OUT IN THE STORM.
For half an hour or more before the young people left the house a dark
mass of clouds had been rolling up from the west, and by the time that
they were out of the grounds and on the highway, the moonlight was
wholly obscured and the sky was overcast as with a pall, while frequent
groans of thunder and flashes of lightning in the distance told of the
fast coming storm.
'Oh, I am so afraid of thunder! Aren't you?' Ann Eliza cried, in terror,
as she clung closer to Tom, who, beside her, seemed a very giant, and
who did not reply until there came a gleam of lightning which showed him
the white face and the loose hair blowing out from under his companion's
hat.
There was a little shriek of fear and a smothered cry. 'Oh, Tom, aren't
you a bit afraid?'
And then the giant answered the trembling little girl whom he would like
to have shaken off, she clung so closely to him 'Thunder and lightning,
no!' I'm not afraid of anything except getting wet; and if you are,
you'd better run before the whole thing is upon us; the sky is blacker
than midnight now. I never saw a storm come on so fast. Can you run?'
'Yes--some,' Ann Eliza gasped out; 'only my boots are so tight and new,
and the heels are so high. Do you think we shall be struck?'
This as a peal of thunder louder than any which had preceded it rolled
over their heads, making Ann Eliza clutch Tom's arm in nervous terror
which was not feigned.
'Struck? No. But don't screech and hang on to me so. We can never get
along if you do,' Tom growled; and, taking her by the wrist, he dragged
rather than led her through the woods where the great rain-drops were
beginning to fall so fast as the two showers--one from the west and one
from the south--approached each other, until at last they met overhead,
and then commenced a wild and fierce battle of the elements, the
southern storm and the western storm each seemingly trying to outdo the
other and come off conqueror.
As the thunder and lightning and rain increased, Tom went on faster and
faster, forgetting that the slip of a girl, who scarcely came to his
shoulders, could not take so long strides as a great, hulking fellow
like himself.
'Oh, Tom, Tom--please not so fast. I can't keep up, my heart beats so
fast and my boots hurt me so,' came in a faint, sobbing protest more
than once from the panting girl at his side; but he only answered:
'You _must_ keep up, or we shall be soaked through and through. I never
knew it rain so fast. Take off your boots, if they hurt you. You've no
business to wear such small ones.'
He had heard from Maude that Ann Eliza was very proud of her feet, and
always wore boots too small for them, and he experienced a savage
satisfaction in knowing that she was paying for her foolishness. This
was not very kind in Tom, but he was not a kind-hearted man, and he held
the whole Peterkin tribe, as he called them, in such contempt that he
would scarcely have cared if the tired little feet, boots and all, had
dropped off, provided it did not add to his discomfort. They were out of
the woods and park by this time, and had struck into a field as a
shorter route to Le Bateau. But the way was rough and stony, and Tom had
stumbled himself two or three times and almost fallen, when a sharp,
loud cry from Ann Eliza smote his ear, and he felt that she was sinking
to the ground.
His first impulse was to drag her on, but that would have been too
brutal, and stopping short he asked what was the matter.
'Oh, I don't know. I guess I've sprained my ankle. It turned right over
on a big stone, you went so fast, and hurts me awfully. I can't walk
another step. Oh, what shall we do, and am I going to die?'
'Die? No!' Tom answered, gloomily. 'But we are in an awful muss, and I
don't know what to do. Here it is raining great guns, and I am wet to my
skin, and you can't walk, you say. What in thunder shall we do?'
Ann Eliza was sobbing piteously, and when a glare of lightning lighted
up the whole heavens, Tom caught a glimpse of her face which was white
as marble, and distorted with pain, and this decided him. He had thought
to leave her in the darkness and rain, while he went for assistance
either to the Park House or Le Bateau; but the sight of her utter
helplessness awoke in him a spark of pity, and bending over her he said,
very gently for him:
'Annie,'--this was the name by which he used to call her when they were
children together, and he thought Ann Eliza too long--'Annie, I shall
have to carry you in my arms; there is no other way. It is not very far
to your home. Come!' and stooping low over the prostrate form he lifted
her very carefully and holding her in a position the least painful for
her, began again to battle with the storm, walking more carefully now
and groping his way through the stony field lest he should stumble and
fall and sprain him own ankle, perhaps.
'This is a jolly go,' he said to himself, as he went on; and then he
thought of Dick and Jerrie, and wondered how they were getting through
the storm, and if she had sprained her ankle and Dick was carrying her
in his arms.
'He will sweat some, if he is, for Jerrie is twice as heavy as
Peterkin's daughter;' and at the very idea Tom laughed out loud,
thinking that he should greatly prefer to have Jerrie's strength and
weight in his arms to his light, slim, little girl, who neither spoke
nor moved until he laughed, and then there came in smothered tones from
the region of his vest:
'Oh, Tom, how can you laugh? Do you think it such fun?'
'Fun! Thunder! Anything but fun!' was his gruff reply, as he went on
more rapidly now, for they were in the grounds of Le Bateau, and the
lights from the house were distinctly visible at no great distance away.
'We are here at last. Thank the Lord.' he said, as he went up the steps
and pulled sharply at the bell.
'Let me down. I can stand on one foot,' Ann Eliza said; and nothing loth
Tom put her down, a most forlorn and dilapidated piece of humanity as
she stood leaning against him with the light of the piazza lamp falling
full upon her.
Her little French boots, which had partly done the mischief, were
spoiled, and the heel of one of them had been nearly wrenched off when
she stumbled over the stone. Her India muslin, with its sash, and
ribbons, and streamers, was torn in places and bedraggled with mud. She
had lost her hat in the woods, and the wind and the rain had held high
carnival in her loosely-arranged hair, whose color Tom so detested, and
which streamed down her back in many little wet tags, giving her the
look of a drowned rat after it has been tortured in a trap.
Old Peterkin was reading his evening paper when Tom's sharp summons
sounded through the house, making him jump from the chair, as he
exclaimed:
'Jiminy hoe-cakes! Who can that be in this storm?'
He had seen Billy off in the train, and had returned home just as the
rain began to fall. Naturally both he and his wife had felt some
anxiety on Ann Eliza's account, but had concluded that if the storm
continued she would remain at Grassy Spring, and if it cleared in time
they would send the carriage for her. So neither thought of her when the
loud ring came, startling them both so much. It was Peterkin himself who
went to the door, gorgeous in a crimson satin dressing gown which came
to his feet, but which no amount of pulling would make meet together
over his ponderous stomach. An oriental smoking cap was on his head, the
big tassel hanging almost in his eyes, and a half-burned cigar between
his fingers.
'Good George of Uxbridge!' he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon Tom, from
whose soaked hat the water was dripping, and upon Ann Eliza leaning
against him, her pale face quivering with pain, and her eyes full of
tears. 'George of Uxbridge! What's up? What ails the girl!'
At sight of her father Ann Eliza began to cry, while Tom said:
'She has sprained her ankle and I had to bring her home. She cannot
step.'
'Jerusalem hoe-cakes! Spraint her ankle! Can't step! You bring her home!
Heavens and earth! Here, May Jane, come lively! Here's a nice how-dy-do!
Ann Liza's broke her laig, and Tom Tracy's brung her home!'
As Peterkin talked, he was taking his daughter in his arms and bringing
her into the hall, hitting her lame foot against the door, and eliciting
from her a cry of pain.
'Oh, father; Oh-h!--it does hurt so. Put me somewhere quick, and take
off my boot. I believe I am going to die!'
She was dripping wet, and little puddles of water trailed along the
carpet as Peterkin carried her into the sitting room, where he was about
to lay her down upon the delicate satin couch, when his wife's
housewifely instincts were roused, and she exclaimed:
'No, father. No, not there, when she's so wet, and water spots that
satin so dreadfully.'
'What in thunder shall I do with her? Hold her all night?' Peterkin
demanded, while Tom deliberately picked up the costly Turkey hearth rug,
and throwing it across the couch, said:
'Put her on that.' So Peterkin deposited her upon the rug, hitting her
foot again, and sending her off in a dead faint.
'Oh, she's dead! she's dead! What shall we do?' Mrs. Peterkin cried,
wringing her hands, and walking about excitedly.
'Do?' Peterkin yelled. 'Hold your yawp, and stop floppin' round like a
hen with her head cut off! She ain't dead. She's fainted. Bring some
camfire, or alcohol, or hartshorn, or Pond's Extract, or something for
her to smell.'
'Yes, yes; but where are they?' Mrs. Peterkin moaned, still flopping
around, as her husband had expressed it, while Tom rang the bell and
summoned the maid, to whom he gave directions.
'Bring some camphor or hartshorn,' he said. 'Miss Peterkin has fainted,
and get off the boot as soon as possible. Don't you see how her foot is
swelling?'
This to Peterkin, who made a dive at the boot, which resisted all his
efforts, even after it was unbuttoned. The leather, which was soaked
through, had shrunk so that it was impossible to remove the boot without
cutting it away, and this they commenced to do.
Ann Eliza had recovered her consciousness by this time, and although the
pain was terrible she bore it heroically, as piece after piece of the
boot was removed, together with the silk stocking which left her poor
little swollen foot exposed and bare.
'By Jove, she's plucky!' Tom thought, as he watched the operation and
saw the great drops of sweat on Ann Eliza's forehead and her efforts to
quiet her mother, pretending that it did not hurt so very much. 'Yes,
she's plucky,' and for the first time in his life Tom was conscious of a
feeling of something like respect for Peterkin's red-haired daughter.
'She _has_ a small foot, too; the smallest I ever saw on a woman. I do
believe she wears twos,' he thought, while something about the little
white foot made him think of poor Jack's dead feet, laid under the grass
years ago.
In this softened frame of mind he at last said good-night, although
pressed by Peterkin to stay and dry himself, or at least take a drink as
a preventive against cold, but Tom declined both, saying a hot bath
would set him all right. 'Good-bye, Annie. I'm awful sorry for the
sprain,' he said, offering her his hand; and as she took it in hers,
noticing about the wrist prints of his fingers which had grasped it so
tightly and held it so firmly as he dragged her along over stumps, and
bogs, and stones, until she sank at his feet, 'I guess I was a brute to
race her like that,' he said to himself, as he went out into the
darkness and started for home. 'But I didn't want to go with her. I
wanted to be with Jerrie, who, I have no doubt, went straight along,
without ever thinking of spraining her ankle, as Ann Eliza did. Poor
little foot! How swollen, though, it was when they got that boot off;
but she bore it like a major! Pity she has such all-fired red hair, and
piles it up like a haystack on the top of her head, with every hair
looking six ways for Sunday.'
At this point in his soliloquy Tom reached home, and was soon
luxuriating in a hot bath, which removed all traces of the soaking he
had received. That night he dreamed of Ann Eliza, and how light she was
in his arms, and how patient through it all, and that the magnificent
rooms at Le Bateau were all frescoed with diamonds and the floors inlaid
with gold. Then the nature of his dream changed, and it was Jerry he was
carrying in his arms, bending under her weight until his back was nearly
broken. But he did not heed it in the least, and when he bent to kiss
the face lying upon his bosom, where Ann Eliza had lain, he awoke
suddenly to find that it was morning and that the sun was shining
brightly into his room.