CHAPTER XVI
A GOOD SAMARITAN
"Never! Never! I'd rather die right here in the woods!" cried Dorothy,aghast. "Dead or alive that man shall never get me in his power again.But I'm not afraid. God is good to orphan children--He will take care ofme--He will, He will!"
In some way she managed to get upon her knees and the next flash oflightning showed her thus, with her face uplifted and her hands clasped,while an agony of supplication was in her wide brown eyes.
Religion was an unknown thing to poor Jim Barlow, whose simple integritywas of nature, not culture. His Sundays had been merely days on which totoil a little harder against the morrow's market, nor had he ever beeninside a church. But something in the sight of this child kneelingthere in the night and the storm touched an unknown chord of his soul,and before he knew it he was kneeling beside her. Not to pray, as shedid, but to hold her firmly, to comfort her by his human touch for thisfresh terror he did not understand.
After a moment she turned and sat down again and said just as firmly asbefore, but quite calmly now:
"If you want to go back you may. I shall not. God will take care of me,even if you leave me all alone. I've asked Him."
"Leave you alone? I hadn't thunk of it. What you mean?"
"You said we must go back. I shall not."
"_Pshaw!_" It was several seconds before honest Jim could say anythingmore, but those five letters held a world of meaning. Finally, he wasable to add to them and to help her seat herself again on the ground,and he is scarcely to be blamed if he did this with some force. From hispoint of view Dorothy was stupid. She should have known that he nevergave up doing that to which he had set his hand. He had promised to gether back to Baltimore, some way, and he would keep his promise. Withanother, rather milder "Pshaw!" he explained:
"Go back an' try the road, silly! These cross-cuts are dreadfulonsartain. Full o' blackberry bushes an' thorny stuff would hurt atougher foot 'an yourn. More'n that: shoes made out o' rags an' paperain't much good in a rain storm. We'll get back to the road. Even that'sa long way off, but it's over open medders an' it's so dark nobody won'tsee us er stop us. It ain't rainin' nigh so hard now. You eat a bite,then we'll try agin."
"Oh! forgive me, Jim Barlow, for thinking you would be so mean. I'lltrust you now, no matter what happens, but I don't want to eat. Ican't--yet."
"Does your foot hurt bad?"
"Not--not--so very!"
"Well, hold on. I'll break that there sapling off an' make you a stickto help walk on. 'Tother hand you can lean on my shoulder. Now, soon'syou say the word we'll go. Not the way we come, but another, slatin'er.Try?"
They stood up: Dorothy with more pain than she would acknowledge, butputting a brave face on the matter, and Jim more anxious than he hadever been about anybody in his life. He didn't speculate as to why allthese strange things had come into his life, as Dorothy had done, but heaccepted them as simple facts of which he must make the best. The besthe could make of this present situation was to get this lamed girl to apublic highway as soon as he could. Even that might be deserted now, ona rainy Saturday night, but he hoped for some help there.
"Now--come."
Dorothy made a valiant effort and managed to get ahead a few inches.Then, half-laughing, half-crying, she explained:
"I can't manage it. I can't walk on one foot and drag the other.I--Can't you hide me here, somewhere, and go on by yourself, then sendsomebody back after me? Would it be safe, do you think?"
"No, 'twouldn't, an' I shan't. If you can't walk--then hop!"
So, resting one hand on his shoulder and the other upon the stick he hadbroken, the girl--hopped! It was very awkward, very painful, and veryslow; but it was only the slowness that mattered. This was exasperatingto one whose blood was in a ferment of anxiety to be at her journey'send. Even Jim lost patience after they had gone some distance andstopped short, saying, with a sigh:
"This won't do. I'll have to haul you. You're limpin' worse all thetime, an' it'd take a month o' Sundays to travel a mile this gait. Now,whilst I stoop down, you reach up an' put your arms 'round my neck. Makeyourself light's you can, an' we'll try it that way a spell. When I ginout we'll wait an' rest. Now ketch hold!"
He took her staff in one hand, stooped his back like a bow, and Dorothyclasped her arms about his shoulders. Then he straightened himself andher feet swung clear of the ground. Fortunately, she was slight and hestrong, and for another little while they proceeded quite rapidly. Also,he knew perfectly well the direction he ought to take, even in thisdarkness of night; and he was accustomed to walking in the fields. Then,suddenly, he had to stop.
"Guess we better rest a spell. 'Twon't do to get _all_ tuckered outfirst off;" and with that he dumped her on the wet grass, very much ashe might a sack of meal. Then he sat down himself, while she merrilycried:
"That's the first time I've been carried pick-a-back since I was ever solittle! How splendid and strong you are! Do you suppose we have comehalf-way yet?"
"Half-way? Pshaw! We ain't got no furder 'an the first half-mile, if sofur. My sake, girls are orful silly, ain't they?"
Dorothy's temper flamed. She felt she had been very brave, for her foothad swollen rapidly and pained her greatly, yet she had suppressed everygroan and had made "herself as light as she could," according to Jim'scommand. Now she would have none of his help. No matter what shesuffered she would go on by herself. Then some evil thing tempted her toask:
"Do you know where you're going, Jim Barlow, anyway?"
And he retorted with equal spirit:
"D' you s'pose I'd haul such a heavy creatur' 's you so fur on a wrongroad?"
After which little interchange of amenities, the pair crawled forwardagain and came at last to a hedge of honeysuckle bordering a wide lane.The fragrance brought back to Dorothy's memory her own one, carefullytended vine in the little garden on Brown Street, and sent a desolatefeeling through her heart. Sent repentant tears, also, to her eyes andmade her reach her hand out toward her companion, with a fresh apology:
"Jim, I've got to say 'forgive me,' again and--I do say it--yet I hateit. You've been so good and--Smell the honeysuckle! My darling fatherJohn told me there were quantities of it growing wild all throughMaryland, but I never half-believed it before. It makes me cry!"
"Set down an' cry, then, if you want to. I just as lief's you would. I'mtired."
This concession had the remarkable effect of banishing tears fromDorothy's eyes. She had tottered along on one foot and the tips of thetoes of the other, till the injured one had become seriously strainedand pained her so that rest she must, whether he were willing or not. Itwas comparatively dry on the further side the hedge, and the vinesthemselves, so closely interwoven, made a comfortable support for theirtired backs. As she leaned against it, the girl's sense of humor madeher exclaim:
"That's the funniest thing! I felt I must cry my eyes out, yet when yousaid 'go ahead and do it,' every tear dried up! But, I'm sleepy. Do yousuppose we dare go to sleep for a few minutes."
"Pshaw! I'm sleepy, too. An' I'm goin'--s'posin' er no s'posin'."
After that, there was a long silence under the honeysuckle hedge. Asecond shower, longer and more violent than the first, arose, and dashedits cool drops on the faces of these young sleepers, but they knewnothing of that. The storm cleared and the late moon came out and shoneupon them, yet still they did not stir. It was not until the sun itselfsent its hot, summer rays across their closed lids that Jim awoke andsaw a man standing beside them in the lane and staring at Dorothy withthe keenest attention.
Instantly the lad's fear was alert. He had not spoken of it to Dorothy,but he knew that many others besides himself must have seen thatwonderful advertisement in the daily paper; and though he was not wiseenough to also know that every wandering child would suggest to somebodythe chance of earning that five hundred, he had made up his mind thatnobody should earn it. Dorothy should be restored without price, and hehad promised her his should be the task. There was that
about thisstaring stranger which made him throw a protecting arm over the stillsleeping Dorothy and say:
"Well! Think you'll know us when you see us agin?"
"Come, come, boy! keep a civil tongue in your head. Who is that littlegirl?"
"None o' your business."
"Hold on. I'll make it my business, and lively, too, if you don't lookout. Where'd you two come from?"
"Where we was last at."
"You scallawag! Your very impudence proves you're up to some mischief,but I'll ask you once more, and don't you dare give me a lying answer:Where did you two come from?"
"Norphan asylum," said Jim, patting Dorothy's hand to quiet her alarm;for she had, also, waked and was frightened by the stranger, as well asby that strange numbness all through her body and the terrible pain inher foot.
"Girl, what's your name?"
Dorothy did not answer. She did not appear even to hear, but with astupid expression turned her head about on the honeysuckle branches andagain closed her eyes. Part of this dullness was real, part was feigned.She felt very ill and, anyway, there was Jim. Let him do what talkingwas necessary.
Again the stranger demanded:
"Who is that girl? Where did you get her? Is she deaf and dumb--or justa plain everyday fool?"
"Dunno, stranger. Give it up," said Jim, at the same time managing tonudge Dorothy unperceived, by way of hint that that suggesteddeaf-and-dumbness might serve them well.
The man who was quizzing them so sharply had been riding a spiritedhorse, which now began to prance about the lane in a dangerous way, andfor the moment distracted his attention from the children. Indeed, inorder to quiet the animal he had to mount and race it up and down for atime, though he by no means intended to leave that place until he hadsatisfied himself whether this were or were not the missing little girl,of whose disappearance all the papers were now so full. If it were andfive hundred dollars depended on her rescue from that countrybumpkin--he was the man for the rescue! Being none other than a suburban"constable" with a small salary, as well as a local horse jockey,exercising a rich gentleman's new hunter--also for hire.
As he galloped past them, to and fro, Dorothy grew more and morefrightened and ill. Her long sleep in her water-soaked clothing, addedto the pain in her foot and her lack of food, affected her seriously;and a bed with warm blankets and hot drinks was what she needed justthen. Finally, when to the thud of the racer's feet there also soundedthe rumble of approaching wheels, she felt that her doom was sealed andlet her tears stream freely over her wan, dirt-streaked cheeks.
Jim, also, felt a shiver of fear steal through his long limbs, andinstinctively drew his young charge closer to him, resolved to protecther to the last. But, as the wheels drew nearer, there was mingled withtheir rumble the notes of a good old hymn, and presently both wheels andmusic came to an abrupt halt before the hedge and the forlorn pairhalf-hidden in it.
"Why, bless my heart! Younkers, where'd you hail from? and why should apretty little girl be crying on the first Sunday morning in June? Wheneverything else in God's dear world is fairly laughing with joy! Why,honey, little one--what--what--what!"
It was a tiny, very rickety gig from which the singer had leaped withthe agility of youth, though his head was almost white, and greengoggles covered his faded old eyes; and he had not finished speakingbefore he had climbed upon the bank to the hedge and had put hisfatherly arms around the sobbing Dorothy.
She opened her own eyes long enough to see that benignant, grizzledcountenance close to her, and--in an instant her arms had clasped aboutthe stranger's neck! With the unerring instinct of childhood she knew afriend at first glance, and she clung to this man as if she would neverlet him go, while the astonished Jim looked on, fairly gasping for thebreath that he at last emitted in the one word: "P-S-H-A-W!!" Here wasanother phase of that changeable creature--girl! To cry her eyes out atsight of one stranger and to fling herself headlong into the arms ofanother--not half so good looking!
Leaning back among the vines and coolly folding his arms, the farm-boyresigned himself to whatever might come next. He had most carefullyplanned all their trip "home" and not a single detail of it had followedhis plan. "Give it up!" he remarked for the second time, and wasimmediately answered by the old man:
"No, you don't. Nobody decent ever does give up in this sunshiny worldof God's. That isn't what He put us in it for, but to keep right onjogging along, shedding happiness, loving Him, being content. How didthis poor little darling ever hurt her tiny foot like that?"
Already the old fellow had Dorothy on his lap and was examining withcareful tenderness the angry-looking wound she had received, while hercurly head rested as contentedly against his breast as if it had beenthat of father John himself.
She opened her lips to tell, but she was too tired. Indeed, if she hadfelt equal to the labor of it she would have poured forth her wholestory then and there. But it is doubtful if he would have tarried tohear it, for he rose at once, carrying the girl in his arms so gently,so lovingly, that a great wave of happiness swept over her, and sheflashed her own old beautiful smile into his goggles:
"Oh! you good man. God sent you, didn't He?"
"Sure, sure! To you, one of His lambs! Come, son. We'll be going! Thispoor little foot must be attended to right away, and this is my 'busyday.' On my way to preach at an early service, for the poor colored folkwho can't come later. Then to another one for scattered white folks--therest of the day at the hospitals--Why, bless my heart! If my Sundayswere fifty times as long I could fill every minute of them with theMaster's work!"
More nimbly than Jim could have done, the happy old man scrambled backinto the gig, never once releasing his hold of Dorothy, gathered up hisreins, bade the lad "Hang on behind, some way!" chirruped to his sleepynag, and drove on singing out of the lane.
"Bringing in the sheaves! Bringing in the sheaves! We will come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves!"
Once, in a pause of his song, Dorothy reached up and stroked his cheek,saying:
"You're taking me home, aren't you!"
"Sure, sure! To my home, first, to your home next--if I can;--to yourheavenly home, when the Master wills."
His home came soon; a tiny, one-storied building with but two rooms, akitchen and bedroom; smaller, even, than the cottage of Miranda Stott,but far neater and cozier. At its door the old minister sprang from thegig and directed Jim to leave it where it stood.
"Old Nan won't move unless she's bid. I'll fix up this little one'swound while you get breakfast. Happens I haven't had my own, yet, and Iknow you haven't had yours. The coffee's in that canister on the shelf.The fire's ready to the match--and the match right here! There's boiledham in that cupboard, potatoes to fry, in the ice-box in the shed, breadand butter in the cellar, as well as a pail of milk. Show yourself a manby setting the table, my boy. How glad I am to have company! I try tohave somebody most the time; but I don't often get them so easily asI've gotten you two. Young folks, besides; you ought to eat lots! whichwill give me extra appetite--not that I need it, oh no! A finedigestion is another of my Father's good gifts to me; and do you know,laddie, that I rarely have to buy the food to feed my guests? Alwayscomes in of its own accord, seem's if. Of the Lord's accord, more truly.He's not the One to bid you feed the hungry and give drink to thethirsty without providing the means. 'Old St. John's' is known as a free'hotel' in all this countryside, and my children--In His Name I bid youwelcome to it this glorious Sunday morning!"
Dorothy was on the bed in the inner room, and all the time he wastalking her jolly host was also attending to her as well as to Jim. Shewas better already, simply from the cheer of his speech, and that senseof perfect security that had come to her so promptly. Such a well-storedlittle house as that was! From somewhere, out came a bundle of bandagesalready prepared, a box of soothing ointment, and a basin of soft warmwater to bathe the jagged wound.
"Learned to be a sort of doctor, too, you see. Never know when a bodymay come limping up, needing car
e--just as you have. Tear my bandagesevenings when it rains. Never have to buy the muslin or linen--neighborsall save it for me. Boy--what's your name?--just turn those potatoesagain. The secret of nice fried potatoes is to keep them stirred tillevery bit is yellow-browned, even and tasty. It's a sin, the way somepeople cook; spoiling the good gifts of the Lord by their owncarelessness. Put into everything you do--milking, plowing, cooking,preaching, praying, the very best that's in you! That's the way to getat the core of life, at its deepest-down happiness and content. That'sgood! I reckon you're the right sort, only want a little training. Theway you slice that ham shows you're thorough. Now, watch me settle thiscoffee and then--for all Thy Mercies, Lord, we humbly thank Thee."
Such a breakfast as that had never been spread before Jim Barlow.Dorothy had enjoyed many fine ones in her own happy home, but even shefound this something out of common; and from the chair of state in whichshe had been placed at the head of the little table, beamed satisfactionon the others while she poured their coffee, as deftly as if she were,indeed, the "little woman" the old man called her.
When the meal was over, said he:
"Lad, I'm a busy man, you seem to be an idle fellow. I'll leave you towash the dishes and put away the food. Carefully, as you found it,against the need of the next comer. My name is Daniel St. John. My prideit is to bear the name of that disciple Jesus loved. Good-bye. Tarryhere as long or as short a time as you will. I never lock the door.Good-bye. If we do not meet again on earth, I shall look for you inHeaven."
He was already passing out into the sunshine but Dorothy cried afterhim:
"One moment, please. You have told us your name, but we haven't told youours. Yes, Jim, I shall tell! It's right and this dear man will help us,not hinder. So you needn't hold up your finger that way. Mr. St. John, Ithank you, we both thank you, more than we can say. That boy's name isJames Barlow. He's an orphan. I'm an orphan, too. My name is----"
"Thank you for confidence. If my day didn't belong to the Master, not tomyself, I'd drive you home in the gig. If you stay here till to-morrow Iwill do so, anyway. Now, I am late about His business, and must be offat once!"
With that he jumped into his gig, shook the reins over old Nan's back,who went ambling down the road to the music of "Throw out the lifeline!" sung to the surrounding hills and dales as only old Daniel St.John could sing it.
For some hours the two wanderers rested in that sunny little home, bothmost reluctant to leave it, and Dorothy's own wish now being to remainuntil the Monday when, as he said, their new acquaintance would be atliberty to take them to the city. Jim was not so anxious to remain. Itwas not until his companion's entreaties grew more persistent, that hetold her the truth:
"Dorothy, we _can't_ stay. We mustn't. I dassent. You was scared o' thatfeller on horseback. Well, he's been ridin' by here two, three times,an' he's fetched another feller along. Them men mean bad to us. I'vestudied out 't they ain't sure the old man ain't to home. If they wasthey wouldn't wait to ketch us long. The first man, he seen us come withSt. John. He must. He couldn't have rid so fur he didn't. Well, I feel'sif _he_ ketched us, 'twould be out the fryin'-pan into the fire. Wecouldn't get shet o' him--till he got that five hundred dollars. We'vegot to go on, someway, somewheres. An'--go _now_, whilst they've ridback agin, out o' sight."