RECONCILIATION AND REVELATION.
It was Ephraim who first recovered himself.
Leaping from his horse, he flung both bridles to any hand would catch
them and with a strength and agility due eighteen rather than eighty
years, he lifted his unconscious “Little Captain” in his arms and
ordered:
“Ambulance! St. Luke’s hospital!”
Then he tenderly laid Jessica’s bleeding cheek against his shoulder,
and with shaking hand did his utmost to stanch the flow of blood. For
a moment he did not even weep, then the tears coursed down his bronzed
face till they blinded him.
The whole party had gathered at a small distance, silent, stunned,
unbelieving that such a dreadful thing could have happened, and to her
the most unselfish, most innocent of them all.
“She gave her life to save the girl who hated her!” sobbed Rosalie
Thorne, and again turned her eyes away.
“Look--look--at Helen! She seems--as if she were marble!” whispered
another, feeling that even that subdued murmur were sacrilege.
The clang of an ambulance bell broke in on that silence and, as he had
done once before, poor old Ephraim mounted the steps at its rear and
followed his darling to her fate.
He had not heart for hope left in him. Girls could not twice escape
such peril and live. His “Little Captain” was done for, she would see
her beloved home no more; and again, as he had often felt, he realized
that her coming east at all had been a grievous mistake. Then a strange
feeling of exultation that he should be the only one of her “boys” who
had followed her to the death rose within him and when he realized it,
frightened him.
“It’s as if I was glad--’t she’s--she’s--Hold on there, Ephraim Marsh!
While there’s life there’s hope and if--if ’twas so--she’d--there
wouldn’t have been this on that!” he considered, holding before him the
handkerchief he had pressed to Jessica’s cheek, now so sadly stained
with red.
Of course, Jessica was not dead. Had she been, this story would have
ended then and there; but for a long time her young life swayed in the
balance and the skill of the best was brought to her aid. Her mother
was notified, for a time by hourly telegrams, then by daily ones, of
her exact condition; and that she did not immediately hasten to her
daughter’s side was that she had herself suffered an accident of a
broken limb and was helpless on her back.
Ned and Luis had disappeared up the canyon and as they had
before--imperilled their lives in the mines--so now a presentiment of
danger to them had sent her in pursuit. An unwary step, a loosened
bit of rock, and her search was ended. She was carried home by the
miners, two sadly repentant youngsters in her train, and for a time
so discreet was their behavior that the ranch mistress could scarcely
regret her own mischance which had brought this improvement about.
[Illustration: “It isn’t like a real hunchback, you know: only you were
let fall when you were little and got twisted somehow.” (See page 112)]
Fortunately, Aunt Sally, aided by Cousin Margaret, was able to dispel
much of the mother’s anxiety; and when the news came that the girl
was “out of danger” the former made a great feast and, preparing all
the ranchmen by a preliminary dose of “medicine” for any possible ill
results, celebrated the event in royal style.
Then she sat down and wrote a letter:
“MY DEAR LITTLE JESS:
“Your Ma has broke her leg, and a fine thing too. Nothin’ short of
broke bones would have set them two boys on the road to Good-ville.
Sence then they’ve been next door to saints. Ain’t hooked none of my
pies nor browbeat Wun Lung. I made a supper for the ‘boys’ and all
the rest the men-folks, and I tell you I made Wunny cook for all he
was worth. I picry-ed ’em all ’round, first, so as to carry off any
indigestion they might get, over-eating, and it done ’em good. Even
though my son John did say ’t he seen the most of ’em fling it on the
ground, ’stead of into their stummicks.
“I’m glad you’re to that hospital, where that Sophy girl is; and
’twon’t do you a mite of harm to rest up a little from that studying.
Too much book learning never did set well on a Trent’s digesters
and Ephraim Ma’sh, he wrote John that you’d been kind of peaked. So
’twon’t hurt you. Tell them hospital folks that if they’d admire to
have one my rising-sun or log-cabin quilts I’d admire just as much to
send ’em. And I’ll piece as many more as they’ll furnish the patches
for. I spoke of that to Mis’ Dalrymple and all she did was laugh in
that slow, ladylike way of hern. She’s real nice, Mis’ Dalrymple is.
Me and her has real good times a-comparin’ notes about what used to
be and isn’t no more. I can see, easy as fiddlin’, where ’tis your Ma
gets her politeness. She was raised by Margaret Dalrymple; and you
was raised by your Ma; and I do hope to goodness, Jessie Trent, that
you’ll try to do them credit. Neither don’t you go flinging yourself
against them ortymo_beels_, that fool folks have hatched out of their
brains, these last years. I seen one. If you’ll believe me, girlie,
one of ’em come whizzing onto this very ranch of Sobrante only last
week that ever was. It was chock full of towerists and it scared the
ranch horses into fits. But, worse and more of it. They fair set
Ninian Sharp wild to own one hisself. He’s makin’ real good wages
now, Ninian is, a-managin’ the mines; and he seems to want every
new-fangled thing a-going. Him with a world full of horses, and I
thought he had more sense.
“Well, I’m sending you by express--John pays the cost--a box of
home-made guava jelly, some fresh figs, some oranges, some--Well, I
reckon a little of ‘some’ everything ’t I could think of that would
keep on so long a road. John, he says you could buy ’em all better
and cheaper right there in that New York city than it’ll cost to send
this box. But I know better. Anyhow I know none bought there would
begin to taste as nice to you as these right from Sobrante. You may
be gettin’ a terrible smart scholard, as Ephraim Ma’sh he wrote, but
you’ll never get to be anything except a girl that loves her home
and her folk better than anything else in the world. Bless you, my
lamb! there ain’t a night nor day that I don’t go down on my old
hunkies--I mean knees--and ask the Good Father to take special care
of you, His fatherless child. There’s many a heart aches for you,
deary, and many an eye will shine--and cry, too--when that day comes
that fetches you home. I’ve made up my mind to quit ‘Boston,’ to coax
my silly, sick cousin to come out here and we’ll build her a little
bungalow to live in. ‘Bungalow’ is the new-fangled name they’re
getting here in Californy for just plain house, or cottage. The
world thinks it’s growin’ powerful smart, don’t it? There’s doin’s
here, too, I tell you. We’ve got a regular village of houses for the
miners, started already. You won’t know Sobrante when you get back to
it.
“Never mind. It won’t be more’n three or four years, now, for you
have been gone one already. Just think! A whole endurin’ year, and
you’ve been burned to death, and ortymo_beel_ed to death, and got
lost on the streets, and land knows what hasn’t happened. But I’m
thankful for the good word that come to-day; how you’ll soon be back
to that big school. Your Ma says that the teacher is going to take
you and some the other scholards to camp out in the Airondacks this
summer. I’m glad of it. I don’t justly know what Airondacks, or
Airydondacks, or whatever ’tis are. But I sort of sense that they’re
partly woods and partly water and partly mountings. Them three parts
put together, and you sleeping right outdoors in a tent--What do they
do when it rains?--will make it seem most like Californy.
“Now no more till next time. I’d admire to put a bottle or so of
picry or somethin’ in the box but John he won’t hear to it. He
says--No, I shan’t repeat what he says. Not to a girl like you,
’cause it’s so sort of onrespectful. I know you’ll be glad to
know I’ve got four more quilts ready pieced and fit to put on the
quiltin’-frames. When them are done and I get two--three more done
I’ll nigh have reached my hundred limit, what I set for myself. John
says what in--I mean he says what does anybody want of a hundred
quilts, here in Californy with a summer climate all the year round.
But John, he don’t know everything, even if he thinks he does.
“It is ‘good-by’ for sure, this time. I’ve got to stop writin’
and talkin’ to you--as it seems like--’cause there’s some sort of
goings-on out in Wunny’s kitchen. I cal’late them childern has been
into some his messes and I can’t let Gabriell’ hear ’em, for it would
make her fidget. Everybody sends love, and don’t forget to tell the
hospital folks about the rising-sun and log-cabin.
“Your loving, foolish, hungry-for-you,
“AUNT SALLY.”
This letter was duly read by the nurse who had charge of Jessica to her
convalescent, and as attentively listened to by Sophy, Ephraim, and
even Granny Briggs, herself. It was visitors’ day and “Little Captain”
was so far recovered that these now happy, cheerful callers could not
harm her by the fatigue of conversation. The others laughed over it,
enjoyed it, and even the sharpshooter somewhat ridiculed it.
Upon which, quoth “Sophia Badger, that was:”
“Now Ephraim Marsh, you ain’t half as smart as you think. I take that
letter for just what it’s worth--right out of the heart of one the best
women the Lord ever made. From all you’ve told me about her before,
and what her own letter tells itself, I’d ‘admire’ myself to know her.
She may be queer--so are you. I’m like the old Quaker who said: ‘All
the world’s queer except thee and me, Hannah, and even thee’s a little
queer sometimes.’ We can’t see ourselves and our own queernesses.
A good thing, too; but I wish there were a lot more ‘Aunt Sallies’
scattered around the world, brightening it and dosing it and keeping it
wholesome. Think what a difference ’twould have made to Sophy and me if
there’d been an ‘Aunt Sally’ living in Avenue A when we were starving
there. No, Ephraim Marsh, you always were a light-headed kind of boy
and you never have grown up. So, don’t let me hear no more fun-making
of that good woman in Californy, that I’d admire to know.”
Thus strictly corrected the dame, who had fully assumed charge of her
old playmate’s mind and morals.
To divert attention from her beloved sharpshooter, Jessica cried:
“So you _shall_ know Aunt Sally, Mrs. Briggs! And you are right; she
_is_ one of the best women in the world. I don’t know what my dear
mother would ever have done without her. In all her troubles and
worries, mother has turned to Aunt Sally, and has always found help.
So, when we go home; when Sophy, too, has finished her nurse’s training
and got her diploma; we’ll _all_ go home together. Sophy is to be
superintendent of the hospital mother is to have built and we’ll none
of us who love each other be separated again, never again.
“Oh! the dreams I’ve had, the plans I’ve formed, lying here just
getting well. Seems if my whole life long and every dollar that comes
into my hands must go to make somebody happy. Somebody--no matter
who--just the somebody that comes nearest and the happiness can reach
the first. Life--it makes a girl think pretty seriously when she knows
that just the tiniest bit more of a bruise or a cut would have ended
that life. It seems as if I must hurry, hurry, to make up to somebody
for any mischance has come to them. I----Beg pardon, nurse, what did
you say?”
“That these visitors have stayed their full time; that Sophy must
be taken back to her own place; and that there is one more visitor
wishing to see you. I think you have had enough callers as it is, but
this one has been here nearly every day, inquiring, though not before
asking permission to come up to your room. I think she is one of your
schoolmates, and you must not expect to keep her long. Nor do you talk
much. Let her talk and you just listen and she must not stay long.”
The others made their prompt adieus and departed; Jessica remarking: “I
think it must be Rosalie Thorne. She’s been so kind and sympathetic.
I don’t see how she has given so much time to calling, when she’s
working so hard for her last examination. Only another week and then
Commencement. Oh! I hope I may be ‘discharged’ by that time, so I can
see the girls in their pretty frocks and their flowers and their pride.
Helen and Rosalie are honor girls, I know. Poor Helen. I wish she
would learn to like me just a little bit before she goes away forever.
She’s to live in Europe, Madame said, and perfect herself in music.
At least, to go on with it, though nobody can ever ‘perfect’ himself I
suppose. Poor Helen! How near, how near she came to losing her own life
that day! I remember I warned her about that Beauty. He----”
“There, my little patient. That’s quite enough ‘remembering’ for now.
What I want you to do is some forgetting, if you please, of all that is
past and gone. Think! in another week you will be back at school, well
and happy once more. Ah! here comes a maid with the young lady.”
Jessica was sitting in her pretty chair, but rose as the caller
entered; then promptly settled back again, while her outstretched arm
sank slowly to her side. She was still weak enough to be unnerved by
the sight of Helen Rhinelander whom her visitor proved to be and whom
she had not seen since they two faced death together. Nor was she
at all prepared for the strange behavior of the haughty senior, who
hesitated on the threshold of the room, cast one glance toward the
nurse--as if wishing that person elsewhere--then hurriedly crossed to
Jessica’s chair and sank on her knees beside it.
Helen’s face was streaming with repentant tears and her voice tremulous
with profound emotion as she caught up Jessica’s still-bandaged hand
and kissed it humbly.
“O Jessica, you savior of my life! Will you forgive me? Can you ever,
ever learn to do it?”
“The--savior--Helen--Why, what can you mean? Why do you kneel? Why
are you crying? Oh! don’t please. Please, please, don’t! It seems
so queer--as if things were all coming to an end to have you kneel
there and ask me--_me_--to ‘forgive you.’ What in the world have I
to forgive? It’s I should be forgiven, for I was angry. I was fearful
angry that day, because you slighted Sobrante and praised Beauty.
I--Yes, nurse. I know. I won’t talk about it, only long enough to make
dear Helen understand.”
It was plain enough then that Jessica either did not know how brave
her own action had been nor that all her recent suffering had been
the price of saving her enemy’s life. Understanding this, the nurse
delicately slipped away, leaving those two young souls to find out
the truth from one another and to make that peace which their words
signified had not existed between them.
“Jessica, don’t you know? Is it possible that nobody has told you how
your flinging yourself upon that vicious Beauty prevented his trampling
me under his feet and surely saved my life? He trampled you instead and
I feel--I feel--O Jessica! I have been so mean, so little, so dastardly
and hateful all along from the beginning. I can’t tell you how mean I
feel. Can you forgive me? _Can you_----”
“Helen, Helen! Let’s change the question. Can you love me a little,
tiny bit? That’s all I want in this world to be loved; or what’s
better, be let to love other people just as much as I wish. You are so
beautiful, so clever, I’ve just longed to love you, only--only--Say,
Helen, that you can and will now.”
The senior’s answer was to clasp the convalescent in such a close
embrace as satisfied forever Jessica’s longing in that question.
“Love you, ‘Little Captain’? Oh! with all my heart and soul; and
to try to be somewhat like you is now my dearest ambition. Kiss me,
Jessie, kiss me once.”
Not only kisses but tears commingled, to that extent the watchful nurse
from the room beyond came back to her post and cut the interview short.
But it was a very different, most radiant Helen who left that hospital
room and repaired with her story and her good news to the motherly
presence of Madame Mearsom.
When she had finished that narration, she added:
“And now, Madame, I want you to help me find a way to, at least,
partially repay Jessica for her suffering. I know about hospitals. That
it is very expensive to have a private room and one ‘special’ nurse,
even one; yet Jessica has had two, and sometimes three. That means, I
suppose, that she has been in extremest danger. I want to help her.
Will you find out for me, and arrange it as only your tact can, so
that her pride won’t be hurt? The whole bill, surgeons, nurses, room,
every possible expense; my mother and I wish to pay it and as soon as
we can learn how much it is. Of the larger debt--that I owe her my very
life--I can’t speak yet. Time will show me some way, I hope, to prove
I’m grateful for all that.
“Why, Madame! You are smiling! What can I have said? Haven’t I offered
it right? I’m glad, we’re glad, to do much more if you will tell us
what.”
“Helen, what has put it into your head that Jessica Trent needs any
financial ‘help’?”
“I--I really do not know. Except that all of the girls think, or have
been told, that she is one of your charity pupils.”
Then, indeed, did Madame Mearsom laugh and heartily:
“My dear, that is the most absurd blunder your young heads ever made.
Jessica Trent is what is called ‘A Copper Princess.’ She is the richest
pupil I have ever had.”