 | CHAPTER XXXVI.
FIGHTING FOR LIFE. The shadow of Moloch mountain |  |
36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
FIGHTING FOR LIFE.
“And now, Comfort,” whispered Brent, as
the retreating footsteps of the men died away,
“now we will see what is left for me in this
world. I think that was my death-blow, but
I was resolved those men should see that I
was master while I lived. Can you stand firm,
poor child, and let me raise myself by you?”
“Let me raise you! Oh! dear, dear master,
let me help you in any way,” cried the girl, unheeded
tears streaming down her face, and her
whole puny strength exerted in the effort to
raise the stalwart figure of the injured man in
her arms.
“Stop, stop, child!” gasped Brent in agony.
“You will injure yourself, and you torture me.
Wait a moment and I can raise myself.”
“Cling round my waist then—I am very
strong, you have no idea how strong—and pull
yourself up that way,” said Ruth, bracing herself
like a young birch emulating an oak.
Brent smiled faintly, and adopting the plan
she suggested, succeeded in raising himself to
his feet, stood for a moment, his arm about her
shoulders, his form swaying backward and
forward in a vain attempt to gain its equilibrium,
his face growing more ghastly in its
pallor, his eyes rolling wildly upon an earth
and heaven that seemed to have broke their
bonds and joined in chaos, and then he fell
prone to earth, the blood gushing in a torrent
from his lips.
Ruth, too utterly terror-stricken for any
action, sank down beside him, and presently
summoned courage to raise his head and lay
it upon her lap, all ghastly and gory as it was,
and so they remained for moments that grew
to hours—the man stricken down in the splendor
of his strength, more helpless and more
defenceless than the feeble child who watched
him, and who thought him dead or dying.
But at last Brent opened his eyes.
“Darling! No, you are not mine now.—
What is it? What did they tell me?—Beatrice—
Oh! it is you, little Comfort. Where
are we?—So cold. Why is it so cold?”
“Oh! you are not dead, dear, dear Mr.
Brent! I am so glad!”
And Ruth's tears fell hot and fast, dripping
upon the white face in her lap.
“No, I am not dead,” repeated Brent dreamily.
“Why do you cry, Comfort? Because I
am not dead?—I remember those logs. When
did I see them before? Ah! now I have it!
Yes, yes! Those men and the great log, and
the whirl of the woods and sky! Yes, I have
it now. And you have been sitting here to
hold me, Comfort, and never thought of deserting
me for a moment? Well, it is a Comfort
truly named. Now let us try again.
Stand up and let me cling to you. So—that is
it, that is brave! Now walk on, slowly, softly—
do not hurry. Can you pick up one of those
sticks and give me? Here, I can cling to this
tree while you stoop. Now then, let us get
on!”
“O Mr. Brent! let me run and call some
of the men to help you home. You will certainly
fall—you will kill yourself doing so
much. They can carry you in their arms!”
exclaimed Ruth, watching the faltering steps
and uncertain, swaying motions of her charge
with tremulous anxiety.
“No, Comfort, no,” muttered Brent, leaning
yet more heavily upon his stick, and conquering
the growing faintness that seized him by an
effort of his resistless will. “I will not have
must be master of myself, or I cannot
be their master. No; we are getting on toward
home, and you and Zilpah will take care of
me. We won't have the men.”
So muttering at intervals, leaning now upon
his staff, now upon the shoulders of the girl
who watched his every step with such agonized
solicitude, Brent struggled on, with many
a pause, many an alternation of deadly faintness
and heroic effort, many a whispered word
of encouragement and apology to his Comfort,
who replied not a syllable, her whole soul being
absorbed in sustaining those faltering
steps which promised each one to be the last
possible before exhausted nature failed.
But at last came the clearing, the open sky,
the shanty, with Zilpah at the door, feeding
the poultry she had with infinite pains established
in her new home. Zilpah, seeing
at a glance the position of affairs, rushed forward,
eager, clamorous, inquisitive, and yet
most efficient and eager to be of use.
Ruth told the story in brief, tremulous
words, and between them they led Brent to
his own room and laid him upon the bed.
Then, while Ruth ran for water, cloths, restoratives
of various sorts, the old woman tenderly
undressed him and examined the frightful
bruise upon his chest.
“Do you think there's any ribs broke,
dear?” asked she tenderly. “Or is it an in'ard
hurt? I wish 't I had some sage to make you
a tea, though there's nothing like sparmecity-candles
scraped in merlasses for an in'ard
bruise. Yes; you can come right in, Ruthie.
There now, Marsie sonny, let me wash your
face—same as I used to. Lor, it seems as if
we'd gone clear back to the day you clim'
the big nut-tree to shake it for Beatrice Wansted,
and tumbled down, and was took up for
dead. That was the year afore your ma died,
and she was so scared at seeing you all white
and bloody — just as you are now — that it
gave her a turn, and I don't think she ever
got over it. Yes; it seems as if you was no
more than that same boy over again. There,
you look a little better; and now you drink
some of this hot whiskey and sugar to keep
up your strength; and, Ruth, you come here
to the door.”
Ruth obeyed in the same dazed way in
which she had moved and spoken ever since
the terrible shock of seeing Brent fall lifeless
at her feet.
“Wake up, child! Wake up, and think
what you're about!” said Zilpah, shaking her
by one shoulder somewhat impatiently. “It
a'n't going to help him any to act that way.
There's got to be a doctor sent for right
away; it's too big a hurt for me to handle all
alone—though I know as much as any woman
you'll fetch about roots and yarbs and
sech stuff, but of course that a'n't like a
doctor. Now, Ruth, you know where the
men be, and you slip out quiet, and find Richard,
or maybe Paul Freeman would do, and
tell 'em to take the Cap'n's horse and ride
for the doctor, lickety-split. Maybe five minutes
will be the saving of his life, for I don't
know but he's bleeding in'ardly, and I don't
know how to stop that. Run, now!”
But there was no need to bid her hasten.
So soon as she comprehended the service required
of her, the wind could hardly have
outstripped her speed to perform it; and almost
before Zilpah knew that she was gone
she was out of sight, and fifteen minutes
later stood breathless, pallid, and excited in
the path of the men, who were returning
homeward for their dinner.
“Richard, come here quick, I want to speak
to you,” called she impatiently; and as Paul
also darted forward, she waved him imperiously
back.
“No, Paul Freeman, I don't want you,” said
she, turning her back upon him, while she
whispered to Richard:
“Mr. Brent is dreadfully hurt—dreadfully;
and Zilpah says we must have the doctor just
as soon as we can get him. She says take
Kitty and ride down to the Ford, and tell
him to hurry all he can. Oh! do hurry, Richard,
do!”
“How'd he get hurt?” asked Richard,
already hastening toward the stable, while the
other men, except Paul, turned toward the
shanty.
“A log rolled down and struck him; but
oh! do, do hurry!” said Ruth, following the
man for a short distance, and then standing,
with clasped hands and white face, breathlessly
watching his movements.
As she thus stood, a slow and reluctant step
approached her from behind.
“Ruthie!”
“What do you want, Paul Freeman?”
“Why do you speak so short, Ruthie? and
why won't you look at me? You don't think
I meant to roll the log down on him, do you?”
“I hope you didn't, for your own sake as
much as any thing, Paul,” said the girl, never
moving her eyes from Richard, who was
rapidly saddling the sure-footed mountain-nag
Brent had selected for his own use over roads
where a horse accustomed to travelling a settled
country would probably have broken his
own legs and his master's neck in the first
day.
“Is he much hurt?” asked Paul in a low
voice.
“Killed, maybe.”
“O Ruthie! don't say that.”
“Well, it's true. And what killed him?”
“Not I, Ruth. I solemnly swear to you
that when I gave that h'ist to the log I had
no more idea of hitting him than you with it.
Don't you believe me?”
“Yes; if you say so, I believe it, Paul.
But if Mr. Brent dies, I never can bear to look
at you, or speak to you, or hear your voice or
your name again.”
“Even when I didn't mean to hurt him?”
“Yes; even then, because you did hurt him
if you didn't mean it.”
“Then you care a great deal about Mr.
Brent, Ruthie?”
“A great deal! I shouldn't think you'd
ask such a question, Paul.”
“More than you do about me, Ruthie?”
“Why, of course I do. More than I do
about any body,” said Ruth impatiently.
And Paul turned away without another
word.
| CHAPTER XXXVI.
FIGHTING FOR LIFE. The shadow of Moloch mountain | |