the terrors of the night on which emilia fled to escape from her traducers produced an indelible effect upon her mind. often in afterlife, when the brief gleam of sunshine she was destined to enjoy had died away, did she reflect with shudders upon the experiences of those few pregnant hours. from the moment of her departure until sunrise flooded the land with light, but brought only a deeper anguish to her soul, there was an interval of darkness lasting barely seven hours, but it seemed to her that it might have been seven times seven, so heavily charged were the minutes with black woe. feeble as she was, and fragile as was her frame, she travelled a surprising distance during these interminable hours. when, compelled by exhaustion to rest, she had so far recovered as to be able to proceed, she ran with fleet foot to make up for lost time, until, breathless and panting, she came to a standstill, and caught at the nearest object for support, generally a fence or the branch of a tree. sometimes she caught at shadows and fell, and lay supine awhile, to rise again in ever-growing despair and continue her flight; but moral forces are powerless against the forces of physical nature, and shortly after sunrise her strength gave way, and now when she fell she was unable from exhaustion to rise. she might have been able to continue her flight for still a brief space, had she not been climbing a hill, the exertion of which completely overpowered her. the spot upon which she fell commanded a view of a river. it stretched to the north and south of her, and in its waters were mirrored the gorgeous splendors of the rising sun. she did not see it at first, for it came into view only at the point she had reached; lower down the hill it was not visible to sight.
presently, opening her eyes, she saw the jewelled shadows playing on the surface, and they so distressed her--yearning as she was for peace and rest--that her eyelids drooped, and she turned her head to avoid a picture which in happier circumstances she would have gazed upon with delight. but she knew the river was there.
for full half an hour she lay with her eyes closed, struggling with a horrible temptation. then she turned to the water, struggled into a sitting posture, and gazed with wild eyes upon it. not voluntarily and of her own free will; some evil spiritual power within her compelled her to do so.
it was quieter now. the gorgeous colors had died out of the skies and the river was in repose. "come," it whispered, "come to my embrace, and end your woes." but the strong religious instinct within her enabled her to struggle with the frightful suggestion. "no, no!" she murmured, feebly putting her hands together. "help me, dear lord, to avoid the crime!" her appeal did not banish the silent voices which urged her to seek oblivion, and, in oblivion, peace. how the struggle would have ended it is difficult to say, had not her fate been taken out of her own hands.
there came to her ears the crack of a whip and the sound of a human voice urging horses up the hill. she bowed her head upon her lap to hide her face from the stranger who was approaching her.
he was an old man in charge of a wagon and a team of horses. the cattle were willing enough, and fresh for their day's work, and it was only from habit that their driver was shouting words of encouragement to them. they reached the summit of the hill, and the wagoner, merciful to his beasts, eased them a bit. it was then his eyes fell upon the form of emilia. he approached her and laid his hand upon her shoulder. she shivered and shrank from his touch. at this human contact, the first she had experienced since her flight from the house of the maiden sisters, there seemed to come upon her a more complete consciousness of the shame and degradation into which she had been thrust. that it was unmerited mattered not. it clung to her, and was proclaimed in her face. how, then, could she raise her head to meet the gaze of any human being?
"in trouble, my lass?" asked the wagoner, kindly. with but an imperfect observation of her, he knew that she was young.
emilia made no reply, but let her shoulder droop, so that his hand might not touch her.
"can i help you?"
no sound, and now no further movement, from the hapless girl. he lingered a moment or two longer, and then slowly left her. giving the word, his team began to descend the hill. but at the bottom of the descent, with a level road before him, he pulled up his cattle again, and turned with sad eyes to the spot where he had left emilia, who was hidden from his sight.
this man had a history--as what man has not?--and it is probable that emilia was saved from suicide by the remembrance of the most dolorous experience in his life. he was nearer seventy than sixty years of age, but he was strong and lusty still, and his heart had not been soured or embittered by trouble. the story of his special grief is a common one enough, and can be narrated in a few words. he was a married man, and his old wife was waiting at home for him, five and thirty miles away. children had they none, but thirty years ago they had a daughter, who left them secretly upon the persuasion of a scoundrel. the villain took her to london, and after she had enjoyed a brief spell of false happiness she found herself deserted and friendless. in her despair she crept back to the home of which she had been the joy, but she had not the courage to enter it and beg for forgiveness. her body was discovered in a river hard by, and in her pocket a letter to her parents, relating her story, and praying them to think kindly of her. that is all.
it was the memory of this daughter that caused the wagoner to turn toward emilia. perhaps the poor girl was in a strait similar to that of his own lost child. had she met a kind heart, had a helping hand been stretched out to her, she might have been saved to them, might have been living at this very day to comfort and cheer her aged parents. he would make another effort to ascertain the trouble of the lonely girl who had shrunk from his touch. up the hill he climbed, having no fear for his horses, who would only start again at the sound of his voice.
emilia had risen to her feet, and her trembling hands were extended to the river, as though to push it from her, while her form swayed toward it. he saw her face now, and his heart beat with pity for her. it may have been fancy, but he fancied he saw in her a resemblance to his lost child. so engrossed was emilia in the terrible struggle that was raging in her soul that she was not aware she was observed until the wagoner seized her arm, and said,
"my dear, let me help you in your trouble."
it was like the voice of an angel who had come to her rescue. she threw her arms about him, and cried, in a voice of exhaustion:
"save me, save me!"
"it's what i've come for, my dear," said the wagoner, holding her up. "where is your home?"
"home!" she echoed, hysterically, "i have none! i am alone in the world--alone, alone!"
"no father or mother?"
"none."
"no friends?"
"none--not one."
"what can i do for you?"
"take me from the river. hark! do you not hear what it is whispering to me? i am exhausted; my strength is gone, and i can no longer resist. if you leave me here i shall die!"
"but you do not know where i am going."
"it does not matter. anywhere, anywhere, so that i can have rest. hide me--hide me! oh, my heart, my heart!"
upon this she burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and the good wagoner saw that she was not in a fit state to answer further questions. endeavoring to calm her, he assisted her down the hill to where his team was standing, but before they reached it she swooned. it was not an easy task to lift her into the shelter of his wagon, but he managed it, and made up a bed of straw upon which he laid her. then he started his horses again, and was careful to avoid ruts, in order not to jolt his fair guest too roughly. he had the whole day before him, and it would do if he reached his home before night. now and again he mounted the wagon to look at emilia, and was concerned that he could obtain no coherent words from her. the poor girl's trials had produced their effect upon her weak frame, and she was fast relapsing into delirium. all that he could distinguish in her feverish mutterings were the words, "i am innocent, i am innocent! i have done no wrong. god will speak for me!" even these pathetic utterances came from her at intervals, and he had to piece them together. her youth and beauty deeply impressed the kind-hearted man, and he did not regret the course he had taken. in the middle of the day he arrived at a village, and gave his horses two hours' rest. he utilized these two hours by hunting up a doctor, who, feeling emilia's pulse and putting his hand on her hot forehead, said, "she is in a high state of fever. the only thing you can do is to get her home as quickly as possible." he believed her to be the wagoner's daughter, and he gave the old man a draught which emilia was to be persuaded to take, should she have an interval of consciousness before they reached their journey's end. the wagoner's anxiety now was to get home as soon as possible, and the roads being good he put his horses to a trot. at six o'clock in the evening the journey was over, and the team stood at the door of his cottage. his old wife ran out to greet him, and he rapidly explained to her what he had done, and why he had done it.
"was it right, mother?" he asked.
the tears rushed to her eyes. it was thirty years since he had addressed her by that endearing term, and she thought, as he had thought, of the daughter they had lost in the time gone by. there are memories that never die.
"quite right, john," murmured the old woman, and together they carried emilia into their cottage and laid her upon a bed. there the wagoner left his wife to attend to the young girl; he had his horses to look after, and when this was done he returned to the cottage, to find emilia undressed and in bed, with the old woman standing by her side.
"we must have a doctor, john," she said, and away he went for one.
the report was not favorable; emilia was prostrate, and now that the strain was over a dangerous reaction had set in. the doctor gave it as his opinion that she would not be well for weeks, and so it proved. but long before she was convalescent gerald, accompanied by leonard, made his appearance, and thus the unfortunate girl had near her one enemy and three friends. which side would triumph in the end?
