Kitabı oku: «The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe: or, There's No Place Like Home», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XVII
LOST AT SEA

The autumn was unusually warm and pleasant, without any frost to injure the flowers until the middle of October. Hal enlarged his green-house arrangements, and had a fine stock of tuberoses. He had learned a good deal by his experiments of the past year.

He had been careful not to overwork; since he was improving, and took every thing moderately. But at last it was all finished, – the cold frames arranged for spring, the plants housed, the place tidy and in order.

The loss of the school had been a severe disappointment to Hal. He was casting about now for some employment whereby he might earn a little. If Mr. Sherman would only give him a few days' work, now and then, they could get along nicely; for Granny was a most economical manager, and, besides, there was eighty dollars in the bank, and a very small family, – only three of them.

Hal came home one day, and found Granny sitting over a handful of fire, bundled in a great shawl. Her eyes had a frightened look, and there was a blue line about her mouth.

"Why. Granny dear, what is the matter?" he asked in alarm, stooping over to kiss the cold wrinkled cheek.

"I d-d-don't know," the teeth chattering in the attempt to speak. "I b-b-lieve I've got a chill!"

"Oh, so you have, poor dear child!" and Hal was as motherly as the old gray hen outside. "You must go to bed at once. Perhaps you had better bathe your feet, and have a bowl of hot tea."

"And my head aches so! I'm not used to having headache, Hal."

She said this piteously, as if she fancied Hal, who could do every thing in her opinion, might exorcise the pain.

"I'm very sorry, dear," stroking the wrinkled face as if she had been a baby. "Now I'll put some water on to heat."

"O Hal, I'm so cold! 'Pears to me I never shall be warm again."

"Yes, when I get you snug in the bed, and make you some nice tea. What shall it be, – pennyroyal?"

"And a little feverfew."

Hal kissed the cold, trembling lips, and went about his preparations. The water was soon hot; and he put a little mustard in the pail with it, carrying it to the bedside in the other room, and leading poor Granny thither.

The place was steaming presently with the fragrance of pennyroyal. Hal poured it off into a cool bowl, and gave Granny a good drink, then tucked her in the bed, and spread the shawl over her; but still she cried in her pitiful voice, —

"I'm so cold, Hal!"

After the rigor of the chill began to abate, a raging fever set in, and Granny's mind wandered a little. Then Hal was rather alarmed. Granny had never been down sick a day in her life, although she was not so very robust.

"Dot, darling, you must run for Dr. Meade," Hal said, as the child came home from school. "Granny is very ill, I am afraid."

Dr. Meade was away, and did not come until eight in the evening.

"I fear it is going to be a run of fever, Hal," he began gravely. "At her time of life too! But we'll do the best we can. There is considerable fever about."

Hal drew a long breath of pain.

"You will be the best nurse in the world, Hal;" and the doctor smiled, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder re-assuringly.

Hal winked away some tears. They lay quite too close to the surface for a man's nature.

"I'll leave her some drops, and be in again in the morning. Don't worry, my dear boy."

Granny could hardly bear to have Hal out of sight, and wanted to keep hold of his hand all the time. Dot prepared the supper, but they could taste nothing beyond a cup of tea.

"Dot," he said, "you must go up stairs and sleep in my bed to-night. I shall stay here to watch Granny."

"But it will be so – lonesome!" with her baby entreaty.

"It is best, my darling."

So Dot kissed him many times, lingering until after the clock struck ten, when Hal said, —

"My birdie's eyes will be heavy to-morrow."

Granny was worse the next day. Indeed, for the ensuing fortnight her life seemed vibrating in the balance. Everybody was very kind, but she could bear no one besides Hal. Just a little delirious occasionally, and going back to the time when they were all babies, and her own dear Joe lay dying.

"I've done my best for 'em, Joe," she would murmur. "I've never minded heat nor cold, nor hard work. They've been a great blessing, – they always were good children."

For Granny forgot all Charlie's badness, Joe's mischief, and Dot's crossness. Transfigured by her devotion, they were without a fault. Ah, how one tender love makes beautiful the world! Whatever others might think, God had a crown of gold up in heaven, waiting for the poor tired brow; and the one angel would have flown through starry skies for her, taking her to rest on his bosom, but the other pleaded, —

"A little longer, for the children's sake."

At last the fever was conquered. Granny was weak as a baby, and had grown fearfully thin; but it was a comfort to have her in her right mind. Still Hal remarked that the doctor's face had an anxious look, and that he watched him with a kind of pitying air. So much so, that one day he said, —

"You think she will get well, doctor?"

"There is nothing to prevent it if we can only keep up her appetite."

"I always feed her," returned Hal with a smile, "whether she is willing to eat or not."

"You are a born nurse, as good as a woman. Give her a little of the port wine every day."

Then the doctor turned to the window, and seemed to glance over towards the woods.

"Quite winterish, isn't it? When have you heard from Joe?"

"Not in a long time. Letters do not come so regularly as they used. I think we have not had one since August. But he writes whenever he can, dear Joe. The last time we received three."

"Yes," in a kind of absent way.

When Dr. Meade started to go, he kept his hand for several minutes on the door-latch, giving some unimportant directions.

"God bless you, Hal!" he said in a strained, husky tone, "and give you grace to bear all the trials of this life. Heaven knows, there are enough of them!"

What did the doctor mean? Hal wondered eagerly.

That evening Mr. and Mrs. Terry dropped in for a friendly call.

"When did you hear from Joe last?" asked Mr. Terry.

"In August."

"Wasn't expecting him home, I suppose?"

"Not until next summer. Has any one heard?" and there was a quiver in Hal's voice.

"I don't know of any one who has had a letter;" and Mr. Terry appeared to be measuring his words. "Joe was a nice bright lad, just as full of fun as an egg is full of meat. Cousin Burton took a wonderful fancy to him; though I suppose he'd have gone off to sea, any way. If it had not been Burton, it would have been some one else."

"Yes. Joe always had his heart set upon it."

"Father and Joe used to get along so nicely. We never had a boy we liked better. He was a brave, honest fellow."

It seemed almost as if Mrs. Terry wiped a tear from her eye. But Granny wanted to be raised in the bed, and some way Hal couldn't think until after they were gone.

He was thankful to see the doctor come in the next morning.

"Oh!" he exclaimed in a low tone, "you were talking of Joe yesterday: has anybody heard from him, or about him?"

The hand that clasped the doctor's arm trembled violently.

"Hal, be calm," entreated the doctor.

"I cannot! Oh, you do know, – and it's bad news!"

"My dear boy – O Hal!" and he was folded in the doctor's arms.

"Tell me, tell me!" in a yearning, impatient tone, that seemed to crowd its way over sobs.

"God knows it could not have hurt me more if it had been one of my own! But he was a hero – to the last. There isn't a braver young soul up in heaven, I'll answer for that. Here – it's in the paper. I've carried it about with me three days, old coward that I've been, and not dared to tell you. But it's all over the village. Hush, – for Granny's sake. She must not know."

Hal dropped on the lounge that he and Granny had manufactured with so much pride. He was stunned, – dead to every thing but pain, and that was torturing. The doctor placed the paper in his hands, and went into the other room to his patient.

Yes, there it was! The words blurred before his eyes; and still he read, by some kind of intuition. "The Argemone" had met with a terrific storm in the Indian Ocean; and, though she had battled bravely, winds and waves had proved too strong. All one night the men had labored heroically, but in vain; and when she began to go down, just at dawn, the life-boats were filled, too few, alas! even if there were safety in them. Nothing could exceed the bravery and coolness of the young second mate. The captain lay sick below; the first mate and the engineer were panic-stricken; but this strong, earnest voice had inspired every one through the fearful night. When it was found that some must be left behind, he decided to stay, and assisted the others with a courage and presence of mind that was beyond all praise. The smile that illuminated his face when he refused to step into the already overladen boat was like the smile of an angel. They who saw it in the light of the gray dawn would never forget. One boat drifted in to Sumatra, the other was picked up by a passing vessel. But the few who remained must have perished in any case, and among them no name so deserving of honor as that of Joseph Kenneth.

Hal read it again and again. Joseph Kenneth! Was that dear, laughing Joe, with his merry eyes, and the sauciest trick of winking in the corner of one; little Joe who had stood on his head, played circus, and, with the aid of a few old shawls, been lion, tiger, elephant, and camel; dear Joe, who had cuddled up in bed cold winter nights and almost smothered him, – Hal; who had made ghosts out of the bolster, and frightened Kit half to death! Why did he think of these foolish things now? Oh, this brave Joseph Kenneth never could be their little Joe! God surely would not give Granny this pain and anguish to bear at the last!

A hand was laid on Hal's shoulder.

"Oh! it can't be true" —

"There's just one chance out of a thousand. Hal, it seems to me the saddest thing I ever heard, and yet so grand. You see what the passengers said of him. Ah, I think he did not need to knock long at St. Peter's gate!"

The doctor wiped his eyes.

"But – never to have him – come back" —

"He has drifted into a better port, my dear boy: that must be our comfort. We shall all cross the river by and by; and it is never so hard for the one who goes, as for those who stay and bear the pain and loneliness. And some time it will be sweet to remember that he gave his brave young life for others."

Hal's eyes were tearless, and there was a hard, strained look in his face.

"Don't tell Granny now. She couldn't bear it."

"No;" and Hal's voice was full of pathetic grief.

"And oh, Hal, be comforted a little! I know there is an overwhelming anguish in it; but for the sake of those still left" —

"Yes." Hal's ashen lips quivered.

The doctor brushed away the soft hair tumbled about his forehead, and held the cold hand in his.

"God has some balm for every ache, my boy."

Hal sat there until Granny called for something, every moment growing more incredulous. But a heavy weight hung about his heart, even though he refused to believe. It seemed as if there could not be despairing certainty before to-morrow.

When Kit came home on Saturday night, and just threw his arms around Hal's neck, sobbing as if his heart had broken, it gave a strange reality to the grief and sorrow.

"I heard it on Monday, – the loss of 'The Argemone.' How proud Joe was of her! And my heart's been aching for you every day. The cruel thing of it all is, never to have him come home again."

Dot had to be taken into confidence then; but she was a discreet little thing, and quite to be trusted. She did not suffer so deeply, for Joe was only a pleasant dream to her; and she tried to comfort Hal with her sweet, winsome ways.

Granny did improve slowly. She began to sit up in the rocking-chair, walk to the window and look out, and occasionally smile, in her faint, wan fashion. They would never hear the merry chirruping laugh again, Hal thought.

But all the details of life had to be gone through with, as usual. There was the poultry to be prepared for market; for this source of their income could not be overlooked. In fact, Hal and Dot were not quite as economical managers as Granny; and then every thing was very high. They required more luxuries in sickness, and Hal would not stint. But, when this was gone, there would be the money for the flowers, and their little hoard in the bank still remained unbroken.

It was not any fear of want that troubled Hal. The old dreams and ambitions seemed to be slipping away. Sometimes even the idea of attaining to a green-house failed to charm; though he still loved his flowers passionately, and they comforted him as nothing else could have done.

One day Granny thought of Joe.

"Have we had a letter since my illness?" she asked.

"No," answered Hal faintly.

"Not since – let me see, – it was August."

Hal made no reply.

"Why – it's strange! He never did such a thing before! Hasn't any one heard?"

"I believe not." Hal turned his head, and went on with some writing.

"Seems to me you take it pretty easy," said Granny, a little vexed. "Joe never was the one to forget his home folks. Hal, something's happened: mark my words!"

Poor Hal brushed away a tear.

Then Granny gave Dot a mysterious confidence, and asked her to inquire of Mr. Terry.

"He always wrote to them, and they must know."

Dot said, in return, that they had not received a letter.

Granny then began to worry in desperate earnest, and besieged every visitor with questions and surmises. Hal was in a sore strait. Of course she must know sometime.

She made herself so nearly sick, that Dr. Meade saw the danger and harm, and felt that she had better know the truth.

"Will you tell her?" faltered Hal.

He undertook the sorrowful office. Tenderly, kindly, and yet it was a cruel wound.

"Oh, it cannot be!" she cried. "God wouldn't take him from me now that I'm old and sick and helpless! Let me see the paper."

They complied with her request, but the doctor had to read it. Her old eyes could not see a word.

"Oh, oh! Drowned in the sea! And I never wanted him to go! My poor darling! who was always so bright, so happy, and who loved his poor old Granny so well! Let me go back to bed now: I don't want to live. They're all up in heaven, —my Joe, and little Joe, and poor Dora. There is no use of staying here."

Hal soothed her with fondest love and caresses; but nothing could change the longing in her heart, the weary look in the eyes that seemed to be discerning the shore beyond, and the sad voice with its one refrain, "Poor, dear Joe!"

After that she failed rapidly. Hal scarcely left her. She used to ask him to read all the old letters over again, from the first boyish pride that so exulted in the trip to Albany. And she would recall some act of tenderness, or a gay prank at which they all had laughed.

One evening Hal felt unusually weary. There had been a warm rain for two days, with most un-December-like weather. A fire felt absolutely uncomfortable. He generally slept down on the lounge now, to be near if Granny wanted any thing. Before retiring he paid his flower-room a visit. Every thing was doing splendidly. So far business had not been very brisk; but that morning he had received an order for the next week, – Christmastide, – for all the flowers he could cut.

"Dear sweet children," he said, talking softly to himself. "If I could only have put some in his coffin, and on his grave! but to think of him lying in the sea, with the endless music over his head, and the shells tangled in his hair. O Joe! it doesn't seem a bit true, and I never can make it so."

Yet he knew in his heart that it was; and he tried to remember that Joe was up in heaven, past all pain and care, ready to welcome them as they came, one by one, – Granny first. It would be easier to give her up, because she was going to be with darling Joe.

He left the door against the hall open, it was so warm; then he took a last look at Granny, and dropped on his couch. It was a long while before he fell asleep, and then he slumbered soundly. Once he awoke with a shiver, and reached out for the blanket he had thrown off earlier in the night.

The light in the window roused him at length. How oddly it looked, and oh, how cold! Why, the panes were frosted with a thousand fairy devices! And then Hal sprang up, hurried into his clothes, and ran to the flower-room. The windows were white with frost, and the thick papers rolled to the top. Worst of all, the fire had gone out!

For a moment Hal stood in blank despair. His beautiful buds that were to be out in a few days, his tender, delicate plants! How had it happened? There must have been more ashes in the bottom of the stove than he thought; and the fire, being weak, had not kindled at all. He tore it out with eager hands. Not a spark remained. The stove was as cold as a stone.

But there was no time to waste in grief. Hal kindled his fire, and then began to drench his plants. Something might be saved.

Presently Dot's little feet pattered up the stairs.

"How we all slept!" she said. "And oh, dear! its as cold as Greenland, after the beautiful summer weather. But Hal, dear, what is the matter?"

"My fire went out."

"Will it hurt the plants?"

"Some of them;" and his voice had a great tremble in it.

"Oh, it is too bad, Hal! doesn't every thing seem to happen to us?" and tears sprang to the fond eyes.

Hal gave a long, pained sigh.

"Can't you save any of them?"

"Yes: some, I think. It might have been worse."

Dot kissed him tenderly, – it was all she could do. Then she ran down, and began to prepare breakfast.

The sun was rising; and Hal dropped the papers to keep it dark for the present, and allowed his fire to come on gradually. At first he began to take hope, for the flowers held up their heads crisply.

Alas! by noon they showed signs of drooping; and before night the buds of the tuberoses began to be slightly discolored. Poor Hal could have cried out of pure sorrow. He loved them all so dearly, and it almost seemed to him as if they suffered as well.

But the next day the ruin was plainly established. He went about with his scissors, clipping here and there. The heliotrope displayed a mass of blackened clusters; but it could be trimmed for new blossoming. Many of the more forward, choice rosebuds were ruined but the plants were not deeply injured. The bouvardias were quite spoiled; but the mignonette and alyssum were unharmed.

Hal cut a few the day before Christmas, and sent them over to Mr. Thomas. It was such a sore loss and disappointment, that it hung around him like a heavy burden. They had been counting on the money with so much pleasure.

"Never mind," exclaimed Dot cheerfully. "We will not have any extra Christmas. Granny will not be able to sit up, and there'll be no one home but Kit."

Hal brushed away a tear. To tell the truth, he felt miserably lonesome, and sick at heart. Every day the sense of loss grew upon him. He had given up hope for Granny; though she was no worse, and perhaps had improved a little in appetite. But then she did not care to get well. And the faces lost out of the home group made such a sad break.

They had received two more hopeful little notes from Charlie; but, if she was happy and prosperous, would she not be weaned away, like the one other. Joe, in his deep sea-grave, had always been tender and true.

"Christmas isn't much to us now," Hal answered, recalling the old gayety. "Yet it is too bad to put such black shadows in your life, my darling."

"The sun has never been so bright for me, you know," Dot said, in her sweet, soft voice, in which there was not a touch of complaint. "It seems as if the path had grown shady before I came to it, so I don't miss the gayety. And, while I can have you and Granny, I'll be quite satisfied."

"You are a comfort and a treasure. I'm so glad to have you, Dot, though you were a wee baby and always sick. Now and then a neighbor used to say, – 'What a blessing it would be if that child should die!' But Granny never thought so."

Dot nestled closer.

The morning had been cloudy, and about ten o'clock it commenced snowing. They did their housework, and prepared their simple dinner.

"I had resolved to go to town to-day, and buy some Christmas," said Hal. "I believe we never were quite so blue before."

"I don't suppose Kit will be able to get home this evening," Dot said slowly.

"No."

"Then we'll keep it by ourselves, Hal. It will not be so very bad."

"But to have no little gifts, – and Granny sick in bed" —

"It will not be a merry Christmas for us, dear; but there may be something pleasant in it."

Hal sighed sorrowfully. Oh, for the sweet, lost childhood!