulness stole down his face. “I felt
it in the saw-mill,—it beats yet. Thank God she is alive!”
Arnold looked up harshly, as the old man thanked God for his child. Had
he really wished her to die? One would think so from his face, and from
the sharp bitterness with which he spoke.
“And must this poor lady be left to die because your daughter has got
hurt?” he said.
Amy heard the words, and moaned on her father’s bosom.
“God forgive me!” cried Mrs. Leonard, stricken in her conscience; “but
blood is thicker than water, and she is our only child.”
“Yes, but, nevertheless, we should not forget the stranger within our
gates,” said Joshua, looking compassionately on the insensible French
girl; for the moaning voice of his child had reassured him, and his good
heart was broad enough for more than her, now that his worst fears were
over.
“Here, undress the poor lady, mother, while I heat some blankets to wrap
them in.”
“Give her to me,” said the good housewife, busying herself about the
French girl, but still casting anxious looks at her own child. “There
now, father, bring out the warming-pan,—heap it with red-hot coals.
Never mind scorching the sheets. Sprinkle a handful of brown sugar over
the coals, and let Ben Arnold warm the bed in that room, while you heat
the blankets to wrap them up in.”
While the good woman spoke, she was taking off Laura’s cloak and
over-garments, wringing out the ice as it melted from her hair, and
strove to force her heart into the work; though it would go where nature
sent it, spite of her husband’s commands. Nay, I fear that she
surreptitiously left the stranger, when the two men were safely shut up
in the bedroom, and took off Amy’s wet garments first, bestowing a burst
of tears and pitying kisses on her pale face and arms, as she rolled her
in the hot blankets, and flung the warmest comforter over her.
Then, smitten with a sense of her own selfishness, she returned to the
stranger, sufficiently reassured to take considerable interest in the
gold chain which she removed from her neck, and to remark the embroidery
with which the delicate linen was enriched, with a wonder that
approached condemnation. But when she saw how cold and marble-like was
the form beneath, her good heart rose again, and she wrapped the
helpless girl up with motherly tenderness, gentle as that bestowed on
her own child, hoping, with tears in her eyes, that life might not be
quite gone.
At last the bed was prepared, and those young creatures were laid within
it, side by side, lovingly as if they had been sisters. Joshua Leonard
heaped wood on the fire, muttering thankful prayers all the time; but
Arnold grew restless when he saw the two girls lying there, so close
together, and began pacing the floor with abrupt strides, as if there
were bitterness somewhere in his heart that required motion.
“Has she moved yet? Has she opened her eyes?” he demanded, with a degree
of impatience that amounted to imperiousness, as Mrs. Leonard came from
the bed with a brighter face than she had worn yet.
“Yes, she opened her eyes, and—and whispered something. I am almost sure
it was mother that she said.”
Arnold turned away impatiently; then looked back, and, suppressing some
word that had sprung to his lip, said,
“I was speaking of the young lady, Mrs. Leonard.”
“And forgot to care whether Amy lived or died? I’m very much obliged,
Mr. Arnold. If any body had told me this a year ago, I shouldn’t
a-believed it,—no, not if it had been the minister himself.”
Arnold turned pale, and then flushed angrily.
“The young lady is under my care, Mrs. Leonard. I am responsible for her
safety; though, heaven knows, I had no idea of her going down to that
rickety old mill, and would have prevented it at any cost. But the
chances and her own obstinacy have been against me, ever since we
started from home. Then that infernal horse must break loose, and force
me to leave her when her imagination was all bewildered, and her pride
aroused; but how she came into that water-trap, I cannot imagine, unless
your precious daughter, who was evidently in the mill, enticed her.”
The last part of this speech was muttered in an undertone, and after
Mrs. Leonard had entered the bedroom in answer to a low voice that
called,
“Mother,” said the voice, “she has moved a little. She is beginning to
breathe. I have had her hand between both mine. See if it isn’t growing
warmer.”
Mrs. Leonard put her hand under the bedclothes, and laid it on the
French girl’s heart. It fluttered against her palm, growing stronger
with each beat.
“Yes, yes, Amy, she’s getting warm, sure enough. There now, did you
ever? her eyes are wide open, and she is trying to speak.”
A low moan came from Amy’s side of the bed, and, turning her face on the
pillow, she began to cry, but so noiselessly, that no one heard her.
The French girl did not speak, but her eyes wandered around the room, as
if searching for some person.
Arnold was in the next room, but his tread, as he moved up and down,
could be plainly heard.
“Who is that?” she whispered, with a struggle.
“No one who will disturb you,” said Mrs. Leonard, whose heart, from some
mysterious cause, began to rise against the poor girl.
“But I know it is _his_ step,” murmured the dreaming girl, “I know it is
his step,” and, as if this certainty composed her, she dropped off into
sleep, almost smiling.
Amy listened, and shrunk away farther and farther toward the verge of
the bed. By-and-by Arnold’s step approached the door, and paused there.
Then the chill came over that delicate frame once more, and she began to
shiver; for the remembrance that she had been left to die in the water,
fell sharply upon her, and she wondered why God had permitted her to be
saved when life was such pain.
The step aroused Laura again. She put up her hand, pulled the blankets
down from her face, and strove to lift her head, but life was not strong
enough in her for that; she only made a feeble movement, which left a
smile on her lips, for she felt that he was drawing near the bed.
Arnold addressed her, for the first time, in very broken and imperfect
French,—so imperfect, that she would have smiled at another time; but
now it was the sweetest sound on earth, and her fine eyes opened wide,
expressing the satisfaction she had no strength to utter in words.
“Tell me—oh! tell me,” he said, “that you are better—that no serious
harm will come from this, or I shall grow frantic with self-reproach!”
“You saved me,” murmured Laura, reaching forth her hand, from which the
purple tint had almost faded. He took the hand in his, and a smile of
ineffable happiness stole over her face.
“Every time I breathe it will be a joy, because life is now doubly
blessed,” she said, with a sweet burst of gratitude.
Amy could not understand the words, for they were spoken in French; but
the pathos and sweetness of that voice penetrated to her heart like
poison. She lay still, holding her breath, and trembling. Then Arnold
spoke in English, and made a common-place inquiry about Amy’s health, as
if the peril had been only for Laura. But the French girl seemed now
made aware, for the first time, that some one shared her bed, and with
this knowledge came a clear memory of what had passed.
“Ah! yes, there was another,—a sweet girl. But for her I should not have
lived till you came, Arnold. She threw herself into that frightful abyss
of her own accord. It was her hand that held me up. I sunk, sunk, sunk,
dragging her with me. But you saved her also. How good—how grand of you!
Ah! never in my life shall I forget that little peasant-girl, with her
modesty and her courage. If she asks my life I shall give it to her
twice over, for she is brave and beautiful like an angel.”
“She speaks of you, Amy Leonard?” said, or rather inquired, Arnold,
looking down at the young creature. “She says that you saved her life.”
Amy felt herself flush under these praises, cold as her heart was.
“I—I wanted to die,” was the pathetic answer, given with a settled
mournfulness that touched even him to whom she had become a burden and
annoyance.
“You certainly were very near your wish,” he said, turning his eyes
away.
“And this is my benefactress,” said Laura, in English, turning on her
pillow with difficulty. “It was you that saved my life. What can I say
to you? How can I ever thank you? Oh, if my heart could speak,—that
heart which would be frozen under the water but for your brave help! Oh,
how I will love you forever and ever! I have been twice saved: by you,
and then by him. Poor child! how it trembles! So weak, and yet so
strong! So timid, and still so brave! She is not the pretty girl I
thought her, but an angel who held me up till you came.”
Laura stole an arm over Amy as she spoke thus, from the depths of her
grateful heart, and would have kissed her, but the poor girl turned away
with a heavy sigh, and closed her eyes to conceal the tears that forced
themselves through the lashes. Then Laura, too, was exhausted, and fell
back into silence.
Directly Mrs. Leonard came in from the fire, with a bowl of warm bread
and milk in each hand. Seeing Arnold near the bed, her sense of decorum
instantly took the alarm, and, setting the bowls upon a little table,
she told him plumply that he had better go home and let his mother know,
as there wasn’t any sort of use in his staying there, just to keep the
poor gals awake when they ought to be warm and asleep. That was her
opinion, and she asked nothing for giving it, good as it was.
Arnold replied that he had not intended to go home without the young
lady, as her brother would be greatly terrified. He thought, even then,
that her clothes would be dry in a short time, and she might be well
enough to return to his father’s house before dark.
That Mrs. Leonard proclaimed impossible; and when he saw how completely
Laura was exhausted by the conversation, which had seemed so slight to
him, the young man was constrained to give way, and, much against his
will, drove off, cursing the accident that had thrown those two females
so close together.
When he was gone, Mrs. Leonard sat down by the bed with motherly
kindness, which Laura felt to the core of her heart, and fed her with
warm milk, as if she had been a child; while Amy turned away her face
and pretended to sleep, for she felt sure that a word or motion would
set the tears flowing beyond her control.
When Mrs. Leonard had attended to her guest, she went round to Amy, saw
how the drops were swelling under those eyelids, and, with gentle
fondness, attempted to soothe her.
“There now, daughter, take a spoonful of the warm milk. Father has gone
down to Norwich for the doctor; but, lor, ma is worth a dozen doctors
any day, isn’t she? Well, well, never mind! Just lay your head agin me,
and cry it out if you feel like it,” she whispered, caressing the head
she had lifted to her bosom. “If it isn’t enough to make any person
histericky to be in the ice water under a saw-mill on a day like this, I
don’t know what is. I declare your par was almost froze with one dive,
and trembled all over when I gave him his dry clothes. It was a mercy
this trouble didn’t come on Sunday, or his go-to-meeting suit would a
been ruined teetotally. He’s got it on to-day—no help for it any how,
for the others was dripping. Then about this young lady’s things, it
really is dreadful. Such fine velvet and broadcloth as her cloak is made
on, and her frock—silk as thick as a board—they’re a-hanging before the
fire, and sending up steam like a dozen tea-kettles. Now, Amy dear,
don’t you think you could just take a spoonful of the milk? This is
wheaten bread in it, white as snow. Come, come, just swaller one
mouthful.”
Mrs. Leonard was not an artful woman, far from it, but her long speech
had a sort of tender deception in it which soothed poor Amy—gave her
time to choke back her tears, and wipe away those that would force
themselves through her curling lashes. She was grateful, too, for all
her mother’s fondness, and made an effort to grow strong.
“Yes, mother, give me what you like. I want no better doctor than you
are,” she said, folding one arm over her mother’s neck.
Mrs. Leonard gave the sweet face on her bosom half a dozen kisses
without stopping; then she brought the bowl of milk, and Amy forced
herself to eat a few mouthfuls, which brought a glow of strength with
them that delighted the mother beyond expression.
Amy turned her eyes on the stranger that so unexpectedly shared her bed,
when, convinced that Laura was asleep, she drew her mother’s head softly
down to her mouth.
“Mother, are you sure that she is asleep?”
Mrs. Leonard, who kept her eyes fixed on the sleeping face, nodded, and
whispered “Yes.”
“Then let me go to my own bed before any one comes. I cannot breathe
here.”
“Well, finish the bowl of milk and you shall.”
Amy took the bowl between her two hands and drained it, leaving only a
sediment of white bread in the bottom.
“That’s a good girl. Now put one arm—no, both arms round mother’s neck,
and she’ll soon get you up-stairs. Dear me, how like old times it seems,
when you was a baby, Amy,” she continued, lifting the slight form in her
arms, and striving to appear as if the weight were nothing. “I’ve got a
hull chest full of blankets heating before the fire, so I’ll just pile
them over you, for it’s cold up there, and I wouldn’t think of letting
you get out of this warm nest, only it don’t seem to agree with you;
then you shall have a wineglass full of cherry bitters, that’ll make you
sleep like a top, and who cares whether the doctor comes or not? I’m
sure I don’t.”
Thus talking half to amuse her daughter, half because she loved it, the
good woman carried Amy across the next room, and, after mounting to the
garret with some difficulty, laid her in her own bed, sitting down to
rest herself after the effort; for, with all her kindly imagination, she
could not lift the girl with so much ease as she had done nineteen years
before.
“Mother,” said Amy, “do you think—did you see them together? Do you
think—he, he——”
The good woman kept her eyes turned resolutely towards the little window
which lighted one gable of the cabin; for the world she would not have
disturbed that young creature with a look. She did not understand all,
kind soul, but enough to bring her native womanliness uppermost. Before
the poor child could complete her faltering question she took it up.
“Do I think Ben Arnold cares for her? Not a bit; she’s a bird with fine
feathers, and he always was for show, but as for the rest, there’s
nothing in it. There’s something wrong about him, Amy, but it isn’t
that.”
“Oh, mother, you think this, and I was so near upbraiding her. When she
came dashing down to the mill, with all that finery fluttering in the
wind, it seemed as if she wanted to insult me.”
“Pooh! nonsense, Amy! Why, with all her silks and ribbons, she isn’t
half as handsome as my own daughter, and without ’em, look at her now!
Why, she lies there like a wet peacock.”
“Oh, but, mother, with all that beautiful hair, and those eyes?”
“Just as if you hadn’t beautiful hair, and eyes worth a dozen of hers.
Don’t talk to me!”
Amy was comforted spite of herself. Her mother’s positive belief found a
willing convert. Then she remembered what he had said to her only a few
nights before,—how he had left her to perish in the water while this
young stranger was saved.
“But, mother, he saved her, and I was left. I shall never forget it,
never! never! to my dying day.”
“Well, I never did see such an unreasonable girl; how was he to pick and
choose, up to his neck in water? just as if he wouldn’t take the first
that came, and off with her! besides, I dare say, she screamed ten times
where you did once,—just one of the screechy sort, I’ll be bound. Now
what on earth are you thinking of; he couldn’t drag out two at once,
could he? Besides, I should like to see Joshua Leonard stand by while
any one saved his child. I’m astonished at your unreasonableness, Amy,
and if you wasn’t sick, and out of sorts every way, I shouldn’t know
what to think about it.”
Now there never was a creature so thankful to be scolded and rebuked for
unreasonableness, as Amy Leonard proved on that occasion. All her
mother’s soothing had failed to cheer her half so much as this little
outburst of maternal disapprobation; for it half persuaded her reason,
while the heart remained quiescent in its fears. But for the secret
which she was forbidden to confide to any one,—most of all, to either of
her parents, she might have been tranquillized; as it was, the pain was
still at her heart, but a vague hope seized upon her, that all might yet
be right. If he did not love another, and of that Mrs. Leonard seemed
entirely confident, all must be well. When he said those cruel things it
was to try if, under all circumstances, she could be faithful to his
secret. What if she had spoken to the French girl, and given voice to
the wild appeal that burned in her when the girl appeared so suddenly in
the saw-mill! That would have exasperated him beyond remedy. She thanked
God that she had been saved from this temptation, more fervently than
she had yet thanked him for her life.
Mrs. Leonard sat and watched the changes of her countenance, as the pain
cleared from it, and the gentle tranquillity of weakness settled upon
her. Still Amy could not sink to sleep, for minor troubles came when the
great idea was swept away.
“Mother, dear, did I treat her harshly?”
“Harshly? No! What on earth can you mean by such a question?”
“I turned my face away twice, and would not give her my hand when she
reached for it.”
“Well, what of that! Lips and hands belong to the owner, according to my
idea. There was no harm in not kissing a person you had never seen but
once in your life.”
“Still, I am sorry, mother.”
“Well, well, we can make it up to-morrow. Now, go to sleep, or at any
rate lie still. The doctor will be here right-off now.”
Amy started up in bed. “I don’t want to see any doctor, mother. Don’t
send him up here, if you please. I’m not sick, you know,—only a little
chilled and weak. I’ll take the cherry bitters,—any thing you give
me,—but don’t let the doctor come near this room.”
Mrs. Leonard looked about the garret with the keen scrutiny of a
housewife whose reputation was in question.
“It seems to me that every thing is in its place, Amy; and the room
looks as well as a cabin can be expected to. Yet, if you’re ashamed of
it, why then——”
“Oh, it isn’t that, mother: only I hate medicine, and don’t need any. So
just promise that he shan’t come up here to spoil all that you have
done.”
There was no resisting this subtle flattery. If Mrs. Leonard had a
weakness beside that of promiscuous talking about nothing, it was that
of believing herself a family physician of the first order. That this
belief was not altogether unfounded, the general good health of her
family testified; so she gave her daughter the required promise without
more contest, and went down-stairs after the cherry bitters, which was
the crowning glory of her cupboard.
Laura was sound asleep when her hostess went down; but nothing could
withhold Mrs. Leonard from tempting her also with the cordial. She made
a tumult among the bottles and glasses that soon aroused the stranger
from her slumbers; then, with a little extra bustle, and some
consequential smiles, she came forward with a bottle in one hand, which
she emptied very slowly into a tall slender glass which she held in the
other.
“Take this,” she said, smiling blandly; “it will make you sleep like a
top. I never knew it fail, when a person was worried out, in my whole
life. I’m just a-carrying some up to Amy. She was afraid of crowding
you, so I took her up-stairs. Come, just let me lift your head a little.
There, now, take a good swaller: it’ll make the blood tingle, I can tell
you.”
Laura drank the ruby liquid with docility, murmured that she hoped Amy
was better, and sunk to rest again, yielding heavily to the exhaustion
that oppressed her.
Amy only slept in snatches. A thought that the doctor might come up to
her room when she was asleep, spite of her mother’s promise, troubled
her greatly. The sound of the waterfall, reminding her of the tumultuous
rush of waves, in which she seemed again struggling, kept her restless.
If she closed her eyes, it was to feel herself plunging down, down, into
a gulf of waters, in which huge black logs were floating like monsters
ready to devour her. Then she dreamed of Arnold,—a strange, weird dream,
that made her moan and weep in the midst of her slumbers. She thought
that he, instead of her mother, held the blood red potion and tall
wineglass at her bedside. She saw by his face and knew in her heart that
there was poison in the liquid, and that he wished her to drink it and
die. Still she was determined to drain the glass: when death came from
his hands she would not reject it. But all at once a little child—an
angel child—floated down from some invisible place in the room, and
spread its wings, delicate as star-beams, over the glass. Reach forth
her hand, or struggle as she would, there was the angel child, guarding
the cup with his wings, and she could not drink,—even to please him.
From this dream she awoke with a wild start, for there was a sound of
bells stopping suddenly before the house: and the tramp of feet on the
doorstep made her tremble.