It certainly would seem a very unceremonious proceeding to escort a little party across the great, wide sea, and then follow the fortunes of some of the group, to the utter exclusion of others; so if you please we will just take a look right away at the snug little English cottage to which Chris Hartley hurried the same April morning that he reluctantly took leave of Marie-Celeste at the steamer. The cottage itself is just such a dear little place as you find nowhere else save in England. It is straw-thatched, and thatch and walls alike are mellow with the same soft grav of time and weather. The cottage stands close to the river Thames, on the outskirts of the town of Nuneham. In front is an even hawthorn hedge, that reaches round to the back as well, and encloses a quaint little kitchen garden. Beyond the hedge lies a pasture meadow, where a flock of sheep are grazing, and encircling the meadow another hedge, less closely clipped, and so making bold to riot here and there in a snowy wealth of hawthorn blossom, A fine Alderney cow, with coat as well cared for as the gray mare’s in the stable, is also enjoying the sweet grass of the meadow, and the shining milk, pans ranged beneath the kitchen window bear witness to the generous service she renders. Within the little cottage all is as prim and dainty and neat as without, for the sweet-faced old housewife gives as close heed to the household as the “gudeman” of the house to the flock and the cow and the hedgerows. And this was the home to which Chris had come—to the grandparents who had cared for his orphaned boyhood, and whom he never would have left but for the more certain prospect of well-paid work across the water. And now five years have gone by, and having grown strong and manly, meantime, through his contact with the world, Chris is back on his first home visit, and you may be sure he has not come empty-handed. For the grandfather there is a new wallet with twenty five-pound notes laid between its leather-scented covers, and for the grandmother a labor-saving gift that will never cease to be a marvel—a wonder-working churn that turns Bess’s milk to butter in just twelve seconds over a minute. And best of all, Chris himself is just the same thoughtful fellow he left them, and at once settles down to a general supervision of the farm, that leaves the old man free to smoke his brier-wood pipe and read the news from morning till night, if he cares to.
“You are spoiling us, Chris,” old Mrs. Hartley would say every time Chris chanced to be within hearing distance, when she brought the golden butter to the surface from the depths of the uncanny churn; and Chris as invariably remarking, “There is no fear of that, granny dear,” would look as pleased and surprised as though she had not known she could count upon every word of his answer. And now, you see, you have an idea of the quiet, eventless life Chris led on this home visit until one evening in the latter part of June, when something happened. The lane that ran past the meadow and up to the Hartley cottage branched out from the road that led directly to Nuneham from Oxford, and in fine weather there was much driving out that way, so that toward evening Chris would sometimes take a seat on a low gate-post that marked the entrance to the lane and watch the people as they passed. There were always more or less college men among them, driving in stylish drags behind spirited horses or in shabby livery turn-outs, according to their station in life, or rather the condition of their pocket-books. And so it chanced that Chris noticed on this particular June evening—as, in fact, no one could help noticing—a very merry party who rolled by in a dog-cart. They were far too merry, in fact, and so noisy that teams in front of them were glad to make way for them, and those they met most desirous to give them a wide berth. It was evident, however, that the young fellow who held the reins knew perfectly well what he was about, and how to handle his horses, so that no danger was actually to be feared in that direction. But what was true at five o’clock in the afternoon was not true a few hours later, and any one who had seen the same party turn their faces toward home, after a rollicking supper and no end of good cheer at Holly-tree Inn, would have prophesied disaster before they reached it. Wondering if they would make their return trip in safety, Chris himself happened to favor them with his last waking thought, ere he fell asleep in his little room under the eaves—a cosey little room that still was bright even at ten o’clock with the glow of the long English twilight. It was this last conscious thought, no doubt, that made him quick to waken two hours later, when a low, penetrating “Helloa there!” broke the stillness. Springing to the window, he was able to discern two or three men supporting some heavy burden and standing in front of the cottage.
“Be as still as possible, please,” he said in a loud whisper, mindful of the old people; “I will be down in a moment,” and instantly recalling the party he had seen drive past to Nuneham, there seemed no need to ask who they were or what had happened.
But expeditious as Chris had been, Mrs. Hartley, in gray wrapper and frilled night-cap, was at the door before him.
“Some mishap on the road, Chris,” she said, her hand trembling on the bolt.
“Yes, sure, granny; but you’d best let me open the door.”
“We’ve had an ugly accident,” said one of the men, as the light from within fell upon them; and then as Chris held the door wide open they pressed into the little sitting-room with their gruesome burden.
“Put him here,” Chris directed, clearing the way toward a low box-lounge. “He may be badly hurt,” he added, but speaking roughly, as though even his pity could scarce conceal his disgust that men should ever allow themselves to get into such a sorry plight.
“We couldn’t tell out there in the dark,” answered the only one in the party who seemed to have his wits about him. The other two had at once made their way to the nearest chairs, and with steps so unsteady that Chris wondered how they had been able to lend any aid whatsoever.
“Was he unconscious when you got to him?” he asked, unfastening the clothing at the injured man’s throat.
“Yes; he hasn’t seemed to know anything from the first. It looks almost as though he might be dying, doesn’t it?” and the young fellow stood gazing helplessly down at his friend, the very picture of despair.
“No; I don’t think it’s as bad as that. You’ve been run away with, of course,” for the whole party were covered with mud and dirt from head to foot, and there was evidence of two or three ugly cuts and bruises among them.
“Yes,” said the other; “it was a clean upset, and Ted here was driving, so that the reins got tangled about him, and he was dragged full a hundred yards or so. If the horses hadn’t succeeded in breaking away from the trap the moment that it went over, I should have been killed surely, for it fell on top of me in some way, and as it was, I could scarcely get from under it;” and the young fellow’s blanched face grew a shade whiter as he realized how narrow had been his escape. Meanwhile, with a little maid to hold the light, Mrs. Hartley searched through a tiny corner cupboard for a flask that had been carefully stowed away behind some larger bottles, and then poured a generous share of its contents into a glass held in readiness in the little maid’s other hand.
“You give it to him, Chris,” she said, not daring to trust her shaking hands; and raising the poor fellow’s head, Chris pressed the glass to his lips. As he swallowed the brandy his eyes opened for a moment, but there was no sign of returning consciousness.
“Now, the next thing,” said Chris, “is to get a doctor, and I’ll have to drive into Nuneham for him. Do you suppose one of your friends there can help me harness?” but one of the friends was already asleep, and the attitude of the other showed that no assistance was to be looked for in that direction.
“What’s to be done with them, mother?” asked old Mr. Hartley, who, enveloped in an old-fashioned, large-patterned dressing-gown, had arrived rather tardily upon the scene, and had stood for several seconds glaring down at the two disgraceful specimens.
“Martha is making the guest-room ready,” replied Mrs. Hartley, showing she was not too old to think ahead in an emergency, and yet drawing a deep sigh with the next breath at the thought of that best spare-room being put to so ignoble a service. Chris had himself been thinking it was rather a serious question to know how to dispose of them, and was glad to have Mrs. Hartley herself suggest the way.
“Thank goodness you’ve got your senses left,” said Chris, turning to the young fellow, who really seemed anxious to render every possible service; “and if we get them into the room there you can put them to bed, can’t you? while I go for the doctor;” and in a voice scarcely audible from mortification the young fellow replied that he thought he could; so after some difficulty in making them understand the move impending, the two men were successfully landed in the best spare-room.
“You’ll need this,” said Chris, pushing a clothes-brush and a whisk-broom on to a chair, “and you’ll find plenty of water on the stand yonder;” then he came out and closed the door, to the infinite and audible relief of the serving-maid Martha. Indeed but for the all too serious side of the whole affair, it would have been amusing to watch that little maid. So great was her horror, either by education or intuition, of the state of inebriety, that the moment she surmised that at least two of these midnight visitors were bordering on the same, she could conceive of no means strong enough to express her disapproval. Every time she had come anywhere near them she had gathered her skirts about her as though in fear of actual contamination, and with her pretty head high in the air, as she moved away, would look askance over her shoulder as though not at all sure even then of being at a safe distance. Indeed, Chris himself could not quite suppress a smile as he saw the relief expressed in every line of Martha’s face at the click of the closing door.
“How did it happen, mother?” asked Mr. Hartley, after a long interval in which no word had been spoken.
“I have not heard yet, Peter; but I don’t believe we had better talk. He seems to be growing uneasy. Oh, I do wish Chris would come!”
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