8. CHAPTER VIII.
AFTER THE BATTLE.
Hiram was summoned to the door by a violent ringing of
the bell. Visions of apoplexy—of—in fact, of any thing that
might befall a testy gentleman of seventy-three, inclined to
make incessant trips to the West Indies—rushed to his mind
as he rushed to the door. He opened it in hot haste.
There stood Hope Wayne, pale, her eyes flashing, her hand
ungloved. At the foot of the steps was the carriage, and in the
carriage sat Mrs. Simcoe, with a bleeding boy's head resting
upon her shoulder. The coachman stood at the carriage door.
“Here, Hiram, help James to bring in this poor boy.”
“Yes, miss,” replied the man, as he ran down the steps.
The door was opened, and the coachman and Hiram lifted
out Gabriel.
They carried him, still unconscious, up stairs and laid him
on a couch. Old Burt could not refuse an act of mere humanity,
but he said in a loud voice,
“It's all a conspiracy to get into the house, Mrs. Simcoe,
ma'am. I'll have bull - dogs — I'll have blunderbusses and
spring-guns, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am! And what do you mean
by fighting at my gate, Sir?” he said, turning upon Little Malacca,
who quivered under his wrath. “What are you doing
at my gate? Can't Mr. Gray keep his boys at home? Hope,
go up stairs!” said the old gentleman, as he reached the foot
of the staircase.
But Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe remained with the patient.
Hope rubbed the boy's hands, and put her own hand
upon his forehead from time to time, until he sighed heavily
and opened his eyes. But before he could recognize her she
went out to send Hiram to him, while Mrs. Simcoe sat quietly
by him.
“We must put you to bed,” she said, gently, “and to-morrow
you may go. But why do you fight?”
Gabriel turned toward her with a piteous look.
“No matter,” replied Mrs. Simcoe. “Don't talk. You
shall tell all about it some other time. Come in, Hiram,” she
added, as she heard a knock.
The man entered, and Mrs. Simcoe left the room after having
told him to undress the boy carefully and bathe his face
and hands. Gabriel was perfectly passive, Hiram was silent,
quick, and careful, and in a few moments he closed the door
softly behind him, and left Gabriel alone.
He was now entirely conscious, but very weak. His face
was turned toward the window, which was open, and he
watched the pine-trees that rustled gently in the afternoon
breeze. It was profoundly still out of doors and in the house;
and as he lay exhausted, the events of the last few days and
months swam through his mind in misty confusion. Half-dozing,
half-sleeping, every thing glimmered before him, and
the still hours stole by.
When he opened his eyes again it was twilight, and he was
lying on his back looking up at the heavy tester of the great
bedstead from which hung the curtains, so that he had only
glimpses into the chamber. It was large and lofty, and the
paper on the wall told the story of Telemachus. His eyes
wandered over it dreamily.
He could dimly see the beautiful Calypso—the sage Mentor
—the eager pupil—pallid phantoms floating around him. He
seemed to hear the beating of the sea upon the shore. The
tears came to his eyes. The ghostly Calypso put aside the
curtain of the bed. Gabriel stretched out his hands.
“I must go,” he murmured, as if he too were a phantom.
The lips of Calypso moved.
“Are you better?”
Gabriel was awake in a moment. It was Hope Wayne
who spoke to him.
About ten o'clock in the evening she knocked again gently
at Gabriel's door. There was no reply. She opened the door
softly and went in. A night-lamp was burning, and threw a
pleasant light through the room. The windows were open,
and the night-air sighed among the pine-trees near them.
Gabriel's face was turned toward the door, so that Hope
saw it as she entered. He was sleeping peacefully. At that
very moment he was dreaming of her. In dreams Hope
Wayne was walking with him by the sea, her hand in his:
her heart his own.
She stood motionless lest she might wake him. He did not
stir, and she heard his low, regular breathing, and knew that
all was well. Then she turned as noiselessly as she had entered,
and went out, leaving him to peaceful sleep—to dreams
—to the sighing of the pines.
Hope Wayne went quietly to her room, which was next to
the one in which Gabriel lay. Her kind heart had sent her to
see that he wanted nothing. She thought of him only as a
boy who had had the worst of a quarrel, and she pitied him.
Was it then, indeed, only pity for the victim that knocked
gently at his door? Was she really thinking of the conqueror
when she went to comfort the conquered? Was she not trying
somehow to help Abel by doing all she could to alleviate
the harm he had done?
Hope Wayne asked herself no questions. She was conscious
of a curious excitement, and the sighing of the pines
lulled her to sleep. But all night long she dreamed of Abel
Newt, with bare head and clustering black hair, gracefully
bowing, and murmuring excuses; and oh! so manly, oh! so
heroic he looked as he carefully helped to lay Gabriel in the
carriage.
