Читать книгу The Greatest Romance Novels of Grace Livingston Hill - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 83

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Miranda was out in the flower-bed by the side gate. She had gathered her hands full of spicy grey-green Southern wood and was standing by the fence looking wistfully down the street. The afternoon coach was in and she was idly watching to see who came in it, but not with her usual vim. The specter of the shadow of death was hovering too near to Phoebe for Miranda to take much interest in things in general.

Three days after Phoebe's midnight walk Miranda had gone out to see her and bring her down to take tea with Mrs. Spafford. What was her dismay to find that she was refused admittance, and that too very shortly.

"Phoebe's sick abed! "snapped Emmeline. She had been tried beyond measure over all the extra work that was thrown on her hands by Phoebe's illness, and she had no time for buttered words. "No, she can't see you to-day nor next day. She's got a fever an' she don't know nobody. The doctor says she mus' be kep' quiet. No, I can't tell yeh how she got it. The land only knows! Ef she ever gits well mebbe she ken tell herself, but I doubt it. She'll uv forgot by that time. What she does know she forgets mostly. No, you can't go an' take care of her. She's got folks 'nough to do that now, more'n she needs. There ain't a livin' thing to do but let her alone till she comes out of it. You don't suppose you c'd take care o' her, do yeh? II'm! Wal, I ain't got time to talk,"and the door was shut in her face.

Miranda, however, was not to be turned aside thus easily. With real concern in her face she marched around the woodshed to the place under the little window of the kitchen chamber that she knew was Phoebe's room.

"Phoebe!"she called, softly; "Phoe-bee!"

And the sick girl tossing on her bed of fever called wildly, "Don't you hear that Phoebe-bird calling, mother! Oh, mother! It's calling me from the top of the barn. It says, ' Phoebe, I'm here! Don't be afraid!' "and the voice trailed off into incoherence again.

Granny McVane hobbled to the window, perplexed, for she too had heard the soft sound.

"Oh, is that you, Granny ? "whispered Miranda. "Say, what's the matter with Phoebe ? Is she bad ? "

"Yes, real bad,"whispered back Granny. "She don't know a soul, poor little thing. She thinks her mother's here with her. I don't know much about how it happened. There was an accident and the horse ran away. She was out in that awful storm the other night. She's calling and I must go back to her."

In much dismay Miranda had hurried back to the village. She besieged the doctor's house until he came home, and could get only gravity and shakings of the head. "She may pull through, she may——"the old doctor would say, doubtfully.

"She's young and strong, and it might be—but there's been a great shock to the system, and she doesn't respond to my medicines. I can't tell."

Every day the story was the same, though David and Marcia had gone themselves; and though Miranda travelled the mile-and-a-half every afternoon after her work was done, out to the Deane farm, there had been no change. The fever raged on, nor stayed one whit in its course. The faithful heart of Miranda was as near to discouragement as it had ever come in its dauntless life.

And now this afternoon she had just returned from a particularly fruitless journey to the farm. She had been unable to get sight or sound of any one but Emmeline, who slammed the door in her face as usual after telling her she wished she would mind her own business and let folks alone that weren't troubling her, and Miranda felt as she trudged back to the village with tears in her homely eyes, as if she must cry out or do something. She had never quite come to a place before where her wits could not plan out some help for those she loved. Death was different. One could not outwit death.

Then, like a slowly dawning hope, she saw Nathaniel Graham coming up the street with his carpet-bag in his hand.

Nathaniel had come up for a day to tell his uncle and cousin all about this dear friend of his whom he so much desired to have made welcome for a week or two for his sake. He had been made junior partner in a law firm, the senior partner being an old friend of Judge Bristol's, and his work would be strenuous, else he would probably have planned to be at the old home all summer himself. As it was, he could hope for but a few days now and then when he could be spared.

Nathaniel came to a halt with his pleasant smile as he recognized Miranda.

"How do you do, Miss Miranda ? Are all your folks well? Are Mr. and Mrs. Spafford at home? I must try to run over and see them before I go back. I'm only here on a brief visit, must return to-morrow? How is the place getting on? All the old friends just the same? Do you ever see Miss Deane? She's well, I hope."

Nathaniel was running through these sentences pleasantly, as one will who has been away from a town for a time, and he did not note the replies carefully, as he thought he knew pretty well what they would be, having heard from home but a day or two before. He was just going on when something deep and different in Miranda's tone and clouded eyes made him pause and listen:

"No, she ain't well, Phoebe Deane ain't. She's way down sick, an' they don't nobody think she's goin' to get well, I'm sure o' that!"Then the unexpected happened. Two big tears welled up and rolled down the two dauntless, freckled cheeks. Nobody had ever seen Miranda Griscom cry before.

A sudden nameless fear gripped Nathaniel's heart. Phoebe Deane sick! Near to death! All at once the day seemed to have clouded over for him.

"Tell me, Miranda,"he said, gently, "she is my friend, too, I think. I did not know—I had not heard. Has she been ill long? What was the cause?"

"'Bout two weeks,"said Miranda, mopping her face with the corner of her clean apron, "an' I can't find out what made her sick, but it's my 'pinion she's bein' tormented to death by that long-legged blatherskite of a Hiram Green. He ain't nothin' but a big bully, fer he's really a coward at heart, an' what's more, folks 'll find it out some day ef I don't miss my guess. But he ken git up the low-downdest, pin-prickenist, soul-shakenest tormentin's that ever a saint hed to bear. An' ef Phoebe Deane ain't a saint I don't know who is 'cept my Mis' Spafford. Them two 's ez much alike 's two pease—sweet-pease, I mean, pink an' white ones in blow."

Nathaniel warmed to Miranda's eloquence and kindled to her poetry. He felt that here was something that must be investigated.

"I believe that man is a scoundrel!"said Nathaniel, earnestly. "Do you say he really dares to annoy Miss Deane?"

"Well, I rather guess you'd think so! She can't stir without he's at her side, tendin' like he b'longs there. She can't bear the sight o' him, an' he struts up to her at the church door like he owned her, an' ef 'twant fer me an Rose an' Mis' Spafford she couldn't get red of 'im. She can't go to the post-office any more 'thout he hants the very road, though she's told him up 'n down she won't hev a thing to do 'ith him. I hev to go after her an' take her home when she comes to see us, fear he'll dog her steps, an' he's scared her most to death twice now, chasin' after her, once at night when she was comin' down to your house to bring some letter she'd found."

Nathaniel's face grew suddenly conscious, and a warm glow of indignation rolled over it. He set down his carpetbag and came close to the fence to listen.

"Why, w'd you b'lieve it, thet feller found she liked to go to th' post-office fer a walk, and he jest follered her every time, an' when she quit goin' he hunted up other ways to trouble her. They tell a tale 'bout th' horse runnin' away an' her bein' out in a big storm the night she was took sick, but I b'lieve in my soul he's f th' bottom of it, an' I'd like to see him get his come-uppance right now."

"Miranda, do you happen to know—I don't suppose you ever heard Miss Deane speak of receiving a letter from me."

Miranda's alert eyes were on his face.

"Long 'bout when ? "she demanded, keenly.

"Why last December, I think it was. I wrote her a note and I never received any reply. I wondered if it might have got lost, or whether she did not like my writing it, as I am almost a stranger."

"No, sir-ree, she never got that letter! I know fer sure, 'cause I happened to speak to her 'bout hearin' Hiram Green askin' pertick'ler fer her mail in the post-office one day; and I found out he gets the Deanes' mail quite often an' carries it out to 'em; an' I tole her I thought she wouldn't like him meddlin' with her mail, an' she jest laughed an' said he couldn't do her any harm thet way, cause she never got a letter in her life 'cept one her mother wrote her 'fore she died. Thet was only a little while back, 'bout a month 'er so, 'way after January, fer the snow was most gone the day I tol' her. She can't uv got your letter no how. I'd be willin' to bet a good fat doughnut that the rascally Hiram Green knows what come o' thet letter. My, but I'd like to prove it on him! "

"Oh, Miranda, he would scarcely dare to tamper with another person's mail. He's a well-informed man, and must know that's a crime. He could be put into prison for that. It must have got lost if you are sure she never received it."

"Could he ? "said Miranda, eagerly; "could he be put in prison? My! but I'd like to help get him lodged there fer a spell 'til he learned a little bit o' politeness toward th' angels that walks the earth in mortal form. Dast! Hiram Green dast? He's got cheek enough to dast ennythin'. You don't know him. He wouldn't think any one would find out! But say, I'll tell you what you ken do. You jest write that letter over again, if you ken rem'mber 'bout what you wanted to say b'fore, an' I'll agree to git it to her first hand this time."

Nathaniel's face was alight with the eagerness of a boy. Somehow Miranda's childish proposal was pleasant to him. Her homely, honest face beamed at him expectantly, and he replied with earnestness:

"I'll do it, Miranda, I'll do it this very day, and trust it to your kindness to get it to her safely. Thank you for suggesting it."

Then suddenly a cloud came over the freckled face, and the gray eyes filled with tears again.

"But I mightin't ever git it to 'er, after all, yeh know. They say she's jest hangin' 'tween life 'n death to-day, an' t'night's the crisis."

A cloud seemed suddenly to have passed before the sun again, a chill almost imperceptible came in the air. What was that icy something gripping Nathaniel's heart? Why did all the forces of life and nature seem to hang upon the well-being of this young girl ? He caught his breath.

"We must pray for her, Miranda, you and I,"he said, gravely; "she once promised to pray for me."

"Did she ? "said Miranda, looking up with solemn awe through her tears. "I'm real glad you tole me that. I'll try, but I ain't much on things like that. I could wallup Hiram Green a grea' deal better'n I could pray; but I s'pose that wouldn't do no good, so I'll do my best at the prayin'. Ef it's kind of botched up mebbe yours'll make up fer it. But say you better write that letter right off. I've heard tell there's things like thet'll help when crisises comes. I'm goin' t' make it a pint t' git up there t'night, spite o' that ole Mis' Deane, an' ef I see a chance I'll give it to her. I kind of think it might please her to have a letter t'git well fer."

"I'll do it, Miranda, I'll do it at once, and bring it around to you before dark. But you must be careful not to trouble her with it till she is able. You know it might make her worse to be bothered with any excitement like a letter from a stranger."

"I'll use my bes' jedgment,"said Miranda, with happy pride. "I ain't runnin' no resks, so you needn't worry."

With a new interest in his face Nathaniel grasped his carpet-bag and hurried to his uncle's house. He found Janet ready with a joyful welcome, but he showed more anxiety to get to his room than to talk with her.

"I suppose it was dusty on the road to-day,"she conceded, unwillingly, "but hurry back. I've a great deal to ask you, and to tell; and I want you all to myself before your friend comes."

But once in his room he forgot dust and sat down immediately to the great mahogany desk where paper and pens were just as he had left them when he went away. Janet had to call twice before he made his appearance, for he was deep in writing a letter.

"My dear Miss Deane,"he wrote. "They tell me you are lying very ill and I feel as if I must write a few words to tell you how anxious and sad I am about you. I want you to know that I am praying that you may get well.

"I wrote you sometime ago asking if you were willing to correspond with me, but I have reason now to think you never received my letter, so I have ventured to write again. I know it may be sometime before you are able even to read this, but I am sending it by a trusty messenger and I am sure you will let me know my answer when you are better. It will be a great source of pleasure and profit to me if you will write to me sometimes.

"Yours faithfully,

"Nathaniel Graham."

He folded and addressed it, sealing it with his crest, and then Janet called for the second time:

"Yes, Janet, I'm coming now, really. I had to write a letter. I am sorry, but it couldn't wait."

"Oh, how poky! Always business, business! "cried Janet. "It is well your friend is coming to-night for it is plain to be seen we shall have no good of you. How is it that you have grown old and grave so soon, Nathaniel? I thought you would stay a boy a long time."

"Just wait until I send my letter, Janet, and I will be as young as you please for two whole days."

"Let Caesar take it for you, then. There is no need for you to go."

"I would rather take it myself, cousin,"he said, and she knew by his look that he would have his way.

"Well, then, I will go with you,"she pouted, and taking her sunshade from the hall table unfurled its rosy whiteness.

He was somewhat dismayed at this, but making the best of it smiled good-humoredly and together they went out into the summer street and walked beneath the long arch of maples newly dressed in green.

"But this is not the way to the post-office,"she cried, when they had walked some distance.

"But this is the way for my letter,"he said, pleasantly. "Now, Janet, what have you to ask me so insistently ? "

"About this Martin friend of yours. Is he nice ? That is, will I like him? It isn't enough that you like him, for you like some very stupid people sometimes. I want to know if I will like him."

"And how should I be able to tell that, Janet ? Of one thing I am sure, he will have to like you,"and he surveyed his handsome cousin admiringly. "That's a very pretty sunshade you have. May I carry it for you ? "

"Well, after that pleasant speech perhaps you may,"she said, surrendering it. "About this young man, is it really true, Nathaniel, that he is a minister, and that he is to preach for Dr. MacFarlane while the doctor goes to visit his daughter? Father thought you had arranged for that. You see it is very important that I like him, because if I don't I simply cannot go to church and hear him preach. In fact I'm not sure but I shall stay away anyway. I should be so afraid he'd break down if I liked him, and if I didn't I should want to laugh. It will be so funny to see a minister at home every day, and know all his faults and his little peculiarities, and then see him get up and try to preach. I'm sure I should laugh."

"I am sure you would dare do nothing of the kind when Martin preaches."

"Oh, is he then so terribly grave and solemn ? I shall not like him in the least."

"Wait until he comes, Janet. The evening coach will soon be in."

They had reached the Spafford house now, and Nathaniel's anxiety about delivering his letter was relieved by seeing Miranda hurry out to the flower-bed again with a manner as if the demand for fresh flowers had suddenly become greater than the supply. She was quite close to the fence as they came up, but she remained unconscious of their presence until Nathaniel spoke.

"Is that you, Miss Miranda ? "he said, lifting his hat as though he had not seen her before that afternoon. "Will you kindly deliver this letter for me ? "

He handed her the letter directly from his pocket, and Janet could not see the address. Miranda took it serenely.

"Yes, sir,"she said, scrutinizing the address at a safe angle from Janet's vision, "I'll deliver it safe an' sure. Afternoon, Mis' Janet. Like a bunch o' pink columbine to stick in yer frock? Jes' matches them posies on the muslin delaine."And she snapped off a fine whirl of delicate pink columbine. Janet accepted it graciously and the two turned back home again.

"Now I can't see why Caesar couldn't have done that,"grumbled Janet. "He's just as trustworthy as that funny red-haired girl."

"You would not have got your columbine,"smiled Nathaniel, "and I'm sure it was just what you needed to complete the picture."

"Now for that pretty speech I'll say no more about it,"granted Mistress Janet, well pleased.

And so they walked along the shaded street, where the sunlight was beginning to lie in long slant rays on the pavement and play strange yellow fancies with the smart new leaves of the maples. Nathaniel talked as he knew his cousin liked to have him do, and all the time she never knew that his heart had gone with the letter he had given to Miranda. Perhaps it was her interest in the stranger who was coming that kept her from missing something. Perhaps it was his light-hearted manner, so free from the perplexing problems that had filled his face with gravity on his recent visits. Perhaps it was just Janet's own happy heart, glad with the gladness of life and the summer weather, and the holiday guests.

Yet underneath Nathaniel's gay manner there ran two thoughts side by side—one, the fact that Miranda had said Phoebe had repulsed Hiram Green; the other, that she was lying at death's door; and all the time his strong heart was going out in a wild, hopeful pleading that her young life might yet be spared to joy. He felt that this mute pleading was her due, for had she not lifted her clear eyes and said, "Oh, I will,"when he had asked her to pray for him ? He must return it in full measure.

The evening coach was late, but it rolled in at last, bringing the eagerly-watched-for guest, bronzed from his months in the South. The dinner was served around a joyous board, the Judge beaming his pleasure upon the little company. The evening was prolonged far beyond the usual retiring hour, while laughter and talk floated on around him, and all the time Nathaniel was conscious of that other house but two miles away, where life and death were battling for a victim.

He went upstairs with Martin for another talk after the house was quiet, but at last they separated; and Nathaniel was free to sit by the window in his dark room looking out into the night now grown brilliant with the late rising moon, and keep tryst with one who was hovering on the brink of the other world.