“NOT DEATH BUT LIFE”
Mr. Fenton walked on slowly with his hand at the horse’s head. He was
guiding and encouraging, as he floundered through the heavy snow,
almost as light in quality as sifted flour.
Tory rode, holding the reins and standing so that she might better
observe the objects ahead.
With apparent good judgment, the Emperor did not rush on out of sight.
He kept stopping and turning to discover if his much-needed assistants
in whatever cause he had at heart were following.
As a matter of fact, Tory was forgetting the seriousness of their
quest. The morning was enchantingly lovely. With the appearance of her
uncle her fears had subsided.
Doubtless Memory Frean would make her way home in their absence and
discover that the House in the Woods had sheltered an unknown occupant
during the night.
Overhead the long feathery fingers of snow suspended from the branches
of the trees sparkled and swung, falling to earth at the lightest
breath of wind.
In truth the morning was remarkably still, as suddenly toward dawn the
storm had ceased entirely.
Tory affectionately studied her uncle, his fine scholarly face
unusually reddened and glowing by the surprising exertions of his
struggles through the drifted snow. His shoulders, oftentimes slightly
bowed, were now erect in order that he might better survey his
surroundings.
Plainly he was more troubled than Tory by what might lie ahead.
Suddenly the Emperor halted and glanced backward with an expression of
imploring anxiety, then swerving toward the left, he galloped toward a
small grove of pine trees. His patience was finally exhausted.
Mr. Fenton brought his horse to a standstill.
“Stay here, please, Tory,” he said quietly, but in a tone of authority
that would be instinctively obeyed.
More cautiously and slowly he followed their guide.
Tory suffered in the next interval of ten minutes.
She watched Mr. Fenton striding through the opening toward the small
grove of trees. Then from her present position she was unable to see
him.
Of course it was only a few moments, but it seemed interminable to Tory
before she heard him calling her name in a tone of voice entirely new
to her ears.
It left no room for hesitation or doubt.
Getting out of the sleigh, she ran in the direction she had seen Mr.
Fenton take, fighting her way with her arms and hands as well as her
feet and legs.
Without realizing what she had done, she left the horse standing midway
in the snow-piled country road.
Before Tory reached the grove of trees Mr. Fenton appeared at the edge,
his dark figure against the white background. He was staggering under a
heavy load.
No longer running ahead but close beside him stalked the Emperor with
downcast head.
Tory gave a cry of mingled fear and pain.
The weight Mr. Fenton was carrying was the figure of a woman. Her coat
was encrusted with snow, her body appeared entirely limp and lifeless.
About the figure there was a bewildering familiarity.
An instant Tory sank to the ground. Memory Frean had been out all night
trying to find her way home to the House in the Woods. She, of all
persons, to have lost her way in a storm, with her knowledge of the
outdoor world!
What must be done? Tory rose up but did not go forward to offer aid.
Instead, she floundered back the way she had come, not many yards in
reality. As soon as possible she reached her horse’s head and attempted
to turn him from the road.
The idea was her own, but Mr. Fenton, appreciating the wisdom of her
plan, laid down his burden and came at once to her assistance.
They must get Miss Frean back to her own home. The distance was not
great, and now they had made a trail the return would require only a
few moments.
Inside the sleigh Tory partly supported the body of her friend, chafing
her wrists and forehead with snow and vainly trying to discover some
suggestion of life and warmth. Her face appeared as intensely white as
the snow itself.
Less than a quarter of an hour found them before the door of the House
in the Woods.
Flinging it open, Mr. Fenton, aided by Tory, carried in the woman who
had never before crossed her own threshold in such a fashion.
“Don’t close the door, please; the room must be kept cool,” Tory
demanded, when Memory Frean had been placed on the cot she herself had
occupied so short a time before. If she had believed the long night
difficult, how much worse had she known the truth! Not far away the
friend, dearer to her than any other woman, was perhaps dying near her
own door!
There was still hope, but little more than hope. How many hours Memory
Frean had been seeking shelter there was no way to conjecture!
Tory realized that she had forgotten the first aid in the emergency
that faced her uncle and herself. She could recall only this one fact:
the change in the temperature must not be too decided. On Memory
Frean’s table amid her most cherished books lay a Scout manual.
Tory’s hands seemed frozen and helpless as she searched for the desired
page. After a hurried glance about the unfamiliar room, Mr. Fenton had
disappeared, murmuring that he would return as soon as possible. He
must in some way get word to the doctor. He appeared strangely annoyed
that Miss Frean had no telephone. Tory had learned to understand that
Mr. Fenton was often irritable when he was most deeply concerned and
distressed.
His going made no especial difference. Alone Tory was struggling to
remove Miss Frean’s stiff clothes, now wet and clinging from the change
to the indoors.
Now and then she called her friend’s name, not expecting a response.
Sitting beside her what seemed an endless time, Tory continued rubbing
her with rough cloths wet in cold water.
As Tory worked, her mind felt extraordinarily clear.
She recalled her first meeting with Memory Frean on the autumn road a
little more than a year before, and the gift of the Indian talisman, an
eagle’s feather.
Later she remembered the evening in the old Fenton drawing-room when
she made the surprising discovery that her uncle and Miss Frean had
been devoted friends many years before, but of late had seen nothing of
each other.
If the room in which she and Miss Frean were at this tragic moment had
since grown almost as familiar as her own, she recalled the impression
it first had made upon her. She had realized that it possessed a
kind of fine simplicity like the woman it sheltered. Tory’s artistic
temperament demanded that the outward form be the expression of the
inner nature. How many pleasant hours she and Memory Frean had passed
together in this room! They were more than pleasant hours, they had
been inspiring. Only the night before she had come to seek the same
inspiration. Must the past be all she would ever have from the friend
so still and serene beside her?
Once only Tory arose. The fire was dying out. She must not allow this
to happen, as Dr. McClain might desire the room to be warmer. There was
one small log. It must be sufficient; not for another moment could she
relax her vigilance.
If only she could discover the faintest warmth, one flicker of life,
the lifting of an eyelash, what comfort!
Of all her Troop of Girl Scouts why should she, the most inadequate of
them all, be the one to meet this disaster? So far Tory had not called
it by any other name, although behind her outer consciousness there was
an impression she resolutely declined to face.
Upon Mr. Fenton’s return she scarcely paid any attention to him save to
say what he should do to assist her. She was aware that he looked older
than she had ever seen him as he awkwardly attempted to follow her
directions.
Incredibly short as the time was, in reality it was an eternity to Tory
before Dr. McClain’s car drew up before the House in the Woods.
He came in, followed by a nurse and Dorothy McClain.
As Tory attempted to move and give place to them, she found her legs
suddenly unable to do her bidding. She had grown rigid and would have
fallen save that Dorothy McClain caught her.
She almost carried her out of the room into the little kitchen that
adjoined the living-room.
“You must not give up now, dear; father may need our aid. I don’t
believe you have had any breakfast. We will all be wanting coffee by
and by. We were just sitting down to the table when the message came.
Don’t be disheartened. Miss Frean will recover, she is so beautifully
healthy and strong. Remember what an outdoor life she has led!”
As Dorothy chattered on to distract the other girl’s attention, she
was busily doing a number of important acts--lighting an oil stove and
placing water to boil, finding the coffee and setting a corner of the
kitchen table with a cup, saucer and plate.
Still Tory sat in the chair where she had been placed, but by and by
drank some coffee and suggested that Mr. Fenton be persuaded to do the
same thing.
For a little Dorothy’s hopefulness and warm vitality wakened a response
in her. This ebbed away as the moments passed and no word came that
Miss Frean was recovering consciousness.
Now and then, like a chord repeating itself, a quotation she had
learned the evening before came and went in her consciousness:
“We will work thy will, who love thee.”