Читать книгу The Greatest Romance Novels of Grace Livingston Hill - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 82

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Her senses swam off into the relief of unconsciousness for a moment, but the cold water creeping up through her clothing chilled her back to life again, and in a moment more she had opened her eyes in wonder that she was lying there alone, free from her tormentor. She fancied she could hear the echo of the horse's feet yet, or was it the thunder ? Then came the awful thought, what would happen if he returned and found her lying here? He would be terribly angry at her for having frightened the horse and jumped out of the chaise. He would visit it upon her in some way she felt sure, and she would be utterly defenseless against him.

There was not a soul in sight and it was growing suddenly dark. She must be at least six or seven miles away from home. She did not come that way often enough to be sure of distances. With new fear she sat up, and crept out of the water. The mud was deep and it was difficult to step, but she managed to get away from the oozy soil, and into the road again. Then in a panic she sprang across the ditch and crept under the fence. She must fly from here. When Hiram succeeded in stopping the horse he would undoubtedly come back for her, and she must get away before he found her.

Which way should she go? She looked back upon the road, but feared to go that way, lest he would go to those houses and search for her. There was no telling what he would say. She had no faith in him. He might say she had given him the right to put his arm around her. She must get away from here at once where he could not find her. Out to the right, across the road, it was all open country. There was nowhere she could take refuge near by. But across this field and another there was a growth of trees and bushes. Perhaps she could reach there and hide and so make her way home after he had gone.

She fled across the spring-sodden field as fast as her soaked shoes and her trembling limbs could carry her; slipping now and then and almost falling, but catching at the fence and going on, wildly, blindly, till she reached the fence. Once she thought she heard the distant bellowing of a bull, but she crept to the other side of the fence and kept on her way, breathless. And now the storm broke into wild splashes of rain, pelting on her face and hair, for her bonnet had fallen back and was hanging around her neck by its ribbons. The net had come off from her hair, and the long locks blew about her face and lashed her in the eyes as she ran. It was dark as night and Phoebe could see but dimly where she was going. Yet this was a comfort to her rather than a source of fear. She felt it would the better cover her hiding. Her worst dread was to come under the power of Hiram Green again.

So she worked her way through the fields, groping for the fences, and at last she reached an open road, and stood almost afraid to try it, lest somewhere she should see Hiram lurking. The lightning blazed and shivered all about her, trailing across the heavens in awful and wonderful display; the thunder shuddered above her until the earth itself seemed to answer, and she felt herself in a rocking abyss of horror; and yet the most awful thing in it all was the fact of Hiram Green.

She had heard all her life that the most dangerous place in a thunderstorm was under tall trees, yet so little did she think of it that she made straight for the shelter of the wood; and though the shocks crashed about her, and seemed to be cleaving the giants of the forest, there she stayed until the storm had abated, and the genuine darkness had succeeded.

She was wet to the skin, and trembling like a leaf. Her strongest impulse was to sink to the earth and weep herself into nothingness, but her common-sense would not let her even sit down to rest. She knew she must start at once if she would hope to reach home. Yet by this time she had very little idea of where she was and how to get home. With another prayer for guidance she started out, keeping sharp lookout along the road with ears and eyes, that there might be no possibility of Hiram's coming upon her unaware. Twice she heard vehicles in the distance, and crept into the shelter of some trees until they passed. She heard pleasant voices talking of the storm and longed to cry out to them for help, yet dared not. What would they think of her, a young girl out alone at that time of night, and in such a condition? Besides, they were all strangers. She dared not speak. And neither to friends would she have spoken, for they would have been all the more astonished to find her so. She thought longingly of Mrs. Spafford, and Miranda, yet dreaded lest even Mrs. Spafford might think she had done wrong to allow herself to ride even a couple of miles with such a man as Hiram Green after all the experience she had had with him. Yet as she plodded along she wondered how she could have done differently, unless indeed she had dared to pull up the horse and jump out at once; yet very likely she would not have been able to make her escape from her tormentor as easily earlier in the afternoon as at the time when she had taken her unpremeditated leap into the ditch.

As she looked back upon the experience it seemed as though the storm had been sent by Providence to provide her a shield and a way of escape. If it had not been for the storm the horse would not have been easily frightened into running, and Hiram would soon have found her and compelled her to get into the chaise again. What could she have done against his strength! She shuddered, partly with cold and partly with horror.

A slender thread of a pale moon had come up, but it gave a sickly light, and soon slipped out of sight again, leaving only the kindly stars whose lights looked brilliant but so far away to-night. Everywhere was a soft dripping sound, and the seething of the earth drinking in a good draught.

Once when it seemed as if she had been going for hours she sat down on the wet bank to rest, and a horse and rider galloped out of the blackness past her. She hid her white face in her lap and he may have thought her but a stump beside the fence. She was thankful he did not stop to see, but as yet nothing had given her a clue to her whereabouts, and she was cold, so terribly cold.

At last she passed a house she did not know, and then another, and another. Finally she made out that she was in a little settlement, about three miles from the Deanes' farm. She could not tell how she had wandered, nor how she came to be yet so far away when she must have walked at least twenty miles. But the knowledge of where she was brought her new courage.

There was a road leading from this settlement straight to Granny McVane's, and she would not need to go back by the road where Hiram would search for her, if indeed he had not already given up the search and gone home. The lights were out everywhere in this village, save in one small house at the farthest end, and she stole past that as if she had been a wraith. Then she breathed more freely as she came into the open country road again, and knew there were but two or three houses now between herself and home.

It occurred to her to wonder in a dull way if the horse had thrown Hiram out and maybe he was hurt, and whether she might not after all have to send a search party after him. She wondered what he would do when he could not find her, supposing he was not hurt. Perhaps he had been too angry to go back for her and her dread of him had been unnecessary. But she thought she knew him well enough to know he would not easily give her up.

She wondered if he would tell Albert, and whether Albert would be worried—she was sure he would be, good, kind Albert—and what would Emmeline say? Emmeline, who had been at the bottom of all this she was sure—and then her thoughts would trail on ahead of her in the wet, and her feet would lag behind and she would feel that she could not catch up. If only a kindly coach would appear! Yet she kept on, holding up her heavy head, and gripping her wet mantle close with her cold, cold hands, shivering as she went.

Once she caught herself murmuring: "Oh, mother, mother! "and then wondered what it meant. So stumbling on, slower and more slowly, she came at last to the little house of Granny McVane, all dark and quiet, but so kindly-looking in the night. She longed to crawl to the doorstep and lie down to die, but duty kept her on. No one must know of this if she could help it. That seemed to be the main thought she could grasp with her weary brain.

The fields behind Granny McVane's were very miry. Three times she fell, and the last time almost lay still, but some stirring of brain and conscience helped her up and on again, across the last hillock, over the last fence, through the garden and up to the back door of her home.

There was a light inside, but she was too far gone to think about it now. She tried to open the door but the latch was heavy and would not lift. She fumbled and almost gave it up, but then it was opened sharply by Emmeline with her hair in a hard knot, and old lines under her eyes.

She wore a wrapper over her night robe, and a blanket around her shoulders. Her feet were thrust into an old pair of Albert's carpet slippers. She held a candle high above her head, and looked out shrewdly into the night. It was plain she was just awake and fretted at the unusual disturbance.

"Fer pity's sake, Phoebe! Is that you ? Where on earth hev you ben? You've hed us all upside down huntin' fer yeh, an' Albert ain't got home yet. I tol' him 'twas no use, you'd mos' likely gone in somewheres out o' the storm, an' you'd be home all right in the mornin', but it's just like your crazy ways to come home in the middle o' th' night. Fer goodness sake, what a sight yeh are! You ain't comin' in the house like that! Why, there'll be mud to clean fer a week. Stop there till I get some water an' a broom."

But Phoebe, with deathly white face, and eyes that saw not, stumbled past her without a word, the water and mud oozing out of her shoes at every step, and dripping from her garments; her sodden bonnet dejectedly upon her shoulders, her hair one long drenched mantle of darkness. Emmeline, half awed by the sight, stood still in the doorway and watched her go up stairs, realizing that the girl did not know what she was doing. Then she shut the door sharply as she had opened it, and followed Phoebe upstairs.

Phoebe held out until she reached her own door, and opened it. Then she sank without a sound upon the floor and lay there as if dead. All breath and consciousness had fluttered out, it seemed, with that last effort.

Emmeline set the candle down with a sudden, startled exclamation and went to her. She felt her hands so cold, like ice, and her face like wet marble, and hard as she was she was frightened. Her conscience, so long enjoying a vacation, leaped into new life and became active. What part had she borne in this that seemed as if it might yet be a tragedy ?

She unlaced the clodded shoes, untied the soaked bonnet, pulled off the wet garments one by one and wrapped the girl in thick warm blankets, dragging her light weight to the bed; but still no sign of consciousness had come. She felt her heart and listened for a breath, but she could not tell yet if she were alive or not. Then she went downstairs with hurried steps, flapping over the kitchen floor in the large carpet slippers, and stirred up the fire that had been banked down, putting the kettle over it to heat. In a little while she had plenty of hot water, and various remedies applied, but life seemed scarcely yet to have crept back to her, only a flutter of the eyelids now and then or a fleeting breath like a sigh. The dawn was coming on and Albert's voice in low strained tones could be heard outside:

"No, I'm not going to stop for anything to eat, Hiram, you may if you like, but I shall not stop till I find her. It's been a real bad night, an' to think of that little girl out in it, I can't bear it!"There seemed to be something like a sob in Albert's last words.

"Well, suit yerself,"answered Hiram, gruffly. "I'm pretty well played out. I'll go home an' get a bite, an' then I'll come on an' meet yeh. You'll likely find her back at Woodbury's I reckon. She wanted to go back, I mind now. We'd ought to 'a' gone there in the first place."

The voices were under her window. Phoebe slowly opened her eyes and shuddering grasped Emmeline's hands so tightly that it hurt her.

"Oh, don't let him come; don't let him come!"she pleaded, and sank away into unconsciousness again.

It was a long time before they could rouse her, and when she finally opened her eyes she did not know them. A fierce and terrible fever had flamed up in her veins, till her face was brilliant with color, and her long dark hair was scorched dry again in its fires.

Granny McVane came quietly over the next day and offered to nurse her. Then the long blank days of fever stretched themselves out for the unconscious girl, and a fight between life and death began.

Now, it happened that on that very afternoon of the barn- raising, Mistress Janet Bristol, in all the bravery of her pink and white frills and furbelows, with a bunch of pink moss-roses at her breast, and her haughtiest air, drove over to the Deanes to call upon Phoebe, in long-delayed response to her cousin Nathaniel's most cousinly letter requesting her to do so. She had parleyed long with herself whether she would go or not, but at last curiosity to see what there was in this country girl to attract her handsome, brilliant cousin, led her to go.

One can scarcely conjecture what Emmeline would have said and thought if she had seen the grand carriage drive up before her door, with its colored coachman and footman in livery. But no one was at home to tell the tale save the white lilacs on the great bush near the front gate, who waved a welcome rich with fragrance. Perhaps they sent the essence of the welcome Phoebe would have gladly given to this favored girl whom she admired.

So half petulant at this reception when she had condescended to come, she scanned the house for some trace of the life of this unknown girl, and drove away with the memory of lilac fragrance floating about a dull and commonplace house. She drove away half determined she would tell her cousin she had done her best, and would not go again. There was no sign left behind to tell this other girl of the lost call. It is doubtful, if Janet had been able to carry out her purpose that afternoon and make her call upon Phoebe, whether either of the two would have been able to find and understand the other at that time.

Janet drove back to her own world again, and the door between the two closed. That very evening's mail brought a brief letter from Nathaniel, saying his dear friend and chum, Martin Van Rensselaer, would be coming North now in a few days, and he desired Janet to invite him to spend a little time in the old home. He would try and arrange to get away from his work and run up for a few days, and they would all have a good time together. So while this other girl, whose unsheltered life had been so full of sorrow, was plodding her way through the darkness and rain alone in the night with fear, Janet Bristol sat in her stately parlor, where a bright hearth-fire cast rosy lights over her white frock, and planned pretty wiles for the beguiling of the young theologue.