uncle jake and his giant progeny made light of their burden, all the half-mile to old dempster’s. they were confident, feeling their own vigorous blood beating healthily from end to end of their great bodies, that no man, not dead, could die. in their experience as farmers and fishermen, they had seen much more dangerous hurts recovered from than any of the stranger’s.
“he’s pretty well bunged up an’ has swallered an almighty lot o’ salt water; but that’ll do him good an’ cure the bruises. why, i shouldn’t wonder,” continued uncle jake, gradually talking himself into positiveness, “ef he was jumpin’ ’round by day after to-morrer, as spry as a two-year-old. he ain’t a sailor. i kind er guess he was a passenger aboard some ’long-shore craft. that wrecked stuff looked like it belonged to some down east schooner. i hope it warn’t bill dempster’s. now, mirandy, you take good keer o’ this here chap an’ p’r’aps he’ll be a-buckin’ up to yer, when he’s so’s to be ’round.”
[41]miranda and miss sullivan smiled. uncle jake was evidently a little more concerned than he pretended, and chatted to keep up their spirits. once or twice when the bearers paused to shift hands or rest a moment, their burden seemed to make a futile attempt toward life. there was a tremor of eyelid and lip—perhaps a slight unclosing of the eye. still, if there was any change, deathliness soon came again.
miss sullivan and miranda ran on to make preparations.
“i think,” said the latter, “that we’d better put him in your room, if you still mean to go, as you decided yesterday.”
“i must go,” replied the other, with a quick intaking of the breath, “unless i can be of some service to this gentleman.” was it her fine instinct that had recognised the gentleman?
“i don’t see what you can do more than mother and i will—except that you have kinder, pleasanter ways,” miranda assured her. “p’r’aps this man will turn out to be a sailor ’long shore, after all, and we’ll know how to nuss him better than you would.”
“well,” said miss sullivan, “we shall see;” but it was evident that in her heart she was quite certain he was no sailor.
mrs. dempster flurried about and had everything ready in the invalid’s room by the time uncle jake arrived. the three men carried their burden into[42] his hospital, while the women waited anxiously for a report. life or death?
old dempster and dan’l at this moment returned from catching and feeding white socks and preparing the buggy for miss sullivan’s journey. while they were hearing the history of the rescue, uncle jake came out with a cheerful look.
“he ain’t no sailor,” he announced. “here’s his pocket-book with three hundred an’ fifty dollars in gold. you just take that, old woman, and don’t let dan’l use any on ’em for buttons to his new swaller-tail. wal, miss sullivan, i guess your man’ll git well. he’s breathin’ reg’lar, but don’t seem to know nothin’ yit.”
miranda went to take her place as nurse by the bedside. by-and-by, her mother needing her for a few moments, she called miss sullivan.
the wrecked man was beginning to stir about uneasily. he murmured and muttered names, evidently those uppermost in his waking thought. life was struggling to regain voluntary control. he was feverish. miss sullivan gave him from time to time spoonfuls of stimulant; his weakness and exhaustion needed this. it was a new position for her, and she managed rather awkwardly,—more awkwardly than one would have expected who knew her usual deftness. once, when his eyes again half opened, she shrank away, and when he again became delirious and rejected his restorative and went on speaking[43] wildly and incoherently, mingling names, words of hate and words of love and words of dreary despair, she burst into a sudden passion of excited tears and called miranda to come immediately and relieve her. she evidently was not fit to be a calm nurse to the stranger: a fact sufficiently curious, since her temperament was quite the nursely one. but perhaps she was too much concerned for her protégé.
the afternoon hastened away. the sufferer seemed momentarily improving. he had now fallen into a quiet sleep. mr. dempster appeared to ask the plans of his guest—to go or not to go?
miss sullivan said she felt that she could be of no real service; she was, of course, much interested in the final recovery of her waif, but she could have news of him from miranda; she ought not to detain her friends at loggerly.
what she did not say, in spite of a somewhat evident anxiety to find reasons for departure, was that she did not dare trust herself to encounter the stranger on his recovery, so shaken was she by certain inward tremors, so prostrated in strength and spirits—the result, no doubt, of her efforts in his behalf. an instinct of self-protection urged to flight. she gave the word, “go.”
white socks and the buggy came to the door. dan’l stepped forward with a bunch of hollyhocks, pink, yellow, and purple. he got a very unexpected kiss—unexpected by giver and receiver.
[44]“thank you for your boots, dan’l. i could not have gone a step without them.”
there was a very blushing dan’l, a very pensive dan’l, a very manly dan’l, a very like-a-first-lover dan’l, about the premises that evening. he doubled his fists and said “durn it!” very often, but always ended with a pleased smile. dan’l was having his first glimpses into fairyland; his world seemed enchanted, as he wandered out through the ferns to sunset—strawberries his pretence.
everyone was sorry to part with miss sullivan. with miranda especially, her adieux were most affectionate. these two had been engaged in the romantic duty of saving a life.
“write me every day, miranda,” were miss sullivan’s last words, and she quite blushed as she uttered them. “write me every day and tell me how he does.”
old dempster drove her away in the delicious summer evening. white socks made good play and brought them into loggerly at late twilight.
all the party greeted miss sullivan cordially and gaily asked her experiences of storm life. she did not dwell upon her share in the rescue—some occult influence seemed to hold her back from speaking of it—and soon retired. extreme fatigue saved her from the excitement of dreams, and she sank into the blessedness of a sleep undisturbed by storminess either from within or without. sleep and[45] change of scene will draw a blank between her and the adventures of to-day: but she will hardly forget them. mad storms by the maddened sea are not daily events in the lives of quiet ladies of fortune; nor does it happen to every promenader by a beach to be the point of safety whither a returning wanderer may drift away from his death.
after miss sullivan’s disappearance, her companions all talked of her, as people always do of the dear departed.
“odd idea, that of hers—to go out in the wet,” observed gyas. “how would you and i look, old clo, taking a picturesque ducking?”
“did anyone ever see you doing anything picturesque, mr. cutus?” inquired miss julia innocently.
“pictures are done of him—lots of ’em by scalper,” said cloanthus. “scalper says his name describes him exactly—he’s the best guy he can find. there—i wouldn’t have told that, gyas, if you hadn’t called me old clo. you know i don’t like nicknames.”
“i wonder miss sullivan never married,” remarked someone, to end this controversy.
“miss sullivan has not been rich very long,” said mrs. wilkes, in a tone to indicate that no further explanation was needed; “only since the death of her step-father. he had some property in chicago which suddenly became of enormous value. he left[46] everything to her. you know her own family were great people once, but lost caste and wealth by a transaction of her father’s. after that, she was obliged to teach in a public school for a while. then she became governess to clara waddie and diana, mr. waddie’s ward. when they went to europe, she came to us.”
“yes!” said julia, with ardency. “i was an immense little fool, till then. but, mamma, wasn’t there a story of a love affair of hers, while she was young?”
“horace belden hinted something of the kind,” replied her mother, “and that he was the object. but he is very willing to claim conquests. as soon as the news of her great inheritance came, while she was with us in paris, mr. belden called upon her. he pretended great surprise that she was our governess and regret that he had not seen his old friend before.”
“he knew it, i’m sure he did!” cried julia. “miss sullivan and i met him twice in the louvre, and both times he dodged—palpably. i could not understand why.”
“well,” continued mrs. wilkes, serenely picking up her story where she had been interrupted, “with the news of the fortune came mr. belden. miss sullivan was in the salon with me. he went up to her with that soft manner which he thinks so irresistible. ‘my dear miss mary,’ he said, ‘i[47] had no idea that you were here with my friends. permit me to be among the first to congratulate you. it seems that the fates do not always err in distributing their good gifts. how long it is since we have met! where have you been this age?’ mary received him rather icily; and afterwards she would never speak of him, except to say that they were neighbours in childhood. i suspect that it was merely his slights during her poverty that displeased her—i don’t believe she was ever in love with him.”
“was not that the time when he was so attentive to diana?” asked julia.
“yes, my dear,” babbled the good, gossipy mrs. wilkes, “and she liked him, as débutantes are very apt to like men of the world; but clara waddie and diana and miss sullivan were always together, and whenever mr. belden went, he found his ‘old friend’ cool and distant as possible. i don’t think mary ever spoke of him to diana, but there came a sudden end of sentimental tête-à-têtes such as they had had in switzerland, and when he proposed to diana to go off and look at some picture, or point of view, she always made it a condition to invite miss sullivan.”
“ah, these duennas!” said the brave gyas, who had frequently found his bravery of heart and toilet to become naught in their presence. “but who is this diana? is her other name moonshine? i know[48] everybody and don’t know her. where did you pick her up?”
“pick her up!” exclaimed julia, in wrath. “diana! why, she would hardly touch anyone with her parasol, except for friendship’s sake—and she’s the dearest girl! you’ll see her this summer, but she won’t let you talk to her, because you are not agreeable enough,” and miss julia blushed a little the next moment and was sorry for her wrath at the brave gyas.
“is she rich?” asked the prudent cloanthus.
“of course; she is very rich. she owns texas,” replied julia confidently.
“texas!” echoed cloanthus, bewildered by the spacious thought. “isn’t that a state or a country, or a part of mexico, or something?”
“perhaps it is,” admitted julia; “perhaps she only owns half of it. but i am sure i’ve heard her speak of riding for a day over her own land.”
mrs. wilkes was now asleep in her chair—hence, and hence only, her silence. she awoke suddenly and reminded her friends of their early morning start. they separated for the night.
next day, when the conductor of the railroad train came to miss sullivan for her fare, she transferred her purse from her bag to the pocket of her travelling dress. as she did so, she felt an unfamiliar object. it proved to be the book she had taken from the drowning man’s hand, and, without[49] thinking, dropped into her pocket. it had been protected by a covering of oiled silk. the stitches in drying had given way and the book was slipping out. she thought there could be no harm in her opening it.
it was an old, well-worn testament. on the title-page was the inscription “m. janeway to i. waddy.” it was very touching to think of this drowning man clinging to the last to this emblem of his religion, and perhaps token of an early love. no doubt it was in sympathy with some such thought as this that miss sullivan’s hands began suddenly to tremble, and her eyes to fill with tears as she turned over the sacred pages.
the book opened naturally in her hand at a familiar passage; she read a few lines; then the hot tears blinded her and she put the book hastily away.
