Kitabı oku: «Belford's Magazine, Vol 2, December 1888», sayfa 13

CHAPTER VIII.
FIRE

The snow was deep in the forest. It upholstered the gaunt branches of the giant trees; it clung tenaciously to the leafless twigs; it encrusted the millions of pine needles; it covered the rough mountain-sides: it piled up its crystals in the deep ravines, where the deer hid; it lay like a warm blanket over the wheat; it spread all over the land, a great white silence, through which the river and creek, spellbound, flowed without a murmur.

Thus it had lain for three months – December, January, February. The clouds, jealous of the sun and proud of their artistic skill in softening the face of Nature, grim and gaunt in her winter's sleep, came almost daily and sifted fresh snow upon that already fallen, which the winds and sun were in alliance to disfigure and soil.

March had just come. Each day the sun rose more confident of victory. Ere long he would succeed in making Nature look like an old wanton, her powdered face tear-streaked and unsightly.

On the last night of February the clock in Lizzī's room made one quick guess at the time, and brought her back from a flight of fancy. She was startled to see that it was one o'clock, and resumed the sewing that had lain neglected in her lap, while her thoughts roved.

She was sewing in secret, with the blind of the window down and her candle shaded. The garment she was fashioning was one of those almost shapeless infant robes that the inventive skill of dawning motherhood makes so diversely pretty and daintily ungraceful. She had begun to fold a plait in it, and paused to debate with herself on the size of the fold.

"If I was sure it would be a boy I'd make these pleats wider," she murmured.

From that her thoughts had wandered until she was recalled to her work by the striking of the clock. For another hour she worked diligently, then arose and put the sewing away where her mother would not be likely to find it. After that she blew out the candle and raised the blind for a last look that night at the store. The moonlight streamed into the window, dazzling her eyes accustomed to the candle-light. She shut them quickly in pain, and when she opened them a thrill of terror passed over her.

She saw a great column of smoke rising from the roof of the store, and a little flame leaping up through it.

The next moment, an axe in her hand, she was on the street.

"Fire! Fire! The store's on fire!"

Her clear voice rang wild and sharp on the still night air. The echoes mocked her.

"Colonel Hornberger, get up!"

With her axe's handle she rattled fierce blows on the front door of the proprietor's house.

"Help! Help!"

The echoes hurled back her voice mockingly:

"Help! ha, ha!"

"He is dead," she thought, "and the echoes are making fun of me."

Cry after cry she uttered in her anguish, fierce alarm-notes that aroused the heavy sleepers and brought them to the windows, only to hastily throw on some clothes and rush to the rescue, for they all knew that Gill slept in the store and even then might be dead.

Oh! Lizzī's strength! No longer screaming in terror, no more exhausting her breath by calling for help, she dealt mighty blows with the axe against the door of the office, above which her husband slept. Giant strokes, rapid, unerring, concentrated, made effective by the skill of a woodman, the strength of despair and the agony of love. Against them the door could not stand. It fell in, cut off its hinges. A great volume of smoke rolled out and beat her back.

A closed door separated the office from the store and was a barrier to the flames which were raging in the store-room.

Drawing a full breath and bowing low, Lizzī plunged into the office and reached the stair door. Well she knew the way. The door was closed, and she was so unnerved with joy that for a moment she clung to the latch and listened to the flames roaring in the store. She could see them through the window which give light from the office to the rear of the store, and they fascinated her. The heat cracked the glass in the window, and a tongue of flame leaped towards the opening made by a falling pane.

This recalled Lizzī to a sense of the danger and the need for urgent action. She jerked the door open, breaking the latch, and sped up the stairs, chased by a volume of smoke. To her horror it filled the room, else it was in her eyes. Thank God! she had brought the axe. Staggering to the windows, she smashed them both and knocked the shutters open, giving vent to the smoke.

She could not see Gill, but she knew just where he lay. With an effort she reached the bed. Her mouth was firmly closed, but her strength was almost gone Her trembling hands touched him. He was motionless.

Then when her heart had almost stopped and she was falling in a swoon, the flames burst into the room, lighting up Gill's face upturned and white. Uttering a scream, she caught him up in her arms, became strong again in desperation, and leaped recklessly down the stairs. Tottering with her burden into the street; she sank unconscious at the feet of Cassi, who, hearing her cries, had come running, the first to answer her call.

There had not been so much smoke in Gill's room as Lizzī had imagined, and he soon recovered consciousness in the cold air.

There was no hope for the store, and no one remembered the office books. A little presence of mind and prompt action on the part of first-comers might have saved them, but every one was so excited over Lizzī's daring and remarkable strength in saving Gill from a horrible death that all else was forgotten. Some ran for the doctor and others tried to restore her to consciousness, Colonel Hornberger encouraging them.

"Never mind the store," he exclaimed. "The fire is only making away with the old stock and giving Gill and me an excuse for a trip to the city. But save that brave girl if possible."

He tore off his coat and threw it over Lizzī, who lay on an improvised couch of store boxes, hastily placed together by willing hands.

"Heavens, what a woman!"

He uttered the words impulsively as he gazed admiringly upon her.

Other men followed his example, and they stood shivering, while their coats covered Lizzī.

She lay still. The weird red light of the roaring flames could not even tint her face, so white and cold it was.

Over her bent the man whose life she had saved. His face was firm, his eyes were dry, his pulse was steady. His only speech, a question spoken in a low tone, sent a thrill through the crowd, in which were now a number of women.

"Will the doctor never come?" he asked.

Coatless and inefficient, the men stood at a respectful distance from Lizzī, over whom Cassi bent, speaking to her in fond tones, and their stern silence checked the gabble of the women, who knew not what to do to restore her to life, but had suggested many things that night avail.

A shriek, the quavering cry of old age, nor piercing, but heart-rending, broke from the lips of Lizzī's mother, as half clad, she pushed feebly her way through the yielding crowd and fell across her daughter's body.

Colonel Hornberger put his arm around her and lifted her away from the boxes.

"Here, Gret Reed, you take charge of Mrs. McAnay. Go with her to my house."

Gret obeyed the excited proprietor, and as she supported the moaning woman along the street they met Hunch leading Blind Benner.

"She's dead!" Mrs. McAnay exclaimed. "My Lizzī's dead! my Lizzī's dead! Oh! oh!"

Blind Benner heard her and stopped. "Take me away, Hunch," he pleaded, "take me away."

Hunch turned towards the Block. Tears streamed from the blind man's eyes, and sobs choked him. After going a few steps he halted and faced the fire. Hunch, obedient to his every wish, let go the hand he shook as if to free it. They were near the fire, and its heat burned Blind Benner's face. Hunch stood with his back to it, watching its light on the snow-covered mountain.

A quick movement on the part of Bind Benner attracted his attention. He turned around and saw the blind man running straight to the fire. Shouting to him to stop, Hunch started after him, but he was running swiftly without stumbling, and there seemed small hope of catching him.

Gret looked over her shoulder on hearing Hunch's cries, and saw that Blind Benner meant to commit suicide. Clear as a bell her voice rang out in the only lie she ever told.

"Benner, you have passed the fire; turn back."

The doubt she raised checked him for only a moment, but long enough to bring Hunch upon him. In a twinkling his feet were knocked from under him and Hunch sat upon his prostrate form.

The messenger who had been sent for the doctor brought back word that he had not returned from a late call up Boomer Creek.

"My God, she will die!" Gill groaned, "and for me!"

His words scored sympathizing hearts and indented faithful memories.

The store building was dry as tinder and burned very rapidly. The roof had fallen in before Gill recovered consciousness, and soon after the walls toppled into the cellar.

The news of the doctor's absence sent a pang to the hearts of all, and hope for Lizzī was abandoned, she being beyond the restorative power of the water which had been dashed in her face.

A hastily constructed stretcher, made of two benches from the tavern fastened together, was brought, and Lizzī's limp form was laid upon it. Coats were her mattress, and coats her covering. Four strong men lifted the stretcher and headed the procession, which filed silently around the rapidly lessening blare. Gill and Cassi came next, walking arm in arm, the former wearing a coat that a brawny man had thrown over his shivering shoulders.

When the column came to where the front entrance of the store had been, Hunch and Blind Benner were struggling in the water made by the snow melting in the heat of the fire. "What's this?" sternly demanded Colonel Hornberger, who broke into a laugh before he received an answer. The fire excitement was still working in him.

"He tried ter burn hisself an' I wouldn't let him," Hunch replied.

"What did he want to do that for?" asked the Colonel.

"Cause Lizzī's dead."

Thus was told in simple words to the people of Three Sisters what Lizzī herself had not known, that Blind Benner loved her.

Simultaneously with this disclosure came the sound of a horse galloping over the Boomer Creek bridge. The horse came rapidly nearer, and soon his hoofs resounded from the long bridge that spanned the river.

It was a wild gallop, yet the horse ran as if some one sat him urging him on.

"The doctor," surmised every one, and the procession halted. Hunch voiced the general guess to Blind Benner, whom he yet held on the ground.

"The doctor's comin'. He'll bring Lizzī back ter life, see if he don't, Benner."

The blind man ceased struggling, and Hunch let him get on his feet, but watched him warily.

A shout of glad welcome greeted the familiar roan that "saddle-bags," as the Three-Sisters folk would call their physician, always rode when visiting distant patients or in response to urgent calls. The men who bore the stretcher set it down, in readiness for Dr. Barnes, as he reined his horse in the midst of the crowd of men and women who pressed dangerously near the excited animal. Strong hands seized the bridle and muscular arms almost pulled the physician from the saddle, while Colonel Hornberger graphically narrated the story of Gill's rescue and told of Lizzī's swoon which was like death.

"She's choked with the smoke, Lizzī is, and don't come to," said Cassi, piteously.

Garrulous women pushed forward to furnish the doctor with details of the rescue and praise Lizzī, but he would not listen to them. He pressed his ear to Lizzī's bosom and silence fell on the spectators. He raised his head, and they, eager, expectant, saw no encouragement in his face. From his pocket he produced a small mirror and wiped it dry with a silk handkerchief. He held it a moment over Lizzī's mouth and smiled.

The air quivered with shouts, the boisterous hurrahs of the men, the shrill huzzas of the women.

CHAPTER IX.
A LETTER FROM GILL'S MOTHER

Lizzī recovered soon after she was placed in her bed. Gret Reed had aided the physician, and was the first person Lizzī saw when her eyes dreamily opened. They closed again at once, for from downstairs Gill's voice reached her ears, and she knew he was safe. She was ill (she would laugh at the word) but a day.

When the excitement over her had subsided, wondering inquiries as to the origin of the fire began to be voiced. Gill was called to account for going to bed with his clothes on.

"I was working late at the books," he said, "it being the end of the month, and I got so sleepy and tired that I just pulled off my coat and threw myself on the bed and fell asleep."

Colonel Hornberger believed him, and no one had reason to suspect him.

The origin of the fire remained a mystery, but the loss occasioned by the destruction of the store was severe upon the Three Sisters people. Colonel Hornberger set out at once for the city to buy a new stock, first making arrangements with the proprietors of the nearest store to supply his employés with necessities. The Colonel took Gill with him.

Before departing, the latter called upon Lizzī and, in the presence of her family, feelingly expressed his gratitude for the heroic rescue of his unworthy life. He depreciated himself modestly, and the McAnays thought him very unassuming. Lizzī put up her hand in glad protest as she heard his graceful sentences, conveying to her a deeper meaning than thankfulness.

"When I come back," was their promise, "then," they said to her, "I shall acknowledge you as my wife, Lizzī."

The Colonel was expeditious, and soon returned with a large stock of goods, some of which were stored in the warehouse at the station; the balance was placed upon the shelves of the temporary building that had been erected in his absence. For a few days Gill was very busy, and his visits to Lizzī were only short calls.

One evening he came early, evidently with the intention of making a visit. Soon he and Lizzī were left alone together.

"I have had a letter from mother, Lizzī," Gill said eagerly, but his tone was not loud. "Such a letter about you and the fire, and I am sure all I have to do is to go and see her, and she will be only too glad to receive you as her daughter."

Lizzī stood still. Her heart beat so hard she thought it would burst, and the color deepened on her cheek. She had few tricks. Her honest nature expressed itself simply. She was glad, and her face and posture were the manifestations of her joy. She was one of the few persons with whom words at times have too deep meaning to be uttered, and whose actions are the sole exponents of their feeling.

Gill said quietly:

"Sit down, dear, and I will read you the letter."

But she could not do so without giving vent to her feelings, which she did in the very undramatic act of poking the fire. She did it vigorously, and the click of the metal stove doors as she closed them was a "There now" to her mood. Then she sat down ready to listen. He began at once.

"'My dear son, doubly precious to me because of your nearness to a horrible death, give my love to the brave girl who saved you to me. Some day she may know from the anguish of her own heart over a child's peril how much I mean when I say I am grateful to her. Words cannot be stronger than that. If she is ever a mother, she will learn that it is the parent's love alone that endures in all its sensitiveness.

"'But I am jealous, weakly, selfishly jealous of the grand girl of whom you write so admiringly. It seems to me I detect in your sentences the evidence that she has dethroned me in your heart, where until now I flatter myself I have been first.

"'You say she is beautiful, womanly; that her great physical strength does not detract from her femininity; that she is always a modest, gentle woman. I am glad to know it, and if you love her I cannot be so cruel as to execute the threat I wrote so fiercely some time ago, when I guessed you were losing your heart. I guess again, John: Lizzī is the woman you wrote of then. But come home; come and tell me about her who has saved your life, and against whom I have not the heart to hurl my former threat.

Your fond Mother.'"

Lizzī took the letter and looked at it. The beautiful, clear writing was the same as that of the other letter, which had led to her secret marriage. Now the obstacles to the acknowledgment of that ceremony were, or soon would be, removed. She clasped her hands, enfolding in them the letter, and sat still, listening to her heart beating a reveillé for the sunrise of certainty. She had been living in the night of doubt. She had been afraid of this formidable mother, who wrote so beautifully and coldly, but now this fear was banished, and love, reciprocally grateful, took its place. Her heart went out to the fond, yet jealous, mother who had written so yieldingly of her. This mother had clung so determinedly to her son, but now she loosed her grasp on him that he might tend whither he would, because his way led to her, Lizzī.

She was flattered by the manner in which Gill had written to his mother of her. "For," she reasoned, "a man will be honest with his mother."

"Go, John," she said simply. "Your mother should know before the world does."

"I think it best, Lizzī. I shall come back in two weeks unless something happens to me."

"Don't say that, John, or you can't go. If anything should happen to you, death would happen to me."

She kissed him. Her kiss was fire to his blood. He caught her in a passionate embrace. His lack of reverence wounded her. She shrank from his touch, which for the first time seemed coarse. Instinctively he understood and released her.

The next day he departed for his mother's residence.

CHAPTER X.
BLIND BENNER'S TRIBUTE

The two weeks of Gill's absence ran into six and he had not come back. Lizzī wrote to the address he gave, and the letter was returned to her. Gossip said he had deserted her, but she said to her broken heart, "John is dead."

She recalled his fond good-by and his promise to return, with or without his mother's approval of his marriage, at the end of two weeks. She remembered his cavalier appearance as he rode by the Block and waved her a farewell. She heard still the sound of his horse's hoofs in the long bridge. She knew he had considerable money on his person, and supposed some one had murdered him for it. She was left a widow, indeed.

Yet she held her peace and bore herself proudly as ever. Her eyes did not quail before the cold stare of the matrons. Her honest heart sustained her. It did not cry out, "Shame! shame!" So she did not seclude herself, nor was she forward. When necessity called her into the streets, she courageously faced her old acquaintances and bore with patience their scorn. Two women were kind to her and sad for her, but were not oppressive in their attentions. These were Mrs. Hornberger and Gret Reed. Yet she did not seek the comfort of their sympathy, nor once become weak enough to ask them to believe in her. Appearances were against her, but she never intimated that she could produce legal proof of her innocence. Her heart cried out in woe, "I am bereft," and there was no solace for her, grieving for her dead husband. She could not weep, because the tears would be misconstrued.

Her father's kind words had been a great support to her.

"Ye may have gone wrong, Lizzī, but I'll ne'er believe it till ye tell it me."

The deep tenderness of his tones had touched her where the tears lay, and they rose, overflowing the obstruction her will had built against their flood. She fell at his feet. It was Saturday night, and he sat in his split-bottomed chair, resting. She laid her head on his knee, and sobbed and wept convulsively. His shaking hand stroked caressingly her soft black hair, and he murmured low lullaby words as if soothing a child. His conviction had been unhesitatingly expressed, but his sympathy could not find suitable language except in a song that was used to hush a crying infant.

He was seventy years old. His hair and beard were pure white. His broad chest and square shoulders told the story of his vigorous age. It was not to frown that he contracted his eyebrows, but to narrow his vision, while he fixed a gentle look on his daughter, for whom his heart ached, but in whom he believed. No, he did not frown on her. He never did shadow her babyhood, her childhood, her dawning womanhood, nor now would he her approaching motherhood, by scowl of his. He sat bowing above his daughter, not casting a stone at her, but quivering over her head a blessing of trust.

His wife tottered down the stairs, and Lizzī made a movement as if to arise, but he kept her at his knee.

Mrs. McAnay was not a hard woman, but she had to the full measure her sex's vindictiveness against the woman who is weak and it was difficult for her not to relieve her mind of what she considered its just sentiments towards her daughter. Yet she pitied Lizzī. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and gazed wonderingly at the father and daughter. Peter did not speak and Lizzī remained on her knees. Mrs. McAnay slowly approached her child and bent over her.

"I am glad yer confessin', girl," she said in a weak, quavering voice.

Lizzī shivered. Her mother's hand resting on her head was not cold, but the knowledge that she yet withheld from her parents what they should know sent a chill to her heart.

"Tain't that yet, mother," said Peter, "for I'm thinkin' she ain't got anything to confess that's wrong. I was sayin' something to her that made her cry, that's all."

The door opened, and Levi and Matthi entered. Lizzī had not yet risen, and her mother stood over her.

The boys stopped at the door, and would have gone out again had not their father bade them stay. They knew no law higher than obedience to their venerable father. So they remained, awkwardly seating themselves, while Lizzī rose to her feet and buried her tear-stained face in her hands. An embarrassing silence fell on the group. It was broken by the entrance of Cassi and Blind Benner. Cassi saw at a glance that a family scene was in progress, and he started to escort Blind Benner to the door, but Peter said he was welcome. Cassi seated Benner, and then leaned against the wall.

"Boys!"

Peter had risen, and at the sound of his voice addressing them Levi and Matthi stood up, and Cassi took a step from the wall. "Boys, I've been tellin' yer sister that I don't believe she has gone wrong, and I want to know if you think as I do."

"Yes."

A volley of affirmation, a single unflagging response, which Lizzī echoed by a sob, and their mother heard with pride, but still she doubted. She went from one son to the other, kissing each in turn, yet she doubted her daughter.

Blind Benner had groped his way to Lizzī, and caught her right hand just as it was going to produce her marriage certificate.

"Listen!" he said as he held her hand in both of his. "Listen an' I'll tell yer all 'bout Lizzī."

An expectant hush fell upon the group, and even Lizzī's thumping heart beat more softly as she awaited her blind friend's story.

"My eyes are only a joke." He spoke like a wise cynic. "They don't see. Hunch says they look like good eyes an' move an' wink like other people's. 'Tain't no use their winkin', 'cause the light don't hurt them."

Very bitterly he spoke the last sentence as he winked his eyes sarcastically.

"But my ears, they're good; they know." His tone became more cheerful, but no less earnest. "They hear well, better than you folks see. They know when the birds laugh and when they cry, when they're glad and when they're sad. They know when the fiddle's in tune. They know a right sound. No, I've no eyes to see the white snow, er the blue sky, er the green grass; but my ears hears the wind in the trees, and it never lies ter me. I know when it's mad, when it's sad, when it's glad. So is Lizzī's voice ter me, like the wind among the trees that never lies ter me. I hev never seen Lizzī's face, but I hev heard her voice. I know when she's glad, when she's mad, when she's sad. I hev heard her sing her baby songs when she thought nobody was listenin', an' she sings 'em like my mother did, an' my mother wasn't false; no more is Lizzī."

The men clamored their approval of Blind Benner's tribute to Lizzī, but Mrs. McAnay remained silent, still doubting, and Lizzī, though her heart hungered for her mother's trust, would not ask for it.