Читать книгу The Crystal Button - Chauncey Thomas - Страница 7

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"Mamma, isn't it a nice Christmas present? Don't you think papa will like it?"

"I'm sure he will, dear."

The door-bell gave a sudden sharp alarum that was like a scream. Mrs. Prognosis sprang from her chair. "I suppose," she said, "it's another telegram asking your father to hurry over to the broken drawbridge. But he must be there by this time. I do wish they would give Paul an hour's rest on this day before Christmas." She went to the door, her daughter following.

"Your pardon, ma'am," spoke up a hoarse voice, "but I've bad news for you."

"Bad news? Oh, about the broken draw? I know about that. My husband is at the bridge now, attending to repairs."

"It's another sort of bad news that I'm bringing you, ma'am."

"Another sort? Paul--my husband--what has happened to him? Is he in any trouble?--is he dead? Tell me, man, is Paul Prognosis dead?"

"No, not dead, ma'am; but he's been hurt."

"How?--Where?--At the bridge? I will go with you to him."

"He is coming to you. They are bringing him to you. No, ma'am, you mustn't go." He put up his left hand, in which he held his cap, as if to detain her; then dropped it respectfully, and repeated with a pleading voice, while tears trickled down his pockmarked cheeks: "No, no! ma'am, you mustn't go. Dr. Clarkson is coming, and he sent me to tell you about it."

"Tell me quickly, then, and tell me the truth."

They stood close together on the trellised doorstoop of the contractor's house, on one of the steep hill-streets in the older part of the city-the slight woman with her earnest, troubled face, to whose skirts clung the shivering child, and the coatless workman, dripping wet, and with particles of ice in his beard and long hair. His right hand was concealed in a handkerchief, and a dark stain gradually spread about its folds, until a scarlet drop fell upon the icy coating of the stoop. But Mrs. Prognosis did not notice this, and the man made no allusion to it. The December wind that whistled through the latticework and dead leafage, chasing little whirls of fine snow, was biting cold; but only the child seemed to feel it. "Patty, go indoors, and wait for mamma." The child silently obeyed.

"You see, ma'am, there was an accident at the bridge, where the Boss put in his new patent draw last summer. A schooner, loaded with lumber, got caught by the tide and jammed in, side on, and chocked the draw so that the keeper couldn't work her back, and travel was stopped. They sent for the Boss, and he and I--I'm his foreman, ma'am--were at work down below there, when Jake Cummings,--you know him, perhaps--he's the draw-keeper, an old fellow with rheumatism, and five children, and the old woman dead a twelvemonth,--he slipped on one of the guys, and pitched head-foremost in among the ice."

"Yes, yes--but my husband?"

"Well, the skipper on the schooner threw a rope to the old man as he drifted past, but he missed it, and went downstream with the current. Then the Boss plunged in and followed him, swimming hand over hand in a way that made the crowd cheer. There they both were, in among the ice-cakes and some floating logs and lumber that had got loose from the schooner; and the Boss soon had hold of Jake, but he couldn't seem to make any headway when he turned upstream. When I saw that, in I went too, with Smudge at my heels; and we all brought up in a bunch, with the ice crunching about us, and a small boat from the schooner, that was trying to get at us, shoving the drift against our shoulders. It looked like we had seen our last Christmas, the whole lot of us, dog and all. Well, at last, I--we got him out and aboard the boat."

"Who--who was it you got out?"

"The Boss, ma'am."

"Thank God! and thank you, my friend!"

"And Smudge, too; he ought to be thanked. He stuck to the Boss through it all. As for old Jake, I couldn't get at him."

"And my husband didn't succeed in saving him, after all?"

"That I don't know."

"He must have. Paul always succeeds."

"I hope so, ma'am. Smudge went in again after the old man. As for me, I couldn't see much after I got aboard the schooner, till Dr. Clarkson poured something hot into me. He will tell us. Here they come."

Without another word the woman ran to meet the approaching file of men, bowed by the weight they bore between them on an improvised stretcher. Every hat came off as she drew near. It was growing dusky now, so she could scarcely distinguish the white face that lay there, but she kissed the cold lips, shivered, and gave a piteous look toward Dr. Clarkson, who only said: "Have courage, Mrs. Prognosis. I think a warm bed is all that is needed." She stooped, and clasped in hers one of the cold hands, that gave no response. In that hand, clenched, while all else hung nerveless, she found a little rag of linen, with a buttonhole, in which clung a small glass button. She thrust this in her bosom, again took the chilly palm in hers, and accompanied the procession of silent men as they mounted the stoop and the front staircase to the south chamber, where a few neighbors gave what assistance they could, under the direction of the doctor, and then quietly retired. Beside the bed sat Smudge, the only spectator.

For the next hour, Dr. Clarkson kept the tearless wife busily employed in doing whatever small tasks he could think of, whether helpful or not, and especially such as related to her child. He saw that she was calm--so calm that a stranger might have misjudged her. But the family physician knew.

Just before midnight, when breathing had been fully restored, he left her, saying: "I find no injury of any kind. He no doubt received a severe blow on the head from the ice or a drifting log, though I do not find even a scalp-wound. What the result will be, I cannot now foretell. But keep up courage, Mrs. Prognosis. I have known your husband many years. He is a strong man, in robust health, with everything in his favor, and I believe he will be spared to you unharmed. Fact is, a man like that we can't very well get along without. Everybody respects him, and the only ones who ever disliked him were a few malcontents who, at one time, imagined they had reason to fear his truth-telling. But some of these very men are now his best friends. There's that Torn Haggerty, for instance,--he followed in after him with Smudge, and I hardly know which proved the better water-dog. Well, he seems to be perfectly comfortable for the present. Tomorrow morning we shall know more about the case. In the mean time I leave him in your care. I can do nothing further to-night, and you can do nothing but watch, wait, and hope. He helped to save old man Cummings like a hero, as he is; and I think he'll be able to receive thanks in person before the holidays are over. I hope so--I believe so. Good-night."

In the stillness of that night before Christmas, Mary Prognosis thus found herself in her chamber alone with her husband--with him, and yet alone, for, up to this time, he had given no sign of life other than his breathing and a low sigh now and then. Yet still not wholly alone, for in the next room she could also hear the breathing of her child--their child. "O God, spare my child's father!" She knelt beside him, and felt relief as a few tears gushed from her eyes. "This will never do!--I must be strong."

She passed downstairs and locked the doors of the house; listened to the buffets of snow against the windows; went into the child's room and put the little hands under the coverlet; and again returned to her husband's bedside, where the dog still kept patient vigil. The bell in the city-hall boomed the first hour. She looked at the watch that had been taken from the drenched clothing. The hands recorded thirteen minutes past three. That stilled minute-hand must have stopped just there when the crash came. She found the key, and was about to wind it--and then, suddenly changing her mind, shut it in a little jewel case. Reopening the case, she put beside it the glass button, and then turned a key on both.

How cold it was! She spread another blanket on the bed. As she did so, the sleeper turned himself wearily, opened his eyes and raised them to hers with a confused look, that gradually calmed into a faint smile; and he made a movement with his hand to take hers. Then, with a voice somewhat strange from weakness, he asked, with a pause after each word: "Is--Jake--all--right?"

"Jake is all right, dear."

"Then all's well. I am very tired. Goodnight, darling."

"Good-night."