Читать книгу Trumps - George William Curtis - Страница 19

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Abel Newt was fully aware that his time was short. His father’s letter had apprised him of his presently leaving school. To leave school—was it not to quit Delafield? Might it not be to lose Hope Wayne? He was banished from Pinewood. There were flaming swords of suspicion waving over that flowery gate. The days were passing. The summer is ending, thought he, and I am by no means saved.

Neither he nor Gabriel had mentioned their last visit to Pinewood and its catastrophe. It was a secret better buried in their own bosoms. Abel’s dislike of the other was deepened and imbittered by the ignominy of the expulsion by Mr. Burt, of which Gabriel had been not only a companion but a witness. It was an indignity that made Abel tingle whenever he thought of it. He fancied Gabriel thinking of it too, and laughing at him in his sleeve, and he longed to thrash him. But Gabriel had much better business. He was thinking only of Hope Wayne, and laughing at himself for thinking of her.

The boys were strolling in different parts of the village. Abel, into whose mind had stolen that thought of the possible laughter in Gabriel’s sleeve, pulled out his handkerchief suddenly, and waved it with an indignant movement in the air. At the same moment a carriage had overtaken him and was passing. The horses, startled by the shock of the waving handkerchief, shied and broke into a run. The coachman tried in vain to control them. They sprang forward and had their heads in a moment.

Abel looked up, and saw that it was the Burt carriage dashing down the road. He flew after, and every boy followed. The horses, maddened by the cries of the coachman and passers-by, by the rattling of the carriage, and their own excitement and speed, plunged on with fearful swiftness. As the carriage flew by, two faces were seen at the window—both calm, but one terrified. They were those of Hope and Mrs. Simcoe.

“Stop ’em! stop ’em!” rang the cry along the village street; and the idling villagers looked from the windows or came to the doors—the women exclaiming and holding up their hands, the men leaving whatever they were doing and joining the chase.

The whole village was in motion. Every body knew Hope Wayne—every body loved her.

Both she and Mrs. Simcoe sat quietly in the carriage. They knew it was madness to leap—that their only chance lay in remaining perfectly quiet. They both knew the danger—they knew that every instant they were hovering on the edge of death or accident. How strange to Hope’s eyes, in those swift moments, looked the familiar houses—the trees—the signs—the fences—as they swept by! How peaceful and secure they were! How far away they seemed! She read the names distinctly. She thought of little incidents connected with all the places. Her mind, and memory, and perception were perfectly clear; but her hands were clenched, and her cheek cold and pale with vague terror. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her, calmly holding one of Hope’s hands, but neither of them spoke.

The carriage struck a stone, and the crowd shuddered as they saw it rock and swing in its furious course. The mad horses but flew more wildly. Mrs. Simcoe pressed Hope’s hand, and murmured, almost inaudibly,

“ ‘Christ shall bless thy going out,

Shall bless thy coming in;

Kindly compass thee about,

Till thou art saved from sin.’ ”

“That corner! that corner!” shouted the throng, as the horses neared a sudden turn into a side-road, toward which they seemed to be making, frightened by the persons who came running toward them on the main street. Among these was Gabriel, who, hearing the confused murmur that rang down the road, turned and recognized the carriage that was whirled along at the mercy of wild horses. He seemed to his companions to fly as he went—to himself he seemed to be standing still.

“Carefully, carefully!” cried the others, as they saw his impetuosity. “Don’t be trampled!”

Gabriel did not hear. He only saw the fatal corner. He only knew that Hope Wayne was in danger—that the carriage, already swaying, would be overturned—might be dashed in pieces, and Hope—

He came near as the horses were about turning. The street toward which they were heading was narrow, and on the other corner from him there was a wall. They were running toward Gabriel down the main road; but just as he came up with them he flung himself with all his might toward the animals’ heads. The startled horses half-recoiled, turned sharply and suddenly—dashed themselves against the wall—and the carriage stood still. In a moment a dozen men had secured them, and the danger was past.

The door was opened, and the ladies stepped out. Mrs. Simcoe was pale, but her heart had not quailed. The faith that sustains a woman’s heart in life does not fail when death brushes her with his finger-tips.

“Dear child!” she said to Hope, when they both knew that the crisis was over, and her lips moved in silent prayer and thanksgiving.

Hope herself was trembling and silent. In her inmost heart she hoped it was Abel Newt who had saved them. But in all the throng she did not see his face. She felt a secret disappointment.

“Here is your preserver, ma’am,” said one of the villagers, pushing Gabriel forward. Mrs. Simcoe actually smiled. She put out her hand to him kindly; and Hope, with grave Sweetness, told him how great was their obligation. The boy bowed and looked at her earnestly.

“Are you hurt?”

“Oh! no, not at all,” replied Hope, smiling, and not without some effort, because she fancied that Gabriel looked at her as if she showed some sign of pain—or disappointment—or what?

“We are perfectly well, thanks to you.”

“What started the horses?” asked Gabriel.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Hope.

“Abel Newt started them,” said Mrs. Simcoe.

Hope reddened and looked at her companion. “What do you mean, Aunty?” asked she, haughtily.

Mrs. Simcoe was explaining, when Abel came up out of breath and alarmed. In a moment he saw that there had been no injury. Hope’s eyes met his, and the color slowly died away from her cheeks. He eagerly asked how it happened, and was confounded by hearing that he was the cause.

“How strange it is,” said he, in a low voice, to Hope, as the people busied themselves in looking after the horses and carriage, and Gabriel talked to Mrs. Simcoe, with whom he found conversation so much easier than with Hope—“how strange it is that just as I was wondering when and where and how I should see you again, I should meet you in this way, Miss Wayne!”

Pleased, still weak and trembling, pale and flushed by turns, Hope listened to him.

“Where can I see you?” he continued; “certainly your grandfather was unkind—”

Hope shook her head slowly. Abel watched every movement—every look—every fluctuating change of manner and color, as if he knew its most hidden meaning.

“I can see you nowhere but at home,” she answered.

He did not reply. She stood silent. She wished he would speak. The silence was dreadful. She could not bear it.

“I am very sorry,” said she, in a whisper, her eyes fastened upon the ground, her hands playing with her handkerchief.

“I hope you are,” he said, quietly, with a tone of sadness, not of reproach. There was another painful pause.

“I hope so, because I am going away,” said Abel.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“When?”

“In a few weeks.”

“Where is your home?”

“In New York.”

It was very much to the point. Yet both of them wanted to say so much more; and neither of them dared!

“Miss Hope!” whispered Abel.

Hope heard the musical whisper. She perceived the audacity of the familiarity, but she did not wish it were otherwise. She bent her head a little lower, as if listening more intently.

“May I see you before I go?”

Hope was silent. Dr. Livingstone relates that when the lion had struck him with his paw, upon a certain occasion, he lay in a kind of paralysis, of which he would have been cured in a moment more by being devoured.

“Hope,” said Mrs. Simcoe, “the horses will be brought up. We had better walk home. Here, my dear!”

“I can only see you at home,” Hope said, in a low voice, as she rose.

“Then we part here forever,” he replied. “I am sorry.”

Still there was no reproach; it was only a deep sadness which softened that musical voice.

“Forever!” he repeated slowly, with low, remorseless music.

Hope Wayne trembled, but he did not see it.

“I am sorry, too,” she said, in a hurried whisper, as she moved slowly toward Mrs. Simcoe. Abel Newt was disappointed.

“Good-by forever, Miss Wayne!” he said. He could not see Hope’s paler face as she heard the more formal address, and knew by it that he was offended.

“Good-by!” was all he caught as Hope Wayne took Mrs. Simcoe’s arm and walked away.