Chapter X

AFTER THE RESCUE—ANTIPATHIES AND REPULSIONS—JOSHUA’S ANGUISH.

Mrs. Leonard started up, left Laura prostrate on the floor, with her head resting on Arnold’s knee, and went to the help of her own child.

“Oh! Amy! Amy! how did this come about?” she cried, while the tears rained down her face. “You in danger in the water, and I staying here with her! Oh! Joshua, Joshua, I did not know it! I did not know it!”

“Get some blankets hot. Don’t wait to cry!”

“But she is dead. Her face is cold as snow!”

“No, her heart beats against mine,—a weak flutter, but it is life!” said Leonard, while great tears of thankfulness stole down his face. “I felt it in the saw-mill,—it beats yet. Thank God she is alive!”

Arnold looked up harshly, as the old man thanked God for his child. Had he really wished her to die? One would think so from his face, and from the sharp bitterness with which he spoke.

“And must this poor lady be left to die because your daughter has got hurt?” he said.

Amy heard the words, and moaned on her father’s bosom.

“God forgive me!” cried Mrs. Leonard, stricken in her conscience; “but blood is thicker than water, and she is our only child.”

“Yes, but, nevertheless, we should not forget the stranger within our gates,” said Joshua, looking compassionately on the insensible French girl; for the moaning voice of his child had reassured him, and his good heart was broad enough for more than her, now that his worst fears were over.

“Here, undress the poor lady, mother, while I heat some blankets to wrap them in.”

“Give her to me,” said the good housewife, busying herself about the French girl, but still casting anxious looks at her own child. “There now, father, bring out the warming-pan,—heap it with red-hot coals. Never mind scorching the sheets. Sprinkle a handful of brown sugar over the coals, and let Ben Arnold warm the bed in that room, while you heat the blankets to wrap them up in.”

While the good woman spoke, she was taking off Laura’s cloak and over-garments, wringing out the ice as it melted from her hair, and strove to force her heart into the work; though it would go where nature sent it, spite of her husband’s commands. Nay, I fear that she surreptitiously left the stranger, when the two men were safely shut up in the bedroom, and took off Amy’s wet garments first, bestowing a burst of tears and pitying kisses on her pale face and arms, as she rolled her in the hot blankets, and flung the warmest comforter over her.

Then, smitten with a sense of her own selfishness, she returned to the stranger, sufficiently reassured to take considerable interest in the gold chain which she removed from her neck, and to remark the embroidery with which the delicate linen was enriched, with a wonder that approached condemnation. But when she saw how cold and marble-like was the form beneath, her good heart rose again, and she wrapped the helpless girl up with motherly tenderness, gentle as that bestowed on her own child, hoping, with tears in her eyes, that life might not be quite gone.

At last the bed was prepared, and those young creatures were laid within it, side by side, lovingly as if they had been sisters. Joshua Leonard heaped wood on the fire, muttering thankful prayers all the time; but Arnold grew restless when he saw the two girls lying there, so close together, and began pacing the floor with abrupt strides, as if there were bitterness somewhere in his heart that required motion.

“Has she moved yet? Has she opened her eyes?” he demanded, with a degree of impatience that amounted to imperiousness, as Mrs. Leonard came from the bed with a brighter face than she had worn yet.

“Yes, she opened her eyes, and—and whispered something. I am almost sure it was mother that she said.”

Arnold turned away impatiently; then looked back, and, suppressing some word that had sprung to his lip, said,

“I was speaking of the young lady, Mrs. Leonard.”

“And forgot to care whether Amy lived or died? I’m very much obliged, Mr. Arnold. If any body had told me this a year ago, I shouldn’t a-believed it,—no, not if it had been the minister himself.”

Arnold turned pale, and then flushed angrily.

“The young lady is under my care, Mrs. Leonard. I am responsible for her safety; though, heaven knows, I had no idea of her going down to that rickety old mill, and would have prevented it at any cost. But the chances and her own obstinacy have been against me, ever since we started from home. Then that infernal horse must break loose, and force me to leave her when her imagination was all bewildered, and her pride aroused; but how she came into that water-trap, I cannot imagine, unless your precious daughter, who was evidently in the mill, enticed her.”

The last part of this speech was muttered in an undertone, and after Mrs. Leonard had entered the bedroom in answer to a low voice that called,

“Mother,” said the voice, “she has moved a little. She is beginning to breathe. I have had her hand between both mine. See if it isn’t growing warmer.”

Mrs. Leonard put her hand under the bedclothes, and laid it on the French girl’s heart. It fluttered against her palm, growing stronger with each beat.

“Yes, yes, Amy, she’s getting warm, sure enough. There now, did you ever? her eyes are wide open, and she is trying to speak.”

A low moan came from Amy’s side of the bed, and, turning her face on the pillow, she began to cry, but so noiselessly, that no one heard her.

The French girl did not speak, but her eyes wandered around the room, as if searching for some person.

Arnold was in the next room, but his tread, as he moved up and down, could be plainly heard.

“Who is that?” she whispered, with a struggle.

“No one who will disturb you,” said Mrs. Leonard, whose heart, from some mysterious cause, began to rise against the poor girl.

“But I know it is _his_ step,” murmured the dreaming girl, “I know it is his step,” and, as if this certainty composed her, she dropped off into sleep, almost smiling.

Amy listened, and shrunk away farther and farther toward the verge of the bed. By-and-by Arnold’s step approached the door, and paused there. Then the chill came over that delicate frame once more, and she began to shiver; for the remembrance that she had been left to die in the water, fell sharply upon her, and she wondered why God had permitted her to be saved when life was such pain.

The step aroused Laura again. She put up her hand, pulled the blankets down from her face, and strove to lift her head, but life was not strong enough in her for that; she only made a feeble movement, which left a smile on her lips, for she felt that he was drawing near the bed.

Arnold addressed her, for the first time, in very broken and imperfect French,—so imperfect, that she would have smiled at another time; but now it was the sweetest sound on earth, and her fine eyes opened wide, expressing the satisfaction she had no strength to utter in words.

“Tell me—oh! tell me,” he said, “that you are better—that no serious harm will come from this, or I shall grow frantic with self-reproach!”

“You saved me,” murmured Laura, reaching forth her hand, from which the purple tint had almost faded. He took the hand in his, and a smile of ineffable happiness stole over her face.

“Every time I breathe it will be a joy, because life is now doubly blessed,” she said, with a sweet burst of gratitude.

Amy could not understand the words, for they were spoken in French; but the pathos and sweetness of that voice penetrated to her heart like poison. She lay still, holding her breath, and trembling. Then Arnold spoke in English, and made a common-place inquiry about Amy’s health, as if the peril had been only for Laura. But the French girl seemed now made aware, for the first time, that some one shared her bed, and with this knowledge came a clear memory of what had passed.

“Ah! yes, there was another,—a sweet girl. But for her I should not have lived till you came, Arnold. She threw herself into that frightful abyss of her own accord. It was her hand that held me up. I sunk, sunk, sunk, dragging her with me. But you saved her also. How good—how grand of you! Ah! never in my life shall I forget that little peasant-girl, with her modesty and her courage. If she asks my life I shall give it to her twice over, for she is brave and beautiful like an angel.”

“She speaks of you, Amy Leonard?” said, or rather inquired, Arnold, looking down at the young creature. “She says that you saved her life.”

Amy felt herself flush under these praises, cold as her heart was.

“I—I wanted to die,” was the pathetic answer, given with a settled mournfulness that touched even him to whom she had become a burden and annoyance.

“You certainly were very near your wish,” he said, turning his eyes away.

“And this is my benefactress,” said Laura, in English, turning on her pillow with difficulty. “It was you that saved my life. What can I say to you? How can I ever thank you? Oh, if my heart could speak,—that heart which would be frozen under the water but for your brave help! Oh, how I will love you forever and ever! I have been twice saved: by you, and then by him. Poor child! how it trembles! So weak, and yet so strong! So timid, and still so brave! She is not the pretty girl I thought her, but an angel who held me up till you came.”

Laura stole an arm over Amy as she spoke thus, from the depths of her grateful heart, and would have kissed her, but the poor girl turned away with a heavy sigh, and closed her eyes to conceal the tears that forced themselves through the lashes. Then Laura, too, was exhausted, and fell back into silence.

Directly Mrs. Leonard came in from the fire, with a bowl of warm bread and milk in each hand. Seeing Arnold near the bed, her sense of decorum instantly took the alarm, and, setting the bowls upon a little table, she told him plumply that he had better go home and let his mother know, as there wasn’t any sort of use in his staying there, just to keep the poor gals awake when they ought to be warm and asleep. That was her opinion, and she asked nothing for giving it, good as it was.

Arnold replied that he had not intended to go home without the young lady, as her brother would be greatly terrified. He thought, even then, that her clothes would be dry in a short time, and she might be well enough to return to his father’s house before dark.

That Mrs. Leonard proclaimed impossible; and when he saw how completely Laura was exhausted by the conversation, which had seemed so slight to him, the young man was constrained to give way, and, much against his will, drove off, cursing the accident that had thrown those two females so close together.

When he was gone, Mrs. Leonard sat down by the bed with motherly kindness, which Laura felt to the core of her heart, and fed her with warm milk, as if she had been a child; while Amy turned away her face and pretended to sleep, for she felt sure that a word or motion would set the tears flowing beyond her control.

When Mrs. Leonard had attended to her guest, she went round to Amy, saw how the drops were swelling under those eyelids, and, with gentle fondness, attempted to soothe her.

“There now, daughter, take a spoonful of the warm milk. Father has gone down to Norwich for the doctor; but, lor, ma is worth a dozen doctors any day, isn’t she? Well, well, never mind! Just lay your head agin me, and cry it out if you feel like it,” she whispered, caressing the head she had lifted to her bosom. “If it isn’t enough to make any person histericky to be in the ice water under a saw-mill on a day like this, I don’t know what is. I declare your par was almost froze with one dive, and trembled all over when I gave him his dry clothes. It was a mercy this trouble didn’t come on Sunday, or his go-to-meeting suit would a been ruined teetotally. He’s got it on to-day—no help for it any how, for the others was dripping. Then about this young lady’s things, it really is dreadful. Such fine velvet and broadcloth as her cloak is made on, and her frock—silk as thick as a board—they’re a-hanging before the fire, and sending up steam like a dozen tea-kettles. Now, Amy dear, don’t you think you could just take a spoonful of the milk? This is wheaten bread in it, white as snow. Come, come, just swaller one mouthful.”

Mrs. Leonard was not an artful woman, far from it, but her long speech had a sort of tender deception in it which soothed poor Amy—gave her time to choke back her tears, and wipe away those that would force themselves through her curling lashes. She was grateful, too, for all her mother’s fondness, and made an effort to grow strong.

“Yes, mother, give me what you like. I want no better doctor than you are,” she said, folding one arm over her mother’s neck.

Mrs. Leonard gave the sweet face on her bosom half a dozen kisses without stopping; then she brought the bowl of milk, and Amy forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls, which brought a glow of strength with them that delighted the mother beyond expression.

Amy turned her eyes on the stranger that so unexpectedly shared her bed, when, convinced that Laura was asleep, she drew her mother’s head softly down to her mouth.

“Mother, are you sure that she is asleep?”

Mrs. Leonard, who kept her eyes fixed on the sleeping face, nodded, and whispered “Yes.”

“Then let me go to my own bed before any one comes. I cannot breathe here.”

“Well, finish the bowl of milk and you shall.”

Amy took the bowl between her two hands and drained it, leaving only a sediment of white bread in the bottom.

“That’s a good girl. Now put one arm—no, both arms round mother’s neck, and she’ll soon get you up-stairs. Dear me, how like old times it seems, when you was a baby, Amy,” she continued, lifting the slight form in her arms, and striving to appear as if the weight were nothing. “I’ve got a hull chest full of blankets heating before the fire, so I’ll just pile them over you, for it’s cold up there, and I wouldn’t think of letting you get out of this warm nest, only it don’t seem to agree with you; then you shall have a wineglass full of cherry bitters, that’ll make you sleep like a top, and who cares whether the doctor comes or not? I’m sure I don’t.”

Thus talking half to amuse her daughter, half because she loved it, the good woman carried Amy across the next room, and, after mounting to the garret with some difficulty, laid her in her own bed, sitting down to rest herself after the effort; for, with all her kindly imagination, she could not lift the girl with so much ease as she had done nineteen years before.

“Mother,” said Amy, “do you think—did you see them together? Do you think—he, he——”

The good woman kept her eyes turned resolutely towards the little window which lighted one gable of the cabin; for the world she would not have disturbed that young creature with a look. She did not understand all, kind soul, but enough to bring her native womanliness uppermost. Before the poor child could complete her faltering question she took it up.

“Do I think Ben Arnold cares for her? Not a bit; she’s a bird with fine feathers, and he always was for show, but as for the rest, there’s nothing in it. There’s something wrong about him, Amy, but it isn’t that.”

“Oh, mother, you think this, and I was so near upbraiding her. When she came dashing down to the mill, with all that finery fluttering in the wind, it seemed as if she wanted to insult me.”

“Pooh! nonsense, Amy! Why, with all her silks and ribbons, she isn’t half as handsome as my own daughter, and without ’em, look at her now! Why, she lies there like a wet peacock.”

“Oh, but, mother, with all that beautiful hair, and those eyes?”

“Just as if you hadn’t beautiful hair, and eyes worth a dozen of hers. Don’t talk to me!”

Amy was comforted spite of herself. Her mother’s positive belief found a willing convert. Then she remembered what he had said to her only a few nights before,—how he had left her to perish in the water while this young stranger was saved.

“But, mother, he saved her, and I was left. I shall never forget it, never! never! to my dying day.”

“Well, I never did see such an unreasonable girl; how was he to pick and choose, up to his neck in water? just as if he wouldn’t take the first that came, and off with her! besides, I dare say, she screamed ten times where you did once,—just one of the screechy sort, I’ll be bound. Now what on earth are you thinking of; he couldn’t drag out two at once, could he? Besides, I should like to see Joshua Leonard stand by while any one saved his child. I’m astonished at your unreasonableness, Amy, and if you wasn’t sick, and out of sorts every way, I shouldn’t know what to think about it.”

Now there never was a creature so thankful to be scolded and rebuked for unreasonableness, as Amy Leonard proved on that occasion. All her mother’s soothing had failed to cheer her half so much as this little outburst of maternal disapprobation; for it half persuaded her reason, while the heart remained quiescent in its fears. But for the secret which she was forbidden to confide to any one,—most of all, to either of her parents, she might have been tranquillized; as it was, the pain was still at her heart, but a vague hope seized upon her, that all might yet be right. If he did not love another, and of that Mrs. Leonard seemed entirely confident, all must be well. When he said those cruel things it was to try if, under all circumstances, she could be faithful to his secret. What if she had spoken to the French girl, and given voice to the wild appeal that burned in her when the girl appeared so suddenly in the saw-mill! That would have exasperated him beyond remedy. She thanked God that she had been saved from this temptation, more fervently than she had yet thanked him for her life.

Mrs. Leonard sat and watched the changes of her countenance, as the pain cleared from it, and the gentle tranquillity of weakness settled upon her. Still Amy could not sink to sleep, for minor troubles came when the great idea was swept away.

“Mother, dear, did I treat her harshly?”

“Harshly? No! What on earth can you mean by such a question?”

“I turned my face away twice, and would not give her my hand when she reached for it.”

“Well, what of that! Lips and hands belong to the owner, according to my idea. There was no harm in not kissing a person you had never seen but once in your life.”

“Still, I am sorry, mother.”

“Well, well, we can make it up to-morrow. Now, go to sleep, or at any rate lie still. The doctor will be here right-off now.”

Amy started up in bed. “I don’t want to see any doctor, mother. Don’t send him up here, if you please. I’m not sick, you know,—only a little chilled and weak. I’ll take the cherry bitters,—any thing you give me,—but don’t let the doctor come near this room.”

Mrs. Leonard looked about the garret with the keen scrutiny of a housewife whose reputation was in question.

“It seems to me that every thing is in its place, Amy; and the room looks as well as a cabin can be expected to. Yet, if you’re ashamed of it, why then——”

“Oh, it isn’t that, mother: only I hate medicine, and don’t need any. So just promise that he shan’t come up here to spoil all that you have done.”

There was no resisting this subtle flattery. If Mrs. Leonard had a weakness beside that of promiscuous talking about nothing, it was that of believing herself a family physician of the first order. That this belief was not altogether unfounded, the general good health of her family testified; so she gave her daughter the required promise without more contest, and went down-stairs after the cherry bitters, which was the crowning glory of her cupboard.

Laura was sound asleep when her hostess went down; but nothing could withhold Mrs. Leonard from tempting her also with the cordial. She made a tumult among the bottles and glasses that soon aroused the stranger from her slumbers; then, with a little extra bustle, and some consequential smiles, she came forward with a bottle in one hand, which she emptied very slowly into a tall slender glass which she held in the other.

“Take this,” she said, smiling blandly; “it will make you sleep like a top. I never knew it fail, when a person was worried out, in my whole life. I’m just a-carrying some up to Amy. She was afraid of crowding you, so I took her up-stairs. Come, just let me lift your head a little. There, now, take a good swaller: it’ll make the blood tingle, I can tell you.”

Laura drank the ruby liquid with docility, murmured that she hoped Amy was better, and sunk to rest again, yielding heavily to the exhaustion that oppressed her.

Amy only slept in snatches. A thought that the doctor might come up to her room when she was asleep, spite of her mother’s promise, troubled her greatly. The sound of the waterfall, reminding her of the tumultuous rush of waves, in which she seemed again struggling, kept her restless. If she closed her eyes, it was to feel herself plunging down, down, into a gulf of waters, in which huge black logs were floating like monsters ready to devour her. Then she dreamed of Arnold,—a strange, weird dream, that made her moan and weep in the midst of her slumbers. She thought that he, instead of her mother, held the blood red potion and tall wineglass at her bedside. She saw by his face and knew in her heart that there was poison in the liquid, and that he wished her to drink it and die. Still she was determined to drain the glass: when death came from his hands she would not reject it. But all at once a little child—an angel child—floated down from some invisible place in the room, and spread its wings, delicate as star-beams, over the glass. Reach forth her hand, or struggle as she would, there was the angel child, guarding the cup with his wings, and she could not drink,—even to please him.

From this dream she awoke with a wild start, for there was a sound of bells stopping suddenly before the house: and the tramp of feet on the doorstep made her tremble.