University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
HELP, HO!

Abel Newt was fully aware that his time was short. His
father's letter had apprised him of his presently leaving school.
To leave school—was it not to quit Delafield? Might it not
be to lose Hope Wayne? He was banished from Pinewood.
There were flaming swords of suspicion waving over that
flowery gate. The days were passing. The summer is ending,
thought he, and I am by no means saved.

Neither he nor Gabriel had mentioned their last visit to
Pinewood and its catastrophe. It was a secret better buried
in their own bosoms. Abel's dislike of the other was deepened
and imbittered by the ignominy of the expulsion by Mr. Burt,
of which Gabriel had been not only a companion but a witness.
It was an indignity that made Abel tingle whenever he
thought of it. He fancied Gabriel thinking of it too, and
laughing at him in his sleeve, and he longed to thrash him.
But Gabriel had much better business. He was thinking
only of Hope Wayne, and laughing at himself for thinking of
her.

The boys were strolling in different parts of the village.
Abel, into whose mind had stolen that thought of the possible
laughter in Gabriel's sleeve, pulled out his handkerchief suddenly,
and waved it with an indignant movement in the air.
At the same moment a carriage had overtaken him and was
passing. The horses, startled by the shock of the waving
handkerchief, shied and broke into a run. The coachman
tried in vain to control them. They sprang forward and had
their heads in a moment.

Abel looked up, and saw that it was the Burt carriage dashing
down the road. He flew after, and every boy followed.
The horses, maddened by the cries of the coachman and passers-by,

by the rattling of the carriage, and their own excitement
and speed, plunged on with fearful swiftness. As the
carriage flew by, two faces were seen at the window—both
calm, but one terrified. They were those of Hope and Mrs.
Simcoe.

“Stop 'em! stop 'em!” rang the cry along the village street;
and the idling villagers looked from the windows or came to
the doors—the women exclaiming and holding up their hands,
the men leaving whatever they were doing and joining the
chase.

The whole village was in motion. Every body knew Hope
Wayne—every body loved her.

Both she and Mrs. Simcoe sat quietly in the carriage. They
knew it was madness to leap—that their only chance lay in remaining
perfectly quiet. They both knew the danger—they
knew that every instant they were hovering on the edge of
death or accident. How strange to Hope's eyes, in those
swift moments, looked the familiar houses—the trees—the
signs—the fences—as they swept by! How peaceful and secure
they were! How far away they seemed! She read the
names distinctly. She thought of little incidents connected
with all the places. Her mind, and memory, and perception
were perfectly clear; but her hands were clenched, and her
cheek cold and pale with vague terror. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside
her, calmly holding one of Hope's hands, but neither of
them spoke.

The carriage struck a stone, and the crowd shuddered as
they saw it rock and swing in its furious course. The mad
horses but flew more wildly. Mrs. Simcoe pressed Hope's
hand, and murmured, almost inaudibly,

“That corner! that corner!” shouted the throng, as the
horses neared a sudden turn into a side-road, toward which

they seemed to be making, frightened by the persons who came
running toward them on the main street. Among these was
Gabriel, who, hearing the confused murmur that rang down
the road, turned and recognized the carriage that was whirled
along at the mercy of wild horses. He seemed to his companions
to fly as he went—to himself he seemed to be standing
still.

“Carefully, carefully!” cried the others, as they saw his impetuosity.
“Don't be trampled!”

Gabriel did not hear. He only saw the fatal corner. He
only knew that Hope Wayne was in danger—that the carriage,
already swaying, would be overturned—might be dashed in
pieces, and Hope—

He came near as the horses were about turning. The street
toward which they were heading was narrow, and on the other
corner from him there was a wall. They were running toward
Gabriel down the main road; but just as he came up
with them he flung himself with all his might toward the animals'
heads. The startled horses half-recoiled, turned sharply
and suddenly—dashed themselves against the wall—and the
carriage stood still. In a moment a dozen men had secured
them, and the danger was past.

The door was opened, and the ladies stepped out. Mrs.
Simcoe was pale, but her heart had not quailed. The faith
that sustains a woman's heart in life does not fail when death
brushes her with his finger-tips.

“Dear child!” she said to Hope, when they both knew that
the crisis was over, and her lips moved in silent prayer and
thanksgiving.

Hope herself was trembling and silent. In her inmost heart
she hoped it was Abel Newt who had saved them. But in
all the throng she did not see his face. She felt a secret disappointment.

“Here is your preserver, ma'am,” said one of the villagers,
pushing Gabriel forward. Mrs. Simcoe actually smiled. She
put out her hand to him kindly; and Hope, with grave sweetness,

told him how great was their obligation. The boy bowed
and looked at her earnestly.

“Are you hurt?”

“Oh! no, not at all,” replied Hope, smiling, and not without
some effort, because she fancied that Gabriel looked at
her as if she showed some sign of pain—or disappointment—
or what?

“We are perfectly well, thanks to you.”

“What started the horses?” asked Gabriel.

“I'm sure I don't know,” replied Hope.

“Abel Newt started them,” said Mrs. Simcoe.

Hope reddened and looked at her companion. “What do
you mean, Aunty?” asked she, haughtily.

Mrs. Simcoe was explaining, when Abel came up out of
breath and alarmed. In a moment he saw that there had been
no injury. Hope's eyes met his, and the color slowly died
away from her cheeks. He eagerly asked how it happened,
and was confounded by hearing that he was the cause.

“How strange it is,” said he, in a low voice, to Hope, as
the people busied themselves in looking after the horses and
carriage, and Gabriel talked to Mrs. Simcoe, with whom he
found conversation so much easier than with Hope—“how
strange it is that just as I was wondering when and where
and how I should see you again, I should meet you in this
way, Miss Wayne!”

Pleased, still weak and trembling, pale and flushed by turns,
Hope listened to him.

“Where can I see you?” he continued; “certainly your
grandfather was unkind—”

Hope shook her head slowly. Abel watched every movement—every
look—every fluctuating change of manner and
color, as if he knew its most hidden meaning.

“I can see you nowhere but at home,” she answered.

He did not reply. She stood silent. She wished he would
speak. The silence was dreadful. She could not bear it.

“I am very sorry,” said she, in a whisper, her eyes fastened

upon the ground, her hands playing with her handkerchief.

“I hope you are,” he said, quietly, with a tone of sadness,
not of reproach. There was another painful pause.

“I hope so, because I am going away,” said Abel.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“When?”

“In a few weeks.”

“Where is your home?”

“In New York.”

It was very much to the point. Yet both of them wanted
to say so much more; and neither of them dared!

“Miss Hope!” whispered Abel.

Hope heard the musical whisper. She perceived the audacity
of the familiarity, but she did not wish it were otherwise.
She bent her head a little lower, as if listening more intently.

“May I see you before I go?”

Hope was silent. Dr. Livingstone relates that when the
lion had struck him with his paw, upon a certain occasion, he
lay in a kind of paralysis, of which he would have been cured
in a moment more by being devoured.

“Hope,” said Mrs. Simcoe, “the horses will be brought up.
We had better walk home. Here, my dear!”

“I can only see you at home,” Hope said, in a low voice, as
she rose.

“Then we part here forever,” he replied. “I am sorry.”

Still there was no reproach; it was only a deep sadness
which softened that musical voice.

“Forever!” he repeated slowly, with low, remorseless music.

Hope Wayne trembled, but he did not see it.

“I am sorry, too,” she said, in a hurried whisper, as she
moved slowly toward Mrs. Simcoe. Abel Newt was disappointed.

“Good-by forever, Miss Wayne!” he said. He could not

[ILLUSTRATION]

"Good-by!"

[Description: 538EAF. Page 067. In-line Illustration. Image of Two women walking away from a man, while another figure looks on in the background.] see Hope's paler face as she heard the more formal address,
and knew by it that he was offended.

“Good-by!” was all he caught as Hope Wayne took Mrs.
Simcoe's arm and walked away.