“Hurry, Eleanor. We are all waiting for you,” called Constance from the terrace, where a group of young people stood waiting for the tardy one.
It was the day following Christmas, and such a day as long dwells in one’s memory of perfect winter days; scarcely a cloud in the sky, and the air filled with a crispness which set one’s blood a-tingle. The world wore her white robes of the season, bedecked with a thousand sparkling jewels. The river was frozen nearly across, and on its glistening surface groups of skaters darted about, or pushed ice-chairs, in which were seated older or less vigorous bodies for whom skating was not.
Early in December, when the weather had turned unusually cold for the season, the river had commenced to freeze over. It had been thirty years since such heavy ice had formed, and those who recalled that time predicted that the present cold snap would hold as that one had held, and the New Year find, as it had then found, the sleighs crossing to the opposite shore.
Eleanor Carruth had returned from college three days before Christmas, to find everyone in the liveliest, gayest mood, and each moment crowded to its very limit with duties or pleasures. Christmas in Mrs. Carruth’s home had always been a day of “good will toward man” in its truest, sweetest sense. No one had time to think of self in her desire to think of others. For more than sixty years Mammy’s voice had been the first one to cry “Christmas gif’” to her children, as she went from bed to bed in the chill Christmas dawn. Try as they might in bygone years, none of the other servants on the old plantation had been able to creep up to the bedchambers before her, and now in the newer life of the Northern world, to which she had followed those she loved, she had never missed her greeting. In the dark, difficult days when resources were limited and every penny had to be so carefully expended, the Christmas gifts had been very simple little remembrances interchanged, but old Mammy had invariably managed to have some trifle for her “chillen,” and they would sooner have gone without their own than have failed to have their token of the season lying at her door on Christmas morning.
But happier days had now dawned for all, and the Christmas day just passed had been a red-letter one for the family. True, Eleanor’s resources were not yet equal to Constance’s. Eleanor’s spending money was derived from the source which, prior to her entrance in college, had caused Mammy such deep concern. Eleanor still coached a number of the less brilliant lights of the college. In this way she felt more independent of her aunt and less dependent upon Constance.
Constance protested and scolded, declaring that it was perfect nonsense for Eleanor to so burden herself, since the candy kitchen was more than equal to the demands made upon it. But Eleanor was a Carruth.
As the party stood waiting for her, Jean, keeping fast hold of Haydn’s hand and jigging up and down in her impatience to be off, Forbes talking to one of Eleanor’s friends, and the others all chatting at once, Eleanor came hurrying from the house, carrying in her hand a pair of shining skates, and carefully tucked under her arm a broom.
Haydn was the first to spy it. His eyes began to twinkle, and he quickly slipped over to Constance’s side.
“Is this a very mid-winter madness?” he asked under his breath.
Constance glanced up quickly. Her eyes instantly caught the twinkle, and darted toward Forbes, who was too deeply engaged in trying to prove to his rather skeptical listener that the soft little wraith-like clouds beginning to gather overhead meant wind, and perhaps more snow also, within twenty-four hours, to be aware of Eleanor’s unusual departure in the line of impedimenta. Neither Constance nor Hadyn intended to spoil the joke by jogging their wits, and the others who were alive to the fun preferred to see it to the end.
Eleanor hurried up to Forbes and said, as though to confirm his argument:
“Yes, it is clouding over, isn’t it? Mammy says it is going to snow and urged me to carry this umbrella. I can always trust Mammy’s ‘bones,’ she ended as she held forth the broom to the bewildered man, who looked from her face to it as though questioning her sanity.”
Then Eleanor wakened.
“Oh, why—I thought—why, how did I get this?”
“Let me relieve you of your strange burden, Eleanor. Still want an umbrella? I’ll fetch one if you say so, but you may find the broom more useful, on second thought. Let’s take it along to clear away the light snow which fell last night. Come on, people! If we expect to get up an appetite for Mammy’s luncheon at two o’clock, we’d best make a move toward the river,” cried Hadyn, leading the way with the broom shouldered like a musket, and Jean in full prance beside him.
It was a merry party which gathered upon the crystal surface of the river that morning. For many days Jack Frost had been busy, and had done his wonderful work most effectively, completing it during the previous night by a light coating of diamond-dust, which glistened and sparkled in the clear sunshine, or swirled up in fantastic spirals as the skaters whirled away through it. The boathouse at the river’s edge served as a shelter for the chilled ones, and, far-sighted woman! Mammy had sent Charles down there with a great basket of sandwiches, and a heaterful of steaming chocolate. Somehow nature had made a big mistake when she fashioned Mammy: she should have formed a man, a white man, and cast his lot among the great commerical lights of his day.
The chocolate heater had to be replenished more than once, and the manner in which the sandwiches vanished was almost miraculous.
Eleanor, Constance and Jean were as much at home upon their skates as upon the soles of their feet, and Hadyn had skated ever since he could move without assistance; but Forbes had acquired the art during a winter spent in Northern Europe, and at a date not so remote as to have lessened the novelty of the experience. He had brought with him from Holland a pair of skates of truly remarkable design, and it was upon these “ice boats,” as Hadyn instantly dubbed them, that he was now demonstrating the extraordinary agility of the Dutch skaters.
“Stand off! Make way!” cried Hadyn, as Forbes, one arm about Eleanor’s waist and the other holding her hand aloft in what he fondly believed to be a perfect imitation of the Dutch peasants’ graceful poise and motion, bore down upon the party, his long, upturned skates and still longer legs causing Eleanor to cast skittish glances in their direction as she swung along beside him.
“Great! How do you do it, old man?” asked Hadyn as Eleanor was almost hurled into his arms, Forbes’ momentum carrying him on and past them like a runaway motor-car.
“Simplest thing in the world! Be back in a second to show you how. Nothing like it! Absolutely—” but he was carried beyond his hearers, whose eyes followed his wild evolutions with more or less apprehension for “what next?” since it seemed contrary to all laws of gravitation for any human being to maintain his equilibrium very long if he took such chances.
“He has turned! He’s coming back! Now watch out, Hadyn, and learn how it’s done,” laughed Constance, as this skated “Ichabod Crane” bore down upon them, hair blown on end, arms flying, legs cutting capers legs never before had cut, and upon his face the expression of “do or die, man, for she is watching you.”
“Gee, what a swathe he cuts!” cried another man, as the light snow lying upon the ice flew from beneath the rushing skates.
“Now watch out! Clear the track! Look sharp, and you’ll all catch the knack of it without half trying. Nothing easier,” shouted the skater as he drew nearer, pride in his eyes, glory descending upon him. But alack! it’s said ’a haughty spirit goeth before a fall.’ There may have been an ice fissure. Forbes insisted there was one in which he caught his skate; but there certainly was the fall both actual and figurative. As the enthusiast came within ten feet of his spellbound audience, a pair of very long legs came up, and a very loosely-hung body came down with dispatch. The legs flew apart until the figure resembled an ice-boat under full headway, nor did its momentum perceptibly lessen as it sped past its audience, the light snow piling up in front of it and flying over its shoulders as it flies back from a snow-plow. For fully thirty feet the wild figure slid along before it lost its impetus. Then it came to a dazed stop. Only one of the audience was prepared to go to its aid; the others were entirely helpless, and were hanging upon each other’s necks—let us hope in tears of sympathy.
“Can—can I help you?” stammered Hadyn, as he bent over to raise the prone one. “You—you rather came a cropper that time, and—and—”
“Get behind me, for heaven’s sake. Do you think a man can slither along on the ice for thirty feet and—and not damage his garments? Quick, before all those people get wise. Is your long cape in the boathouse? Yes? Thanks, I’ll take it, and I don’t care a hang if you freeze;” and scrambling to his feet Forbes sped for the boathouse, and the world saw him not again that day.
Scarcely had Forbes left the party on the pond when a new member was added to it, or, at least, arrived upon the scene with a very firmly fixed intention of being added to it if he could contrive to be.
He was arrayed, from his standpoint of a proper toilet for the occasion, in a costume altogether irresistible, and which it had cost him no little time and outlay to procure.
Heavy tan shoes, a plaided Scotch tweed suit, a sweater of gorgeous red, and a sealskin cap.
With many a curve and flourish, for the man could skate, he came up to the group, and with a most impressive bow to Constance, raised the fur cap, and, standing uncovered, said:
“Good-morning, Miss Carruth. Fine sport, ain’t it? May I compliment you on your skating? You ain’t got a rival on the ice, nor off it, neither.”
For a moment Constance was at a loss to place the man, then she recalled his visit to her Candy Arch about three weeks before. It was Elijah Sniffins.
The very audacity of this move deprived her of speech for a moment, and the others with her were too amazed to come to her rescue. Indeed, they did not know the man at all, and, consequently, did not realize the extent of his presumption.
Then Constance came to herself. Looking straight into the man’s eyes, her own ominous with indignation, and her cheeks flushing with resentment, she replied:
“Haven’t you made a slight mistake, Mr. Sniffins? I believe the business matter upon which you called at the Arcade was settled then and there, for I had already made other arrangements. I hardly think there is anything more to be discussed.”
“Oh, that’s all in the sweet bygones. You needn’t think I’ve got to talk business every time we meet any mor’n you have; I just give myself a holiday once in so often just like you do, and this is one of ’em. Great day for a holiday. But, by the way, did you get a nice girl for your counter?—one that’s goin’ to have some snap to her and do a rushin’ business with all the young folks anxious to get rid of their money?”
“She is quite satisfactory, thank you, and good-morning, Mr. Sniffins.”
“Oh, I say, won’t you give me just one turn? Never see anyone could skate like you—”
“Hadyn, isn’t it about time we went home? Just one more spin, please,” and turning toward Hadyn Stuyvesant Constance held out both hands toward him. He had turned to speak to another member of the party, and until that moment had not been aware of Sniffins’ intrusion. At sight of Constance’s face his own changed, and he gave a quick glance at the man, who seemed undecided as to whether it would be wiser to accept his dismissal or persist in his unwelcome attentions. It may have been something in Hadyn’s glance which deterred him, for with another impressive bow he skated rapidly away, muttering:
“Little snob! Thinks she’s out of sight; but she ain’t any better’n others who are makin’ their pile, and I’ll learn her yet.”
“Who is he? What is the matter, little girl?” asked Hadyn, as he and Constance swung away over the ice.
“Why, it’s that odious man. I don’t know what to make of him. This is the second time he has forced himself upon me, and why he does so is more than I can fathom. He is the Fire Insurance Agent down in State Street; and the only time we have ever had any intercourse whatsoever with him was when the house burned. But I did not see him even then. Mother or Mammy were the only ones who had any dealings with him at that time, though once later, when the Candy Booth in the Arcade caught fire, he did speak to me, now I remember, though I had quite forgotten it. What in this world can the man want? I declare he half frightens me, he is so audacious.”
She then told Hadyn of Sniffins’ visit to the Arcade. He listened attentively, seeing far more in it than the girl beside him guessed, but taking care not to let her know.
“And you did not engage his sister, after all?” he inquired.
“No; I have a Katherine Boggs doing duty there. She’s a quiet, nice little thing, and not likely to do the ’rushin’ business with all the young fools,’ which this idiot seems to think a requisite qualification. Ugh! How I loathe the very sight of that man! It’s mighty lucky I did not engage his sister, isn’t it? He would have used her as a wedge to force his presence upon me, though why on earth he wishes to is more than I can understand.”
The face she turned up to Hadyn’s was the very personification of sweetness and modesty.
He looked at her, a slight color creeping into his own and a light filling his eyes, which for the first time since she had known him sent an odd little thrill to the girl’s heart, which caused it to beat a trifle quicker, and her eyes to fall before his. It was all over in a moment, and all he said was:
“Keep your modesty, little girl. It is a valuable asset to womanhood. And now we must get back home, or the little Mother and Mammy will get after us.”
January and February, blustery, wild months, crept slowly away, and March, still more blustery, came in. The cold and dampness told upon poor old Charles, and more than one day found him a fast prisoner in the “baid,” which, in spite of Mammy’s conviction “dat it fair hit de sore spots,” frequently failed to find Charles’, and only served to smother his groans. Then one day, when, in spite of his spouse’s protests, he insisted upon going to the Arcade in a driving snowstorm, the climax was reached, and when Charles reached his little cabin at nightfall he was “cl’ar beat out an’ ready fer ter drap,” as Mammy told Mrs. Carruth. The next day he was downright ill, and a physician had to be summoned.
“Seem lak, seem lak de very ol’ boy hisself done got inter dat man,” scolded Mammy, her wrath the outcome of nervous irritation, for Charles was the pride and the love of her life. “No matter how I is ter argify wid him, he just natcherly boun’ ter go ’long ter dat Arcyde yistiddy, an’ now see what done come of it! Gawd bress ma soul, I reckons I’d smack him good ef he warn’t lyin’ dar groanin’ so wid his misery dat he lak ’nough wouldn’t feel de smacks I give him. Tch! tch!” and Mammy shook her head ominously.
“Poor Charles! I’ll go right out to the cabin, Mammy, and sit with him while you look after your cooking; it’s too bad, too bad; but I think he will soon be about again.”
“Yes, an’ ef yo’ goes out in dis hyar blizzardy weather I’ll have two sick folks on my han’s ’stid o’ one. Now, see here, Miss Jinny, yo’ min’ me an’ stay indoors! Yo’ hear me?”
“Nonsense, Mammy. Do you think I shall take cold by walking from here to your cabin? How foolish,” protested Mrs. Carruth. “Your luncheon counter cannot be neglected, and with but one pair of hands how can you do your cooking and nurse Charles, too?”
As she spoke Mrs. Carruth tied a scarf over her head and wrapped a long, heavy cloak about her, Mammy never for a second ceasing to protest.
“Now come, Mammy,” she said, leading the way to the back door, Mammy following and scolding every step of the way. As they opened the door leading to the back porch they were assailed by a gust of wind and a whirl of snow which blinded them, and at the same time nearly carried them off their feet.
“Mighty man! Go ’long back, Miss Jinny’ Go back! Dis hyar ain’t no fittin’ place fer yo’, I tells yo’,” gasped Mammy, turning to bar Mrs. Carruth’s progress, for even Mammy’s weight was as a straw against the gale which swept around the corner of the porch. But slight as she was, Mrs. Carruth was not to be overborne. For a moment she laid hold of the porch railing to steady herself, then with a firm hold upon her flapping cloak braced herself against the wind, and started for the cottage. Mammy was for once silenced, simply because the words were swept from her lips as soon as she tried to form them.
Earlier in the morning an attempt had been made to clear a path to the cottage; but in such a wild, howling blizzard a half hour was more than enough to set man’s work at naught, and Mrs. Carruth and Mammy had to flounder through the snowdrifts as best they could, and were breathless when they reached the bottom of the garden.
“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, come unner de lee ob de house ’fore yo’ is blown daid unner ma eyes, honey,” panted Mammy. “Oh, why for is we ever come ter sech a place fer ter live! We all gwine be froz daid ’fore we kin draw our brefs. Come in de house, Miss Jinny, come in,” and, half dragging, half carrying her mistress, Mammy led her into the cabin where the little darkey, Mammy’s handmaiden, stood with her eyes nearly popping out of her head with fright, for she had been watching them from the safe shelter of the kitchen.
Mrs. Carruth dropped upon a chair well-nigh exhausted, for even though the cabin was barely two hundred feet from the house, it had required all the strength she could summon to battle her way to it in the force and smother of the blizzard.
“Why—why, I’d no idea it was so terrible,” she panted. “I’ve never known such a storm.”
“Ain’t I tell yo’ so? Ain’t I tell yo’ not ter come out in it? An’ how I is ter git yo’ back ter de house is mo’n I kin tell,” deplored Mammy, as she hastily divested herself of her own wrappings and then turned to remove her mistress’.
“Yo’ foots is soppin’, soakin’ wet. Yo’ mought as well not ’a’ had no rubbers on ’em, fer yo’ is wet ter de knees. Hyer, you no ’count Mirandy, get me some hot water, an’ den hike upstairs fo’ de bottle ob alcohol, yo’ hyer me!” stormed Mammy, relieved to find someone to vent her irritation upon. “An’ yo’ ain’t gwine back ter dat house whilst dis storm is ragin’, let me tell yo’.”
“I am all right, Mammy; this is mere folly. I shall be as dry as a bone in just a few minutes,” protested Mrs. Carruth.
“Yis! Yis! An’ lak enough chilled to de bone, too. Now, yo’ min’ what I tells you,” and, in spite of their protests, Mrs. Carruth was presently rubbed and warmed into dry garments and comfort. It was well Constance’s Candy Kitchen communicated with Mammy’s quarters, and that a supply of clothing was always kept in it. It was deserted this morning, for Mary and Fanny had gone home on the previous, Saturday afternoon, and the storm had made it impossible for them to return. A large supply of candy had been sent to the Arcade on Saturday morning; so even if customers were courageous enough to face the blizzard in quest of sweets there would be no lack of of sweets to please the sweet tooth, and Constance was glad of the respite the storm gave her, for, like many another busy little business woman, she found many things to attend to in the house when she could steal the time from her regular duties.
This morning she was busy with a dozen little odd bits of work, while Jean, school impossible in such weather, was lost to all the outer world in a new book.
When Mrs. Carruth was made comfortable she went upstairs to Charles. She found him in a sorry plight, and saw at once that poor old Charles was in a more serious condition than Mammy realized, troubled as she was about him; but this was carefully concealed from the old woman.
“We have both to take our scolding now,” she said as she seated herself near him. “Mammy will never forgive either of us for disobeying her, Charles. But what can I do for you?”
Charles was too stiff and full of pain to move, but he tried to smile bravely as he answered:
“Reckons we’d better a-minded her, Honey. Reckons we had. She’s a mighty pert ’oman, she is, an’ when she say do, we better do, an’ when she say don’t, we better don’t, dat’s suah. An’ jes’ look at me! Hyar I layin’ lak I tied han’ an’ foot, an’ de bis’ness down yonder gwine ter rack an’ ruin, lak ’nough, wid dat no ’count boy a-runnin’ it. And Charles groaned in tribulation of spirit.
“Wait a moment; I’ll see that all goes well down there,” answered Mrs. Carruth, soothingly, and slipping away from the room she went into the deserted Bee-hive to ’phone to the Arcade. After considerable delay she got Mr. Porter and told him the situation. He was all interest, and begged her to tell Charles that if necessary he himself would mount guard over the luncheon counter. She next called Hadyn, and asked him to let her know how all went at the candy booth. He assured her that all was well, but that business did not seem to be flourishing.
“Will you please tell Miss Boggs to close it for the day and to go home at once, Hadyn? The storm grows worse every moment, I believe, and if she remains there any longer she may not be able to get home.”
“I’ll tell her, and I’ll see that she gets home, too. Don’t worry, little mother. I’ll be down a little later to see how you all fare.”
“Oh, no! No! Don’t try to come. We are all right, and you must not try to drive here in this awful storm. Promise me that you won’t, Hadyn.”
“Can’t make rash promises, and Comet has breasted even worse storms than this,” was the laughing answer. “Who is looking after your furnace, now that Charles is down and out?”
“Mr. Henry’s man. He was here this morning, and will be back this evening. We lack nothing, and we don’t want you under any circumstances. Please, say you won’t try to come.”
“Not unless——” Then there was a whirr and one or two disconnected words and the connection broke short off. No wires could long withstand the weight of ice and snow and the force of wind wrenching at them. Mrs. Carruth tried again and again to get the connection, but all to no purpose, and with a strange apprehension in her heart she returned to Charles’ bedside to reassure him regarding his luncheon counter.
At noon the doctor called to see Charles, and during Mammy’s absence from the room Mrs. Carruth contrived to have a word with him.
“He’s a pretty old man, and took big chances yesterday. If it were only the rheumatism I had to contend with, I should not feel the least concern for him. That is painful, I know, but not dangerous, as it has settled in his limbs; but I don’t like this temperature and breathing. Yet I dare say, if I use a stethoscope, he will think he is a dead man already. These colored people are difficult patients to handle, what with their ignorance and their emotional temperaments they are far worse than children, for we can compel children to do as we think best.”
Mrs. Carruth smiled. “You do not know the ante-bellum negro,” she said.
“Maybe I do not, but I know the post-bellum, I can tell you, and I’ve very little use for them.”
“Do you wish to examine Charles?” she asked, quietly.
“If he had been a white man, I should have done so last night when I was first called to attend him; but I came near being mobbed the last time I tried to use a stethoscope on a negro patient. The family thought I was about to remove the woman’s lungs, I believe.”
“Charles, I wish Dr. Black to examine you very thoroughly while he is here—as thoroughly as if he were treating me. There is nothing to alarm you; but we cannot treat you understandingly unless he learns exactly where the greatest difficulty lies.”
“Wha’ he gwine do to me?” asked Charles, his eyes opening wide.
“Examine your lungs and heart to see if they are sound and strong.”
“He gwine cut me wide open?” cried the old man.
Just then Mammy entered. It was well she did. “Luty, Luty, dat man gwine projec’ wid me, honey; don’ you let him.”
For a moment Mammy seemed ready to take the defensive, and Dr. Black shrugged his shoulders in a manner which indicated: “I told you so.” Perhaps it was the shrug—Mammy wasn’t slow to grasp a situation—but more likely it was the look in her Miss Jinny’s eyes, for, turning to the doctor, she said, with the air of an African queen:
“Yo’ is de perfessional ’tendant, an’ I wishes yo’ fer ter do what yo’ an’ ma Miss Jinny knows fer ter be right wid de patient.”
When Dr. Black left a few moments later, he said to Mrs. Carruth, who had followed him downstairs, while Mammy remained behind to alternately berate and calm Charles:
“If we can keep the fever down, the old fellow may escape with nothing worse than his rheumatic twinges—hard to bear, but not alarming; but I don’t like the other symptoms. He was too old to take such chances. Can you let me hear from him about eight this evening?”
“Every hour if necessary. He is like one of our own family to us, and nothing we can do for him or Mammy can ever repay their devotion to us. Would it not be better for you to call again?”
“I’d gladly do so, but I am likely to be summoned to a patient in Glendale at any moment, and with this storm——” And the doctor waved his hand toward the turmoil beyond the windows.
“I know it. I will ’phone if——” Then Mrs. Carruth paused in dismay. “What if the wires were down?”
“My wire was all right when I left home less than an hour since, and you may not need me, after all. I hope you will not.”
“Amen to that hope,” said Mrs. Carruth, fervently, and, bidding the doctor good-bye, she returned to Charles.
As the day dragged on the storm increased in violence. Mammy would not hear of Mrs. Carruth returning to the house, but prepared a dainty tray for her and ordered her into the Bee-hive to partake of her luncheon, and afterward to lie down. Perhaps she would not have been so ready to comply with the old woman’s wishes had she not resolved upon a course which she felt sure Mammy would combat with all her strength. This was to spend the night with Charles, whose condition did not improve. Toward evening Jean came battling out to the cottage, followed by Constance, greatly to Mammy’s consternation.
“I ’clar’s ter goodness, yo’s all gone crazy!” she stormed as they came in from the Bee-hive. “Fo’ de Lawd’s sake, wha’ brung you chillun out hyer? Ain’ yo’ Ma an’ me got ’nough fer ter pester us wid dat sick man up dar widout any mo’ tribberlations ’scendin’ ’pon us? Go ’long back, I tells yo’; ’fo’ we’s driven cl’ar crazy.”
“Hush, Mammy, dear,” said Constance. “I want mother to go back to the house and let me take her place with Charles. I am so strong that it won’t tire me, and you know I’m a good nurse, don’t you?”
“And so am I, Mammy. You know I am,” broke in Jean. “Please, please let me stay.”
For a moment Mammy looked as though she were about to take a wild flight into the wilder weather outside, and her wits along with her; then she stamped her foot and said:
“Yo’ chillern come an’ talk wid yo’ ma.”
“No, dear. I shall not wear myself out,” said Mrs. Carruth, gently, though firmly. “I want you to go back to the house to look after the maids and Jean——”
“Oh, I don’t want to go back! Please, please let me sleep in the Bee-hive, mother. Please, please do,” begged Jean, clasping her arms about her mother’s waist. Constance interrupted:
“Yes, mother, do. I will go back if you are determined not to, for I dare say the maids would be panic-stricken if left alone; but Jean might just as well remain here with you,” for into Constance’s active brain had sprung an idea which she wished to carry out, and she knew she could count upon Jean’s co-operation.
“But you and the maids would be quite alone in the house,” demurred Mrs. Carruth.
“And do you think Jean would be big and valiant enough to protect me from prowlers?” smiled Constance. “It would be a hard-pressed burglar who would venture forth this night, I’m thinking.”
Just then a sound overhead caused Mrs. Carruth to raise her hand to enjoin silence, and Mammy was heard to say soothingly:
“Dar, dar, honey, jis’ let me raise an’ ease yo’ up a leetle, so’s yo’ hits de sof’est fedders in de baid,” and quickly upon the softer, more soothing tones followed: “Yit what in de name o’ man ever done teken yo’ out of dis house yistiddy’s mo’n I can tell. Ef yo’d done taken heed ter ma’ wo’ds yo’ wouldn’ never come ter dis hyer pass.”
Then followed a series of groans from the patient.
“Mammy is getting worn out and consequently irritable,” said Mrs. Carruth. “Yes, you may remain, Jean, but Constance must go back, and I must go to Charles. If Mammy has much more to tax her strength and mind she will be ill, and she is in no mood to care for Charles now; she will do more harm than good. Good-night, darling. Don’t worry about me I will ’phone over to the house if I need anything in the night.” And Mrs. Carruth hurried upstairs.
“Come into the Bee-hive, Jean,” whispered Constance. The little girl followed.
“Now, dear,” said Constance, earnestly, “you and I have got to take matters into our own hands. Can I trust you, Jean?” Constance dropped upon a chair, and placing both arms about the little sister looked straight into her eyes.
The look was returned as steadfastly, and the fine little head poised in a manner which would have delighted an artist’s soul, as Jean asked:
“Don’t you know you can, Connie?”
“Yes, I do! And here is the situation: Before we came over here I tried to ’phone over to mother, but even our wire is out of order. I dare say every wire is, and that the trouble is in the central office, owing to this storm. I did not tell mother because it would only alarm her, and she may not have occasion to use the ’phone at all; I earnestly hope she will not until it is repaired. I shall go home, but I shall not go to bed. You stay here in the Bee-hive, but don’t undress, Jean; roll this warm rug around you and cuddle down on the couch. I know you will drop asleep, but I know you will not sleep so soundly that you will be lost to the world altogether. I shall be on the couch in the library and can see this window from there. If Charles grows worse, or you think mother is worn out and needs me, will you flash the electric light three times? I shall know what it means and come straight over.” Constance spoke very quietly, but very earnestly.
“I’ll do it. I may go to sleep, but somehow I know I shall wake up if I am needed, Connie. Even if I am only fourteen years old I can be a little woman, as mother so often says I am.”
“I know you can, dear, and you are, Jean; even if in many ways you are younger than most girls of your age. I don’t think any of us have grown up quite so fast as the girls around us. Mother says we have not, and she does not wish us to, because there are so many more years in which we must be old than in which we can be young; but I reckon we can rise to a situation when occasion demands, and, somehow, I feel that we will both be needed to-night. Dear old Charles, he is pretty sick, I know, or mother would not look so anxious, and such a night as this is. Why, Jean, we could not get a message to Dr. Black however badly we might need him. We must depend entirely upon ourselves.”
“I wonder Champion did not come over.”
“He ’phoned mother this morning, but before she got all his message the connection broke, and, I dare say, the roads have been almost impassable.”
“Impassable roads would never keep him from coming,” cried the “Champion’s” champion. “There must have been something worse than the roads. I don’t know what, but I know it was something,” insisted Jean.
“Yes, I am sure there must have been, he is always so thoughtful for us,” replied Constance, a soft light springing into her eyes as she recalled Hadyn’s unvarying kindness from the first moment she knew him. “Now, good-night, honey. I hope you won’t need me at all, but I know you will be on the lookout if you do.”
A moment later Constance was struggling back to the house through the blinding storm and snowdrifts. As she entered the back door the front one opened to admit a snow-covered, panting figure, and Hadyn confronted her.
“Great Scott! Where have you come from?” he demanded.
“I might ask the same question,” panted Constance, divesting herself of her cloak, and shaking it to free it from the snow which covered it. “Get out of your coat, quick, and give it to Lilly to hang in the kitchen until it is dry. What under the sun possessed you to try to come here to-night, you madman?”
“Under the sun? Nay, lady, neither sun nor moon. I fear you are wandering. Is it a case of blizzard-madness?” answered Hadyn, as he slipped off his big ulster and cap and gave them to the maid.
“Now, come along in here and tell me all the little mother couldn’t tell me. Where is she, and where is my little sister?”
“Lilly, please bring some more logs for the library fire. Come in here, Hadyn, and I’ll tell you all about it. Mother and Jean are over With Charles and Mammy, and I’m here to mount guard over the house and maids, who, luckily, are storm-bound.”
“But why on earth aren’t you all here? The little mother and Jean have no business to be anywhere else on such a villainous night. Let me go right over after them,” and Hadyn turned toward the door.
“Stop! Wait! Listen to me!”
“Oh, of course, Mademoiselle la General,” laughed Hadyn, as Constance laid a detaining hand upon his arm. “I’m listening.”
“Then sit down to do it and hear the whole story. When you really know all about it you can help me; but you might as well whistle to the wind out yonder as to hope to get mother back here to-night. Yes, Lilly, put the logs in the basket, and you and Rose please stay in the kitchen until eleven. I will be out to speak to you when Mr. Stuyvesant goes.”
“When he does,” said Hadyn, under his breath, then louder: “It must be rather satisfying to have such a flower-garden right indoors when it is whooping things up so outside,” and he nodded toward the maid just leaving the room. “If you could only have a ‘Violet’ and a ‘Pansy,’ and one or two other blossoms, you’d have a whole greenhouse.”
Constance laughed outright as she answered:
“We’ve had wood nymphs, and some of the months—May and June, for instance—and several jewels, to say nothing of a few royalties, so nothing will surprise us now; but Mammy seems equal to all of them put together. And apropos of Mammy, let me tell you all about her and Charles.”
They sat down before the blazing logs while Constance told of the experiences of the past twenty-four hours. Hadyn listened with a troubled face.
“I’d no idea it was so serious,” he said, when she finished, “but I am mighty glad I came over to-night. And now you are to heed what I say: you may sit here with me until eleven if you will. I’ll be right glad of your company. Then you are going upstairs to bed—yes, you are, too. Now, it is no use ‘argifyin’,’ to quote Mammy. I’ll stay here in the library snug, warm, and as comfortable as any man could wish to be. I shall see Jean’s light if she signals, and I’ll be good—yes, honest I will. You doubt it, I know, and you think I will sneak over yonder and be more bother than I am worth; but I give you my word I won’t. I’ll do exactly as you would do if you were here alone.”
Constance raised her eyes to his, and little guessed how hard it was for the man who looked into their pure, trustful depths to refrain from holding out his arms to the girl who had grown so dear to him during the past three and a half years.
“I’ll take you at your word,” she answered.
“Good. Now sit down and toast your toes before this blaze. By Jove, is there anything like blazing logs and soft lamplight? They spell h-o-m-e, don’t they?” and Hadyn glanced around the cosy room as though to him, at least, it held the sweetest elements of home a man could ask for.
Softly the little clock ticked the moments and hours away as they sat there together, talking over a hundred little happenings of the past years, now and then glancing over to the Bee-hive. But all was quiet. A dim light shone in Mammy’s bedroom, and in the Bee-hive Jean’s shaded electric light cast a faint halo upon the snow which continued to whirl by the window, although the wind had died down a little and the storm seemed less violent. Shortly after ten Constance went out to the kitchen to see that the storm-bound maids were comfortable. Cots had been placed in the laundry for them, and they were probably far better off than they would have been in their own home.
“Now, are you sure you will be comfortable?” she asked Hadyn when she returned to the library. He glanced about the room, at the cheerful fire and the divan, with its numberless pillows, and smiled significantly. “Only trouble is, I may be too comfortable,” he said. “But you need not worry,” as a slight shade of doubt crossed Constance’s face. “I won’t go to the Land o’ Nod. But you must, so good-night, little girl. Go on upstairs and sleep well. I know just what that room looks like; I shall never forget the night you gave it up to me. If I had known it a little sooner, I should not have let you do so, although the memory of it has been one of the sweetest ones of my life. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Hadyn, and—thank you a thousand times.”
If Haydn held the slender fingers an extra moment, and looked earnestly into the beautiful eyes raised to his, he was hardly to be blamed.
Turning to the book shelves, he selected a book and went back to his chair before the fire. Eleven and twelve were struck by the clock on the mantle shelf, but all was quiet in the little cottage at the foot of the garden. Then came three single strokes in succession; twelve-thirty, one, one-thirty. Hadyn remembered no more. His wild struggle through the storm earlier in the evening, the silent house, the warmth, the luxurious depth of the Morris chair had all conspired against his resolutions, and three o’clock was striking when he started wide awake with a sense of calamity at hand and the deepest contrition in his heart—an hour and a half blotted out as though they had never been!
As the night wore on, Mrs. Carruth and Mammy grew more and more anxious for their patient. The severe weather told upon him in spite of the even temperature of the cottage, and he suffered as a man upon the rack. With the intense pain came higher temperature, and by one o’clock Mrs. Carruth began to see that further medical advice was imperative; something more than they could do must be done for Charles, for he could not endure such torture for many more hours. Furthermore, his breathing had become very labored, and Mrs. Carruth feared the worst from that symptom. Without saying anything to Mammy she slipped noiselessly into the Bee-hive, meaning to ’phone to Dr. Black. In that little sanctum all was snug and quiet. Noiselessly removing the receiver, she tried to call up central. There was no response, and a shadow fell across her face. Then she tried her own home, but without result; the storm had completely disorganized the entire service. She was sorely troubled and about to slip back to Charles, when Jean’s face appeared at the top of the stairway, and she called softly:
“Mother, is Charles worse?”
“Why, dearie! What are you doing out of your bed at this hour?”
“Don’t scold me, Mumsey, I haven’t been in it, only lying on the outside, ’cause I thought you might need me; do you?”
“No, honey, certainly not. You must undress at once and get into bed.”
“But, mother, is Charles worse? If he isn’t please let me go and sit with Mammy while you come in here and go to bed; you have been up all night. If he isn’t worse you can be spared, and I’ll be all the help Mammy needs. If he is worse you need me, anyway. I’ve had a long rest, and been asleep, too, though I tried hard not to.”
As she talked, Jean tiptoed down the stairs, and, coming close to her mother, slipped her arms about her waist and nestled her head against her shoulder. The past three months had made a great change in Jean. For a long time it seemed as though she never meant to grow another inch, for at thirteen she was no taller than a child of eleven, although plump and strong beyond the average child. Then she suddenly took a start and shot up, up, up, until now she was fully as tall as Constance, but slight and pliable as a willow wand.
Mrs. Carruth laid her arms caressingly about her shoulders, and rested her cheek against the wonderful hair: hair of the deepest, richest bronze, and soft and wavy to a degree.
“My little woman,” she said, very tenderly.
“If I truly am, then let me do a little woman’s part. You are tired and terribly worried about Charles. Let me come in and help.”
“There is so little we can do, Jean. We have done practically all we know how to do, and Dr. Black asked me to ’phone if there seemed to be any pronounced change. I haven’t said anything to Mammy, because I do not want to alarm her more than I must; but I would give anything to communicate with him, and the wires are down.”
“Yes, I know they are; Connie told me so before she went home, and that was one reason she wanted me to stay here: she was afraid you would need help during the night and be unable to get it.”
Mrs. Carruth was about to reply, when Mammy’s frightened face appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, Mammy! What is it?”
Poor old Mammy! One of the child-race, she was pitifully at a loss in the face of such a situation as the present crisis. Had it been any of her white folks she would have been efficient to the last degree, carrying out the precepts of “ole Miss,” who “raised” her, remembering with marvellous accuracy each detail of that ante-bellum training, and performing each with a patience and tenderness incomprehensible to those who have never known the heart-service rendered by those old-time servitors. But, strange anomaly, though a characteristic so very marked in her race, Mammy was utterly helpless when it came to taking the initiative for Charles or herself in sickness. Then she turned to her “white folks,” and if her Miss Jinny had bidden her drink strychnine, or give it to Charles, she would have obeyed her unquestionably. Strange people that they are!
“Please, come quick, Miss Jinny! I’se powerful trebbled. Charles he sought o’ wanderin’ in his min’ and talkin’ a heap o’ foolishness.”
Without a word Mrs. Carruth hurried from the Bee-hive in Mammy’s wake, Jean, unnoticed, close behind her. As she entered the room Charles was sitting upright, talking wildly and gesticulating to some imaginary person at the foot of his bed. Mammy, true to her instincts, flung her apron over her head, and, dropping upon her knees in the middle of the floor, cried:
“He sees de hants! He sees de hants! His hours done numbered!” and followed it up with earnest petitions for Charles’ life. Mrs. Carruth knew colored people too well to waste time in expostulations. She knew that the only way to bring Mammy back to her senses was to set about doing for Charles the things which Mammy, in a more rational frame of mind, would have done herself. Hurrying to his bedside, she said to the semi-delirious old man:
“Why, Charles, did you miss me when I went to speak to Miss Jean? It is Jean you wish to see, isn’t it? Well, here she is right at the foot of the bed, but you can talk to her quite as well when you are lying down. There, that is better,” as Charles, in obedience to her gentle easing down, let her lay him back among his pillows. Mammy caught sight of the act, and it recalled her to her senses quicker than a whip lash could have done. Springing to her feet, she hurried to the bedside, and taking her mistress by both hands forced her into the chair near at hand, exclaiming under her breath:
“Bress Gawd, baby! wha’, wha’ yo’ mean by liftin’ dat heavy man?”
Mrs. Carruth had not misjudged, but she was none the less concerned for Charles who continued to ramble on to Jean, who stood at the foot of the bed. A distant clock struck one-thirty. Mammy was doing all she could to quiet Charles, while Mrs. Carruth slipped into the adjoining room to prepare some medicine for him. Jean chose that moment to hurry back to the Bee-hive. A moment later the electric drop light was flashing its message across the snow-bound garden to the darkened house beyond. There was no response. Again and again Jean turned the switch, flashing out across the snow the bright light from the Tungsten bulb, and watching eagerly for some response, but the house remained perfectly dark; and at length, in despair, she gave up signalling and went swiftly back to Mammy’s side of the cottage. Creeping softly up to the bedroom she looked in. Her mother was too much occupied with Charles to notice her return, and Mammy was placing hot water bags at the old man’s feet. From the anxious look upon her mother’s face, Jean knew that she was seriously alarmed for Charles, who was trembling and quivering with a sudden chill. Without a word she turned and sped back to the Bee-hive. Five minutes later she opened the door and slipped out into the night. The storm had nearly ceased, but the clouds, driven by a wild, bleak wind, were still scudding across the sky. There was no moon, and it would have been a brave star which dared send its cheerful gleam through that cloud rack. Upon the ground the snow lay in deep wind-driven banks, in some places higher than Jean’s head. All the world was dark, silent, awesome. Jean never paused. She had formed her plans upon the instant, and was acting upon them as promptly. A hundred feet from the cottage old Baltie’s stable loomed in the darkness, the snow upon the eastern side of it banked high as the little window over his stall. Luckily the doors were upon the southern, more protected side of the building; and after struggling and wallowing through the snow until she was nearly breathless, Jean reached them. Pausing a moment to recover her breath, she inserted the key in the lock and opened the smaller door. She was instantly greeted by a soft nicker. Baltie never slept when the footfalls, however light, of those he loved drew near.
“Baltie, Baltie, dear,” cried Jean, softly, running to the box and opening the door, switching on the light as she ran. But neither light nor darkness meant anything to Baltie. His sensitive ears bounded his world of darkness, and love did the rest. His head was in Jean’s arms in a moment.
“Can you do it, dear? Can you do it for Charles and Mammy? I wouldn’t ask you to if I could go alone, but you are bigger and stronger than I am, Baltie, even if you are so old. Can you take me to Dr. Black’s through this deep snow? It isn’t so very far, Baltie, and we’ll be careful. Can you, Baltie? We must have him, for Charles is so sick.”
For answer the horse nestled closer to the girl, and nickered repeatedly.
“I know you mean ‘yes,’ dear. I know you do. I’ll be careful, Baltie. I’ll cover you up all warm and snug.”
As she talked, Jean threw over Baltie’s head the head and neck blanket, which Charles had insisted must be part of the old horse’s impedimenta during the severe winter months. Deftly pushing his ears into the ear coverings, she drew the hood over his head, his soft eyes shining upon her like two moons from the circular openings, and buttoned it around his throat. An extra blanket was quickly added, and then the old saddle was strapped on. Leading Baltie to the door, Jean switched off the electric light, gave one lithe little spring and landed across the saddle. It had not taken her long to shift from her ordinary clothing into Constance’s divided riding skirt up there in the Bee-hive, or to add the heavy outer garments the inclement weather made necessary.
“Now, Baltie, we must go, we must, dear. Please, please do your best for Charles and Mammy, they have been so good to you.”
As though he understood every word spoken to him, the horse bent to the driving wind and plunged into the unbroken road. Dr. Black’s home was less than a mile from Mrs. Carruth’s, and ordinarily Jean could have walked it in less than fifteen minutes, or run it in ten, and had often done so; but all walks and roadways were now completely obliterated. She must trust to her sense of direction and to Baltie’s wonderful instinct.
On plodded the good old creature, breaking into a light lope where the wind had swept the street comparatively free of snow, wallowing, pounding, pawing into the drifts where they barred his progress, snorting his protest, not at Jean, but at the elements, though never pausing in his efforts, which made him breathe hard, and more than once slow up for his second wind.
Jean had ridden from her earliest childhood, and had a man’s seat in the saddle. Now she leaned forward, her arms clasped about the great, heaving neck, the while speaking encouraging words into the ears laid back to catch her voice. As they drew near the more thickly settled portion of Riveredge, the blank, dense silence in which it lay impressed her strongly. During the first half mile the electric lights at measured intervals cast their fantastic gleam and shadows upon the snow. In this section they were numerous and brought into stronger relief the ghostly houses. Far off some shivering dog howled dismally, and instantly Jean thought of old Mammy’s superstitions, and her convictions “dat ef he howl two times an’ stop, it sure is fer a man ter die.” This dog had howled “two times.” Jean was not superstitious, but she was the child of southern-born parents, and had been “raised” by a very typical southern “Mammy.” Tradition is very hard to overcome. She shivered, but not from the biting cold, though her feet were numb from it.
Not a human being was in sight as she turned into the street upon which Dr. Black’s house stood five blocks further down. They might almost as well have been fifty, for the street was narrower than most of the others, and running north and south had caught the full brunt of the northeaster. More than one piazza and front door was banked nearly to the piazza roof, and the street itself practically impassable.
Baltie had come bravely thus far, but such a white mountain as now lay before him was enough to daunt a young horse, much less an old blind one. He stopped, his flanks heaving, his head drooping. Jean was almost ready to give up in despair, for the cold had chilled her to the bone, and feet and hands were almost without sensation.
“Oh, Baltie, Baltie, my dear old horse, can’t you go a little further? Can’t you, dear? Please, please try just once more. It’s only a very little way now; only such a little way! I can see the light in front of Dr. Black’s door. I’d get off your back and walk, or try to, if I didn’t know that I couldn’t go five steps. Come, Baltie, please try just once more.”
Perhaps it was Jean’s pleading, perhaps Baltie’s wind had returned; at all events, he raised his head, gave a wild snort, a mad plunge, and, after a desperate struggle, floundered up to Dr. Black’s gate. The house was barely twenty feet from it, but the snow was up to Jean’s waist.
She never knew how she forced her way through it, or reached the electric button. She only knew she must do it somehow. When, in response to its prolonged jingling by his bedside, Dr. Black came back to this world of real things from the world of dreams, into which a long, hard day of work and exposure had carried him, and making a hurried toilet hastened down to the door, he found a huddled heap upon the doormat, and saw in the drifts beyond a quivering, panting horse.
In two minutes the whole household was astir, kind Mrs. Black had Jean up in her bedroom, the doctor administering restoratives, the doctor’s man had led Baltie around to the stable and was caring for him with all possible despatch.
“Look after her, Polly, and don’t let her leave that bed until I say she may. I must be off to Mrs. Carruth’s. I don’t believe she even knows this child is here. It’s all the result of this confounded storm and the wires being down. Such a blizzard as this hasn’t struck Riveredge in thirty years.”
It did not take Dr. Black as long to reach Mrs. Carruth’s home as it had taken Jean to reach his, and when he arrived he found a distracted household. Hadyn had rushed over to the Bee-hive to find Jean vanished, Mrs. Carruth entirely absorbed with Charles, who was in a very critical condition, and Mammy nearly beside herself. As Hadyn, in spite of Mrs. Carruth’s protests, insisted upon going after Dr. Black, he was confronted by that gentleman at the very door.
That storm of March, 19—, claimed many a victim. More than one was frozen to death, many died from the exposure, and many more were invalids for months as the result of it. All that terrible night Dr. Black worked over old Charles, with Mammy and Hadyn to aid him, and Constance to vibrate between the house and the cottage, for with the first peep of dawn Mr. Henry’s man came over to dig out the snow-bound family and make a path from house to cottage. Mrs. Carruth, upon learning of Jean’s desperate rush for Dr. Black and her collapse at his doorstep, started instantly for his home. Charles could claim a great deal from her, but the claim of her own was far greater, and Dr. Black’s sleigh and powerful horse carried her to Jean as quickly as the great snowdrifts permitted.
But Jean was really none the worse for her mad ride once she was warmed and had partaken of Mrs. Black’s cup of steaming hot chocolate. She was as strong and pliable as a hickory sapling, which, the storm having passed over it, springs erect and is as vigorous as ever. Mrs. Black soon reassured Mrs. Carruth, and at length had the satisfaction of seeing them both fast asleep in her guest room, Mrs. Carruth’s arm, even in her sleep, laid caressingly and protectingly across Jean’s shoulder. Both were worn out, and noon had struck before they wakened to reproach themselves for their long rest and to make inquiry for Charles. Dr. Black had just returned, and reported a decided improvement in the old man.
“And Baltie—dear old Baltie?” demanded Jean.
“Baltie is sure enough in clover, little girl,” answered the good doctor. “Dried clover, and last summer’s clover, to be sure, but none the less clover, for Dick has nearly buried him in it, and the old fellow seems none the worse for his struggle through snowdrifts. But you are both trumps—the queen of hearts and the king, by George! I don’t know how you did it!”
“We had to do it. There wasn’t anyone else to.”
Dr. Black took the earnest face in both his hands, and, looking into the hazel eyes, said:
“It is a pity a few more are not convinced of that ‘we had to.’”
Then he drove his guests back to their home. It was agreed that Baltie should not be taken out of Dr. Black’s stable until the weather moderated.
A week passed. Charles was out of danger, but still required the closest attention, and Constance insisted upon a nurse from Memorial Hospital. Mammy protested, but her protests were of no avail. Constance saw very quickly that weeks of careful nursing lay ahead, and she would not permit her mother to overtax her strength. Mammy must attend to her cooking and the luncheon counter, now that Charles could not. Constance had her own hands full with her candy kitchen, for, even with Mary and Fanny Willing to assist her, she had all she could do to keep abreast of her orders. So the nurse took command in Mammy’s bedroom, and Mammy had to yield.
Perhaps no one felt the situation half as keenly as Hadyn did. That he had dozed off in that hour and a half in which so much occurred filled him with a remorse he could not overcome. He had been left at a post of duty at a critical hour, and he had failed ignominiously. He would not admit any extenuating circumstances, for he sincerely felt that there were none. If others had kept awake when it was imperative to keep awake, why had he not done so? If little Jean had been able to do so, and when he had failed her had undertaken such a ride, undaunted by the hour, the darkness, the loneliness and the terrific storm, while he dozed snugly before the open fire—oh, it was intolerable, disgraceful! And these friends had done so much for him! True, no harm had come to Jean or to the others, but Hadyn shuddered when he pictured what might have happened in those ninety minutes. Coax and urge as he would he could not induce Jean to admit that she had signalled to the house for aid, albeit he felt as certain that she had done so as if he had seen the electric light flashed. When he urged she simply closed her lips and shook her head, and as no one else, not even Constance, could enlighten him, he had to let the matter drop.
In the course of the next week Baltie came hobbling back to his home. In spite of all the care given him at Dr. Black’s, the old horse showed the effects of his exposure and the terrible tax upon his strength that wild night; yet none who loved him so well dreamed that the great summons had really come to the animal which had given more than thirty years of faithful service to his friends. From little colthood he had been Grandfather Raulsbury’s pet until the old man’s death. Then had come the dreadful interval of evil days when Jabe Raulsbury had so misused him, to be followed by the happier ones with the Carruths—days of unremitting care, affection and happiness for Baltie and those who loved him, and especially to Jean and Mammy. And how generously he had requited their devotion to him! Indeed, the last act of his life was to be recorded as one of service to those he loved—a service which had undoubtedly saved the life of one who had tenderly ministered to his comfort. But for Baltie’s devotion Charles’ life could not have been saved, all agreed, and the one who loved the blind horse more than any other excepting Jean would have mourned her old husband. Mammy’s heart was large enough to take in all the world if they needed her love and care, though she often hid that fact beneath an assumed aggressiveness. That was Mammy’s way.
From the hour that Baltie had become the joint property of Jean and Mammy, and later the ownership had embraced Charles, they had not missed visiting his stable the first thing in the morning. For a long time Mammy’s was the first voice the blind old horse heard when he greeted the morning sunlight which streamed into his big box stall; Mammy’s the first hand to minister to his comfort and caress him. Then, as soon as she was dressed, Jean flew to the stable, and a pretty scene always followed. When Charles came into the family he was the one to go first to the stable; but neither Jean nor Mammy ever failed to visit Baltie a little later, and during those years he had become almost human. Only human speech seemed denied him, but this lack he supplied by his own Houyhnhum language, and the silent but most eloquent language of the eyes and ears which God has given mute creatures—each so very wonderful if dull humans will only try to learn them. In the audible one are almost as many inflections as in the broader range of the human voice, and it is a dull intellect indeed which cannot interpret:
“I love you. I am cold. I am hungry. I am parched with thirst,” and a hundred other sentences, or read the language of the eyes and ears.
And Baltie’s vocabulary was a liberal one; his conversational powers, exceptional; his friends understanding the keenest.
As often occurs, that blizzard, which is now history, was followed by weather as soft and balmy as mid-April rather than late March. As if by magic the snow disappeared, running away in rivers of water and leaving the turf beneath showing promising bits of green, which made one feel little tingles of joy at the hint of springtime. Only in sunless spots did banks of snow linger surlily and soiled, like some malign creature beaten, but yet too vindictive to withdraw. The stable fronted south, and all the graciousness of that early spring sunshine fell upon it and entered its doors the minute they were opened. In spite of her anxiety for Charles, and her increased labors as the result of his illness and convalescence, Mammy had somehow found time to visit Baltie each day, though she was not often able to do so early in the morning. It was Jean who ran out to him long before anyone else was astir, and more than once had Constance been obliged to go out after her, lest she forget breakfast, school, and everything else.
Baltie had been back in his own stable about a week when he began to show signs that the wonderful machinery which had endured for so many years was wearing out. Had Charles or Mammy been looking after him then, they would have recognized the signs; but Mr. Henry’s man, though he did everything for Baltie’s comfort, saw in him nothing but a worn-out old horse, which must very soon go the way of all old worn-out horses, and Jean lacked experience to understand. So the climax came when no one dreamed it was pending.
It was a wonderful morning in mid-April. Out in the garden some pioneer robins had ventured into the northern world, and were calling madly to one another of the grave responsibilities of selecting building sites, and constructing homes against the arrival of their wives, who had, like themselves, been wintering in the South. On the southern terrace a few venturesome crocuses popped their heads up through the moist earth to smile a “howdy, friend,” at a passerby. Off in the distance the river lay like a mirror, with vast ice floes dropping down stream with the tide, crystal barges for Elaine, and moving as silently, each duplicated in the water mirror that floated them, as were also the opposite shore and mountains. A wonderful picture, mirage-like in its outline and exquisite coloring. Those who knew that river best read the signs unerringly. The farmers living in the environs of Riveredge called this peculiar atmospheric condition a “weather breeder.”
There was something in Jean which fairly leaped out to meet the newly awakened world and springtide. From a little child she had lived very close indeed to nature’s heart. The first balmy breath of spring seemed to intoxicate her; the first bird-call could throw her into an ecstacy; an early spring blossom invariably caused a rapture; summer’s languor and richness bore her off into a beautiful world of her own; autumn’s “mellow, yellow, ripening days, floating in a golden coating of a dreamy, listless haze,” conveyed her instantly into dreamland; winter’s frost and sparkle produced the wildest exhilaration. Was it any wonder that, coming out into the early morning sunlight of that soft springlike day, with bird notes filling the air, and her own pulses thrilling with life at its dawn, Jean’s cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled with the very joy of living?
It was still very early and no one yet astir. Over in Mammy’s cottage a faint smoke wraith floated up from the chimney, telling that Mammy was astir. Jean had thrown a warm cape about her, for the morning air still had its chill, and, enticed by the sunlight, she ran down the piazza steps, inhaling deep breaths of the delicious air. Pausing a moment to revel in it all, her eyes fell upon the stable. The next second she was darting away like a swallow, no premonition in her heart of what lay behind its closed doors.
Opening the door she entered with a soft whistle. When had there failed to be an instant response to that whistle? This time there was silence only.
“Oh, Baltie, dear! Come, Baltie!” she called, running across to the box stall and opening the door. Then there was a low cry, and Jean stood for a moment as though petrified. On the sweet, clean straw lay the old horse, body inert, limbs relaxed, head resting upon its bed of soft straw as a tired, worn-out veteran’s might rest upon his pillow, his eyes closed, and without a flutter of the delicate nostrils to indicate breathing. Life seemed extinct. With a piteous cry Jean glided to the horse’s head and dropped upon her knees, clasping her arms about the silky neck.
“Baltie, oh, Baltie, dear, look at me! Speak to me,” she begged.
The eyelids fluttered, and the faintest possible nicker was breathed through the nostrils as he strove to raise his head. Too late! The angel of death was about to claim one of his most faithful creatures, and, let us hope, the recording angel was already checking off the deeds of a devoted life and a disposition which many of his friends claiming immortality might emulate.
“Oh, my Baltie, my Baltie!” sobbed Jean, slipping into a sitting position and lifting the horse’s head into her lap. “Must you leave me? Must your life end now? I love you so, Baltie, I love you so! You have been so good, so faithful! How can I let you die? how can I?” and with heartbreaking sobs Jean buried her head in the silky forelock as her arms clasped the great head.
Slowly the sunlight which Baltie and Jean so loved crept around and looked into the window of the stall. On a branch just beyond the window a bluebird caroled as though not in all the sunlit world was there sorrow or death.
In the stall Jean sat motionless. Her first impulse had been to rush for aid; but who could aid in this extremity? Instinctively the girl knew it to be the end, and somehow, in her great love for her pet, she did not wish anyone else to intrude upon the moment of his passing. She had no idea of the flight of time. Ten minutes or an hour might have passed without her noting them. Baltie lay perfectly still, his head in her lap, her arms clasping his neck. Gently, sweetly as he had lived, so was Baltie slipping out of the world of sentient creatures. Only the faintest flutter of breath indicated that life lingered. His effort to greet the one he loved seemed to have demanded his last atom of vitality. After a little Jean’s sobs ceased, though tears still fell upon the satiny head. She did not know how long she had been in the stall, when just the softest sigh was breathed from the delicate nostrils, a faint quiver passed over the great frame, and Baltie was at rest forever. Gently as he had lived, so had Baltie died.
Two hours later Mammy came out to the stable in quest of Jean.