CHAPTER XXVI.
AN ESCAPED VICTIM.
IN the quiet of Harry's own room, his uncle having spent fifteenminutes in silent and apparently puzzled thought, suddenly asked aquestion:
"When did Louis go into town?"
"Several days ago. He has a way of disappearing suddenly, not givingthe family an idea of where he is going or when he expects to return,and when he does get back he shows to any one who is not blind, that hehas been pretty low down."
"They expect him back to-morrow?"
"Why, as to that, they have been expecting him ever since he went away.I heard Miss Alice say that he went unexpectedly, leaving word that heshould probably be back to dinner."
"Harry, my boy, I am almost inclined to think that I ought to start outto-night, and try to look him up."
"To-night! Why, Uncle Harold, how could you? It would be midnight andafter before you could reach the city, and then where would you go? Theaddresses that Miss Alice can give you must be respectable places, withclosed doors to-night."
"That is true," Mr. Chessney answered, after a thoughtful pause; "itwould be a wild kind of proceeding, apparently, with very littleexcuse; and yet I am someway impressed that it is the thing to do."
Alas for the Christian world which believes in theory, that there isa direct link between the seen and the unseen, by which the earnestsoul can be told in what way to walk, and, in practice, thinks it mustsearch out its own way! Mr. Chessney did not go out in search of hisfriend. He did not even ask his Master whether it was his will thatthe apparently "wild proceeding" should be attempted. He prayed, it istrue; and he prayed for Louis Ansted, but only in a general way; andhe retired to rest, saying within himself that directly after breakfasthe would go into town and see what he could do.
Before he was awake the next morning, the piazza of the little countryhotel, where he stopped, was filled with loungers who had somethingunusual and exciting to talk about. There were a dozen differentstories, it is true; but out of them all the interested listener couldglean certain things which were painfully likely to be facts. Therehad been a runaway--to that all parties agreed; and Louis Ansted hadbeen in the carriage, and had been thrown; but whether he was killed,or only seriously hurt, or whether the horse had taken fright at theapproaching train, or whether the driver had attempted to cross therailroad-track in the face of the train, or whether there had beenany train at all, authorities differed. It was still early when HarryMatthews knocked at his uncle's door with the confused particles ofstory.
"And you don't know whether he is living, or not?" asked the startleduncle who was now making his toilet with all possible speed.
"No, I can't find out. Some of them say he was killed instantly, andothers have it that he was only stunned, and has revived. It may benothing but a scare. South Plains has so little excitement that it isapt to make as much as it can out of everything. Uncle Harold, I can'tgo up there and find out, for my train will be due in five minutes, andI must be at the telegraph office, you know."
"Yes; I will be down in less than five minutes, and will go immediatelyup there. I hope it is chiefly talk." Yet when he was left alone, hesaid aloud and mournfully: "If I had only followed my impressions lastnight!"
He had occasion to say it, or, at least, to think it often, in the dayswhich followed. South Plains had not exaggerated, this time. LouisAnsted was not dead--at least, the heart was beating; but he lay abruised, unconscious heap among the snowy draperies of his bed--hissoiled and matted clothing, which as yet they had not dared remove,telling to the practiced eye a story of more than a mere runaway. Theskillful doctor, who had already been summoned from the city, wassilent as well as skillful. He issued his orders in as few words aspossible, and kept his own counsel, until, left alone with Mr. Chessneyfor a moment, in answer to the question, "What does this stupor mean?"he shook his head.
"Hard to tell. It was on him before the accident, if that gives you anylight."
It gave him bitter light, and made him groan in spirit over the factthat he had been tempted to go out in the night and hunt for hisfriend, and had not gone.
Later in the day, bits of the facts came to him. Louis Ansted had beenalone; had hired a horse at the livery and started for home. "Moreunder the influence of liquor than usual, perhaps," the reluctanthostler at the livery had admitted, "still, I thought he would getthrough all right." For the rest, the silent lips on the bed told notales. He had been found, not very far from the railroad crossing,lying under a tree, and the horse had made his way back to the stables.Whether a train had frightened the animal, or whether being left tohimself while the driver sank into a drunken sleep had caused hisalarm, or how the accident had occurred, was left to conjecture.
His mother continually repeated the story--and succeeded in makingherself believe it--that a vicious horse had been given him, whoevidently became unmanageable at the sound of the locomotive; but someof the listeners went out and said that there was no train passingbetween the hours that the horse left the stables and returned there,and the doctor shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
Then followed one of those periods of waiting and watching which somepeople know all about; the miseries of which can only be understood byhaving to live them. The trip to the Rocky Mountains was indefinitelypostponed, and Harold Chessney, having made a journey to the city, andrearranged his business, returned to take his place among the watchers.
He was fully roused now; so were all the friends of the sufferer; his_body_ was in danger. It was not at all difficult to make his motherunderstand this, and no means were left untried by which the frailshell might possibly be rescued from impending ruin.
In this way passed weeks, while the soul of the injured man hoveredon the edge of another world. Gradually the excitement in the villagecalmed down, and everywhere outside of that house on the hill every-daylife went on again. Mr. Chessney came and went, keeping a hand on hisbusiness interests where he must, but keeping the most of his thoughtsand the most of his time waiting, in the hope that consciousness wouldreturn once more to the wreck on the bed. There was one other whowatched and waited, too, though she could not now go to the house toinquire. She could pray; and this she did. Sometimes it seemed to herthat every thought was a prayer for that periled soul. And often andoften she, too, had to think:
"What if I had been more anxious, and earnest, and constant, while thebody was comparatively in health--might not things possibly have beendifferent?"
It was in the middle of the night, and Mr. Chessney sat alone with thesick man. There was nothing to do but wait, and he had prevailed uponother weary watchers to rest, and let him take his turn. So there wasonly himself to be startled by a low voice from one who had been for somany weeks speechless: "Harold, is it you?"
Great was the rejoicing in the troubled home the next morning. Louiswas awake and conscious, knew them all, smiled feebly on his mother,and watched hungrily every movement of Mr. Chessney.
The worst was over; he would gain rapidly now. So the mother said, witheager voice and joyful eyes. Alice looked up questioningly when Mr.Chessney remained silent and grave, and as soon as opportunity came,asked her anxious question:
"Mr. Chessney, I can see that you do not share mamma's joy. Do youthink the indications unfavorable?"
"I don't know, Miss Ansted. I am not a physician, only a nurse, and Ihope I may be mistaken; but it is true that I am anxious."
And the doctor, when he came, expressed no surprise and no pleasureover the change.
"But then he is so utterly unimpressible!" said the mother, "one mightalmost as well have a marble statue for a physician."
Yet the statue worked faithfully and tirelessly, and, it must beconfessed, hopelessly. To Mr. Chessney he would talk occasionally; andthere came a day when that gentleman followed him out to the lawn.
"Doctor, what do you think?"
"That it is a charming morning."
"Doctor, is our patient gaining?"
"No."
&nb
sp; "Is there hope that he will in time?"
"No."
"Do you mean that you have no hope of his recovery?"
"None at all; have not had from the first. Brains like his neverrecover from such treatment as they have received."
"But, doctor, this is very sudden. Do you mean he will lie therehelpless for the rest of his life?"
"I don't think he will lie there three weeks longer, but he may; we arenot infallible. I shall have to hasten this morning. Young Marshallcame home in a drunken rage last night, and kicked his wife, and she isgoing to die, I think. I don't know what we doctors would do if thiswere not a free country, and liquor-sellers had not a right to killby inches all the people they choose. This victim over whom you arewatching is only one of many. That ought to comfort the friends, oughtit not? Good-morning."
"I haven't told them," said Mr. Chessney, two hours later, speakingto Claire. He had come out to get a breath of the sweet morning air,and to give Claire the news. During the weeks past, he had been verythoughtful of her anxiety, and very careful that she should receivedaily bulletins. "I have not told them, but I must. Miss Benedict, thisis the hardest task a man ever has to do. How can I tell that motherthat she has robbed herself of her son? She has steadily thwarted fortwo years every scheme that I devised to help him; and she did not knowwhat she was about, either, poor mother!"
"Did you ever try to tell her?"
"Yes, and failed, as you did. Alice told me of your effort. But I oughtto have tried again. I knew she was deceived. She thought me a fanatic,and I could have told her of scenes that would have made one of her. Ishrank from it."
It was more than two weeks before she saw him again. During this timeshe twice received little twisted slips of paper, brought to her by thefaithful Bud, and on them would be written a request that she wouldpray for a soul in peril. One long letter, blistered with tears, Alicewrote to her; the burden of it being the same; and this was all sheknew of what was passing in the house on the hill. She had not enteredit since that day when its mistress turned from her. Not that she wouldnot quickly have done so, had occasion arisen, but there seemed no needto force herself on the poor mother.
"I shall never see him again," she told herself, sorrowfully, "and Ihave seen him so many times when I might have tried to help him, anddid not!"
Then there came one brief, never-to-be-forgotten note, writtenhurriedly by Mr. Chessney:
"I believe that Louis rests in the Everlasting Arms."
One Saturday morning she was summoned to the parlor to see Mr.Chessney. He came forward quickly, with an anxious air, as of onehaving a request to make which he feared might not be granted.
"I have come for you," he said. "Louis wants to see you. I have beencharged to bring you back with me, if possible. I wish I could save youfrom this ordeal. Do you shrink from it very much?"
"No," she said with quiet gravity. "Only as one shrinks from seeingerrors that one is powerless to help. Why am I wanted, Mr. Chessney?What can I do!"
"I do not know. Louis wants you. He wishes to see you and his motherand his sister Alice together, and I shall have to add that he wants meto be present. I tried to spare you all this last, but he grew excitedover it."
"I would quite as soon have you present," Claire said, with gentlewonder. She did not understand why it was supposed to be a time ofspecial trial to her individually. If she could have heard Mrs.Ansted's voice in confidential talk with Mr. Chessney, she would havebeen enlightened.
"The girl is well enough, Mr. Chessney, and she has been of help tosome of the lower classes here during the winter. I have nothingagainst her; on the contrary, I would like to shield her. The simplefact is that she has become too deeply interested in my son. It is notstrange, I am sure, but it is sad; and that is why I do not wish Aliceto have her here at this time. As a mother, it is my duty to shieldthe girl, though I must say she showed very little consideration for amother's feelings when she talked with me." All this, and much more,which Mr. Chessney weighed, putting his nephew's views beside them, andcame to the conclusion that there was an attachment between the twoyoung people which had not been smiled upon by their elders.
Although Claire knew nothing of this, her appearance in the sick-roomwas attended with sufficient embarrassment. Mrs. Ansted received herwith a sort of grave tolerance, as one who was humoring the whim of asick man, and doing violence to her own sense of propriety thereby. Butthe change in Louis Ansted was so great, that, after the first moment,it held Claire's thoughts, to the exclusion of all trivial things.
He held toward her a thin and trembling hand, as he said:
"It was good in you to come. I have changed a great deal since thatnight you refused to ride with me, haven't I? Yes, I have changed sincethen. Has Harold told you that I have found help at last?"
"He has told me wonderful and blessed news of you," Claire said, takingthe chair that Mr. Chessney brought to the bedside. "I do not need totell you how glad I was to hear it."
"No, you don't; that is true. You have given ample proof that nothingwhich could happen to a friend of yours could rejoice you more. Iwish I had met you earlier; it would have made a difference, a greatdifference in my life. I did not know that religion meant much ofanything. Harold, here, was of your mind, but he seemed exceptional--akind of fanatic; I could not keep within sight of him. The other peoplewhom I knew intimately, seemed to have very little to do with theirreligion. I beg your pardon, mother, but that was the way it seemed tome. There are different degrees, I suppose."
"Louis, you are talking too much," here interposed Mr. Chessney, as hebrought the medicine to administer; "your pulse is rising."
"Never mind, it won't hurt me. It is almost over now; you know that,Chessney, as well as I do. And I have something to say, that for thegood of all parties concerned, must be said now. Mother, I want youto know one thing: from words which you let fall yesterday, I havediscovered that you have a mistaken idea about one matter. I am goingto die, and I am glad of it. I have gone so far down hill, that toclimb back again, for one so awfully bruised as I am, would be hard,very hard; perhaps the Lord sees that it would be impossible, and sogives me this easy way. But, mother, before I go, I want to tell yousomething which will remove from your mind a false impression. I sawmy danger some time ago, and struggled for a way of escape. It was aweak way that I chose; God would not let me build on it. I fancied thatif I could have Claire Benedict for my wife, I could be a good andtrue man. I implored her to help me in this way, and she utterly andhopelessly refused.
"You know why I am telling you this, but she does not, and I ask her toforgive me."