CHAPTER XXXI
CAUGHT IN A BLIZZARD
Tibby had foolishly dallied in her home-coming. Even after mounting her horse she sat in the saddle and indulged in the prolonged exchanges of good-bys so common to young girls, until the blackening sky and threatening flakes of snow admonished her, forcibly, to return in haste.
Tempest, glad to have permission to go at last, sped over the ground with wonderful strides, covering the first half of the journey in a short space of time; but as the wind arose and the soft flakes gave way to hard, rice-like, cutting kernels of snow that beat in his face, he became staggered in his pace, and finally, as the storm in all its fury bore down upon them, both horse and rider lost all knowledge of distance and location, their only effort being to keep the road. Tibby, blinded by the storm, and forced to ride with her head bent forward and down, felt her faithful beast stop and whirl half around as a furious blast, chill as the arctic snows, struck them. The icy flakes cut into her flesh like splinters of steel as she lifted her face to look about her. She could see nothing except the whirling deluge of white enveloping her. She was lost, lost.
“O Tempest, good Tempest!” she wailed, “can you see the path no longer? Will not your instincts guide you home? Try again, Tempest! Alas, I know not which way to turn you! But go, Tempest, go! We shall freeze if we stay here. Go!”
But the horse, buffeted by the driving storm in his face, would move forward only a few paces, then turn his head and stop, bewildered.
“O my God, what shall I do?” she moaned.
The cold was creeping up her limbs and benumbing her. She felt that she must die there, and so near home. She thought she must have traversed nearly the distance, if they had kept the road. Ah, if they had kept the road. She was in doubt as to that. The horse, cowering and baffled, had turned around. She turned him back, facing the storm, and with hand and voice she urged him forward. For several moments he plunged into the opaque snow-world before them, then again blinded, baffled, and storm-beaten, the faithful animal stopped, and bowed his head to the fury of the elements.
Tibby lost courage, and laying her face on the poor beast’s neck, sobbed in despair. Oh! why had she been so wilful and neglectful of Donald’s warning? He had been anxious about her, and tried to save her, but she had in her silly pride and egotism ignored him and his counsel, and now she must die. How cold she was. Her breath came in short, hard pants. The wind seemed to take it from her and carry it away. It seemed to her that the elements sported with life, and the wind, with demoniac shrieks of frenzy and laughter, pounded and pommeled and bruised her as she lay upon the neck of the trembling, cowering beast which had borne her so gallantly that morning.
“O Tempest, Tempest, we are surely lost, lost!” she wailed. “God has let loose all his furies upon us; no where on the bleak, cold, storm-driven and storm-beaten prairie is there shelter for us. If a stable were but a rod away we could not find it. We must die, must die, good horse! Die—i—i—i—ie!” Her chattering teeth would scarcely permit the words to pass.
Tibby tried to pray, but the words would not form themselves. She could only think of her child’s prayer of “Now I lay me down to sleep,” and she remembered reading once of a man who, upon the neck of a maddened bull, thus prayed, and in a hysterical revulsion of emotion she laughed,—laughed and shrieked with the shrieking wind, in hysterical gasps,—laughed even in the face of death. Then, chill and trembling, she felt as if the hand of the grim reaper was upon her, and she lay motionless upon the neck of the horse, half unconscious.
Suddenly she was startled by a sound—the crack of a rifle not far distant. The horse started and lifted its head, then whirled around again in the direction of the sound. She felt the quiver of the animal beneath her, and with an effort roused herself. There was hope in that sound. Some one was near.
“Go, Tempest, go!” she cried. “There is some one near! Some one is looking for us!”
The horse, as if understanding the meaning of the rifle-shot, was already plunging forward, and Tibby clung sobbing, in convulsive reaction, to his neck.
She tried to shout, but the howling wind drowned even her powerful and far-reaching voice. It was blowing fearfully now. Each gust nearly tore her from the saddle by its violence, benumbed as she was by the cold. Again the friendly rifle-crack sounded its peal of deliverance in her ears. And farther away she heard, more faintly, a second sound, like an echo, respond.
“They are searching for us, and it must be—Donald!” she thought. Good Donald, whom she had treated so illy! If she ever lived through this terrible time—but how cold it was. She must not die now, so near, almost within sound of his voice. The horse, animated by the nearness of the deliverer, was struggling ahead, not swiftly, but desperately, in the persistent, whirling phalanx of snow. Again, a third time, the friendly rifle spoke, and its tone rang sweetest music to the nearly paralyzed and helpless girl. She felt her faithful horse turn, guided by the sound; she felt his heaving flank, against which her feet were placed for warmth, sway, as he pressed onward, and then she heard him neigh, loud and strong. Good creature! She tried to pat his neck with her numb fingers. His voice was stronger than hers. Hark! Is that an answering neigh borne to her? She cannot shout, for her voice is spent; but Tempest, good Tempest, is calling for her. She clings with desperate grip to his mane. Is that a voice coming out of the darkness of the snow-world? A roar, deeper than the roar of the storm, sounds in her ears, and she feels herself sinking, sinking, down, down.
“Tibby, Tibby!”
She hears a voice at her side and Donald is clasping her and enveloping her in something woolen and warm. She tries to reach to him her poor frozen hands as she sobs “Don, Don!” and then in a thankfulness too deep for words she snuggles down in the warm folds of the blanket and again drops her head upon the neck of her noble horse.
“That is right, keep your head down! I will lead Tempest,” she hears Donald say, shouting in his strong voice to her, and again Tibby realizes they are yet in the clutches of the merciless blizzard; but her fear is gone, for Donald is with her and will save her.
“Now don’t be frightened. I must discharge the gun to get my direction,” he shouts again when he has tucked her comfortably in the blankets. Tibby hears the detonation answered by a fainter sound at their left.
“We are all right, child. Alice is signaling us. Try and hold out a little longer.” And Tibby feels the motion of the horse as it sways beneath her, and is dimly conscious of a sense of warmth and relief unutterable. And she forgets the storm, the danger, the oppression of death which was upon her, and sinks away into a half-sleeping state, from which she is aroused only when, at the door of Mark’s home, Donald lifts her from the saddle and carries her into shelter somewhere. She hears, as though far away, the repeated echoes of the rifle; she hears murmured words of encouragement from her rescuer, and then she opens her eyes in bewildered uncertainty as to her surroundings and feels that she has awakened from a harassing dream to find herself safely at home, and with a sigh of relief she lays her head more heavily upon Donald’s shoulder and sinks away to sleep again.
Not until afterwards did she realize the struggle Donald had undergone while bringing her home. Not until the neighbors had gathered about her, days later, and commented on the terrible severity and destruction of the storm, which had lasted three days and brought death and sorrow to many homes. Then Tibby heard of those who but a stone’s-throw from their own doors had perished; of others who, like herself, had been lost and wandered about to finally lie down and die; of horses and cattle, in large numbers, frozen to death; of a whole school of children who, headed by the teacher, had tried to make their way through the impenetrable snow and fallen to be gathered in the icy embrace of the blizzard, and delivered into the arms of Death.
And as Tibby reflected upon her narrow escape from the grim harvester, she turned in horror from her wilful self, as she stood with the light of recent experiences upon her. How nearly fatal had been that foolish ride across the prairie which she had wilfully persisted in taking in the face of better counsel. But for Donald, whom she had snubbed and abominably ill-treated, she would have perished. Ah, she was punished, and yet she would not be willing to owe so much to any other man. Donald had been forced to remain at Mark’s until the storm lessened in its severity, but he had gone away before Tibby had fully recovered from her lethargy. He had aided in caring for her frost-bitten ears and hands, but he had not returned to make inquiry concerning her since then. Tibby was becoming restless at his continued absence. Was he thoroughly disgusted with her behavior that day of the storm? she questioned.
Could any one have been more exasperating and unladylike? Yes, she merited his contempt—and he had saved her life, saved her from such a terrible death. Ah, if she could blot out the memory of that morning. How she despised herself, her foolish, egotistical self. He would be divine if he ever forgave her. She had tried to make him angry, and how she had been punished. She had even mocked at him when he paid her the highest compliment a man can pay a woman. Why had she acted thus? Why must a woman always be false to herself?
Thus, bitterly, Tibby cogitated, and scourged herself, and shed tears of contrition. But the second week went by and still Donald came not to see her. Tibby became hysterical. She was wildly mirthful and hilarious at times, and again her eyes showed signs of weeping.
Mrs. Wylie became anxious concerning her protege, fearing she was ill. Tibby ate little, and was in every way capricious, and unlike her strong, forceful self. “The shock of her dangerous ride has unnerved her,” Mrs. Wylie reiterated. She believed she ought to consult a physician, but as the nearest one was twenty-five miles away she put off doing so, hoping for an improvement in her child.
At last Tibby could stand the uncertainty no longer. She must know if she was forgiven and reestablish the friendship between them, and thank Donald for preserving her life.
She resolved to interrogate Mrs. Cramer, and act upon her advice.
For some reason she felt less reluctant to advise with her than with Mrs. Wylie. She found her hostess putting on her wraps preparatory to going out.
“My dear Mrs. Cramer,” she said coaxingly, “I want to see Donald Bartram, and thank him for rescuing me. I was too ill to do so when he was here, and besides I did not know the magnitude of the risk he ran. Do you think it would be proper for me to send him a note, asking him to call?” There was a touch of anxiety in Tibby’s tone.
“Why, certainly,” replied Alice. “We are not at all conventional here. Besides, the straightforward way is always the best, I think.”
“I hope so,” responded Tibby soberly.
“Yes, you write your note, and I will take it over to him now. Mrs. Wylie and I are going over to Lissa’s.”
“Here it is, I have written it beforehand,” Tibby returned, a flush of carmine vividly emphasizing her embarrassment. “I would rather you did not—that is—Mrs. Wylie need not know of it—at least not now,” she stammered.
“Certainly not. I’ll give it to Donald myself.” And Alice took the gingerly proffered note and slipped it into her pocket.
“It is all right, dear,” she smiled cheerily, in answer to the pathetic questioning of Tibby’s eyes, and she tripped away blithely, happy at the thought that she had made a discovery which would aid in adjusting matters to her liking.
Alice awaited her opportunity to place the missive in Donald’s hand, unobserved by any one else, and was pleased to see the start he gave as he looked at it.
Alice Cramer, like every other womanly woman, was a born matchmaker, and this evidence of contrition on the part of Tibby filled her benevolent heart with delight. This submissive, questioning air of the girl was so unlike her usual imperious manner that Alice augured much from it.
“You will go, Don?” she whispered when he again approached her.
“Yes, if you think best.” He met her eyes with an inquiring look.
Alice nodded.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Donald set out across the fields toward Mark’s home with some reluctance. He knew he had, by rescuing Tibby, put her, in a sense, under obligation to him, and he dreaded to meet her upon such a footing. He had remained away from her, resolved that until the remembrance of that struggle in the storm had become less vivid, he would never force his attentions upon her; would never annoy her with words of love.
“If she really cares for me she will be conscious of it in time, and I shall know it,” he reflected. “I will not trade upon the service I have done her. I want her love, not her gratitude.” And he set his lips firmly in the resolution not to be betrayed into a renewal of his suit until a more fitting season.
Donald found Tibby sitting dejectedly by the stove, her feet upon the fender and her dimpled chin resting upon her pink, upturned palm, while her eyes studied intently the red coals before her. This was the picture of which he caught a glimpse through the low window as he approached the door. At the sound of his footsteps she sprang up and came forward to meet him, the scarlet flame of the fire blazing in cheek and lip.
“It is so nice of you to come,” she said, giving him her hand in welcome. “You have been so shy of receiving thanks that you have remained away an age.”
“I am glad if it has seemed an age to you,” he answered, smiling. “One likes to have his absence noticed.”
“I didn’t realize how much—how very much I am indebted to you,” she began shyly.
“Don’t, please, Miss Tibby. You know there is no question of debts or credits between friends. I am thankful God gave me strength and direction to find you. It is a serious thing to battle with the elements in the West, Miss Waring.” Donald spoke gently and soberly.
“I realize it now. Can you ever forgive me for my dreadful talk that morning?” Tibby’s lip quivered slightly and she dropped her eyes.
“Why, was it dreadful? I don’t remember it to have been so.”
“And my wilfulness in going against your—advice?” she continued, resolved to finish her confession.
“Ah, that was nothing strange. One could not expect an Eastern born-and-bred maiden to be weather-wise on the prairies or realize the kind of storms we have here until she had some experience with them.”
“But she might have sense enough to take some one else’s word for it,” Tibby replied, tapping the floor with her foot.
“Ah, Miss Tibby, I’m afraid we all like to experience for ourselves. We don’t relish excitements second-hand, nor always have faith in the words of others.”
“Well,—I—hope I’m forgiven,” Tibby faltered.
“Indeed, yes, if there was anything to forgive. I didn’t think there was. In fact, I am sure there was nothing of the kind. However, it must be pleasant to exercise the divine function and have no room in one’s heart to remember a wrong. How pleasant this fire is. Nature makes recompense for all the cold and storm outside by giving us the blessing of fire.”
“Yes,” absently replied Tibby, twirling her handkerchief about her finger, and gazing before her in abstraction.
“I am afraid you are thinking, Miss Tibby,” Donald said, after an interval of silence, in which both had studied the fire.
Tibby turned and looked at him with challenging eyes.
“Would you know of what I am thinking?” she asked.
“If I might dare ask so much, yes.”
“I was wondering what one should do who has done what she regrets.”
“Undo it, if she can,” Donald replied, speaking lightly. “What is it you do when you are sewing? Pull out the wrong stitches and do it all over again, do you not?”
“I wonder if you could or would help me in the undoing.”
“Most assuredly, if I can.” Donald saw a roseate flame, deeper than that in the stove, blaze in her cheeks.
Tibby put her two hands to her forehead and shaded her eyes.
“But you don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what? I do not understand you.”
“You don’t help me.”
“But you must first tell me how.”
“O, you are bound to make me go down in the dust before you,” she said. “You will not—help me. Suppose you unravel the work, back to—to—that time—when you—asked me to be your wife,” she whispered.
“Tibby, Tibby, darling, do not jest with me!” Donald took the pink fingers in his, and the downcast eyes were uncovered save by the dark lashes. “Look at me, Tibby, and tell me—if I ask you the same question again, what will you say?”
“Yes, Donald, if you can bear to take such a wilful, good-for-nothing girl as I have been.”
“Tibby, dear, it is love I want, not gratitude. If it is because I saved your life—”
“Indeed, indeed, Donald, it is because—I—I love you, have always loved you,—ever since—”
“Since when, sweetheart?”
“Since I found you were the one man I could not control,” she whispered.