CHAPTER XX

REVIVAL

’Twas many and many a year ago, In days when we were young, And o’er all life’s coming morning, lo! Hope’s magic glory hung. PERSEVER.

“Well, Em. Palmer, and where have you been? I had been expecting you home for more’n an hour, and was just thinking of sending Tom to look for you, for fear something had happened to you!” exclaimed Susan Palmer on seeing her daughter enter the house.

“I have been nowhere but to Edengarden, mother,” answered the girl as she threw off her shawl and bonnet and prepared to help the busy housewife, who was actively engaged in preparing the supper, while the three little girls were all employed in setting the table.

“But what kept you so long? It’s dangerous for a young girl to stay out so late in these woods!”

“Oh, dear mother, I was safe enough! Old ’Sias came with me up to the gate; and as for what kept me,” said the girl, coming up close to the side of the woman, “I will tell you that as soon as we are alone.”

“I—I hope it was no harm!” whispered Susan anxiously.

“None in the world, dear mother, but something that you will be glad to hear, and, _hush_, I can’t tell you here! But where is Aunt Monica that you should be getting supper?” inquired Em. aloud.

“Oh, Aunt Monica is a fixture at the bedside of Ann Whitlock!” answered Susan.

“Ann Whitlock! What, is she sick? She was well enough when I left home!”

“She’s sick enough now, then. She fell down in a fit this afternoon as sudden as if she’d been shot or struck with lightning! She was sitting at this very fire, knitting, when it happened. If I hadn’t been on the spot and picked her up in a minute she might ’a’ been burnt to death!”

“Oh, how shocking! Oh, how sorry I am! What was it, mother? What sort of a fit?”

“Monica says it is a paralytic stroke, just like that what laid her own old marster low. You see, Monica was in the room when it happened, and she helped me to tote the old woman to the settee and lay her on it. And then, while we ’plied hartshorn to her nose and beat her hands and that, I sent all the children in different directions to hunt for their father, for I didn’t exactly know whether he was in the barn or the stables, or where. But, law; we might as well ’a’ beat a dead corpse! She didn’t give no more signs of life, nor nothing!”

“Oh, how _dreadful_!” cried Em., sitting down and clasping her hands.

“Well, so it is; but you know Ann Whitlock was quite aged.”

“She never had a spell of sickness in her life before, though!”

“No, if she had had she might have died. As it is, she has lived to this old age until all her body is worn out at once, and down she draps!”

“Has a doctor seen her? But, oh, of course not! There has been no time to get one here! But has a doctor been sent for, mother?”

“I was just a-going to tell you, Em. The boys found their father in the stables and told him what had happened, and he told them to saddle one of the fastest horses and bring it round to the door for him, and he, you see, hurried on to the house as hard as ever he could to see exactly what was the matter. When he see Ann Whitlock lying in that state on the wooden settee he said how we must get her up to her own bed as soon as possible, and so he helped me and Monica to tote her upstairs, and, law, Em., it almost broke the three backs of us, she is such a heavy old woman, poor soul!”

“Poor soul!” echoed the girl with a sigh.

“Well, child, John left us to undress her and get her between the sheets as well as she could, and he mounted Queen Bess, and off he went for Greyrock to fetch a doctor, and as that is thirty miles off, he said he didn’t expect to be back much before to-morrow morning.”

“And, oh, will she have to wait all that time for attendance?” exclaimed Em., clasping her hands in dismay.

“She might have had to do so; but, thank fortune, she didn’t; for what do you think—as your father was tearing along for life and death on the river turnpike he met Dr. Willet full tilt in the road!”

“DR. WILLET!” exclaimed Em. in astonishment.

“_Dr. Willet!_” repeated Susan. “Yes, Dr. Willet, who, it seems, and reached Greyrock in the stagecoach this morning, and after resting himself had hired a horse and started to ride to The Breezes, where he was going to pay a long promised visit to his friend and neighbor, Commodore Bruce! There! what do you think of that? If your father, or if the doctor had been five minutes earlier or later they must have missed each other, for the doctor had just reached that part of the road where it turns from the river ’pike to enter the mountain pass leading to The Breezes! There! and if your father had missed him he would have to have ridden thirty miles to Greyrock, and thirty miles back, making sixty altogether, before he would have got a doctor to poor old Ann Whitlock. But there he met Dr. Willet right in the very nick of time. Now, what do you think of _that_, Em?”

“It was astonishing and most fortunate,” said the girl; but her thoughts reverted to the more astonishing news she had in store for her mother.

“Well, you know as both was a-going of it as hard as they ever could go, they all but rid over each other before they knew it; and then they were so glad to see each other, and John thanked Dr. Willet for the hand he had in getting of him such a good situation as he’s got now; and Dr. Willet asked John how all the family was, and then when John told him all was well and hearty save Ann Whitlock, which had just fell down in a fit, why, Dr. Willet just turned his horse’s head immediate, and said he would come and look after the poor woman, whom he had known in old times as a skilful sick-nurse. So about an hour after I had seen John ride away, to be gone all night, after the Greyrock doctor, you may just fancy my astonishment to see him come riding in with Dr. Willet. Why, I rubbed my eyes—as much expecting to see the President as he!”

“But what did he say about poor Auntie Whitlock? Did he say her attack was dangerous—fatal?” anxiously inquired Em.

“He said it was a paralytic stroke. She might get over it or she might not; and he gave most particular directions how to treat her, and said as how he would see her every day during his stay at The Breezes. We will all do the best we can for her, Em., the same as if she was my mother and your grandmother; but, Lord! child, when a woman gets to be seventy-five what can you expect but her removal to a better life?”

“Yes, mother,” sighed Em; for she was as yet too young, too much in love with this present life to think very seriously of that which is to come.

“Here’s father and the boys. Now put supper on the table, Em.!” said Susan Palmer as John and his two lads entered the kitchen, which, since the weather had turned cold, was used as a dining-room as well.

“Now, Miss Runaway! And where have you been all day?” inquired John Palmer good-humoredly as soon as he saw Em.

“Only to the island, father, dear,” she answered.

“She says she’ll tell me what kept her by and by. Some poor folks, I s’pose, that she stopped to do something for. Come, John, sit down and begin, or your supper’ll be cold,” said the practical housewife.

John was an obedient husband besides being a hungry man, and so he sat down, asked a blessing, and then made a vigorous attack on the viands before him.

They were still at the table when there came a rap at the kitchen door.

Em., being the nearest, left her seat and opened it.

Then, to the surprise of every one, Lieutenant Ronald Bruce walked into the kitchen. Yes, walked in with the innocent and delighted air of a child who was doing a voluntary good deed for which he expected to be praised and rewarded. And then—just as if he had not been forbidden the house that very morning, and had not departed both in sorrow and in anger—he shook hands with Em., saying:

“Good-evening, Miss Palmer. I hope you are quite well;” and then impudently walked up to John and Susan, shook hands with them both, nodded to the young ones, and said:

“Mr. Palmer, I come to you from The Breezes on an errand. Dr. Willet was remarking that your sick woman, Mrs. Whitlock, needed brandy, and that none good was to be found in the neighborhood. So my uncle sent down to his own cellar at once and had up two bottles of this rare old cognac—vintage 1781—and he sends it to you with his good wishes. Here it is!” concluded the young man, taking from each side pocket a long brown paper parcel, unrolling them and displaying two dusty, mouldy, cobwebbed bottles, which he stood upon the supper table.

Now what could John or Susan do or say?

I will tell you what Em. did. She set a chair before a vacant place at the table and said:

“Will you join us and take a cup of tea, Mr. Bruce?”

“Thanks; I will gladly do so if Mrs. Palmer will permit me,” smilingly answered the young man, as, taking this permission for granted, he seated himself in the offered chair.

“I’m a thousand times obliged to Commodore Bruce, and so would Mrs. Whitlock be if she was conscious enough to know anything about it. But I must say I am sorry, sir, that you should have taken the unusual trouble to bring it over yourself,” said John, divided as to his emotions between gratitude and indignation.

“Now who _was_ to bring it but me? The commodore is too old, and the doctor too tired to turn out after dinner. And as to trusting one of the men servants—why, see here! I’d trust any of them with any amount of money or of jewels, and they would carry either safe as a bank. But when it comes to old cognac brandy, why all the saints and angels in heaven couldn’t prevent one of them from drinking half the contents of the bottles and filling them up with spring water! And then you know the brandy would never get here at all. The messenger would have been dead drunk before night, and dead, _dead_ before morning, and _honest_ from that time forth, having made a meal for many crows! Now do you see? The affair is in a nutshell. I had to bring the brandy myself.”

“And I am sure it was very kind of you, sir, and we are all very grateful,” said Susan Palmer politely as she handed the unbidden guest a cup of tea.

John sighed.

“I tried to put a damper on this here; but it’s no use. ‘Sich is life,’” he muttered in confidence to his own grizzled black beard.

“And you’ll not turn me out to-night, I feel sure, my kind hostess?” said the young man as he bowed in accepting the cup and the compliment.

“Indeed, no! Your room is ready just as you left it this morning! Turn you out, indeed! What! to ride up that breakneck mountain-pass in the dead of night? Not likely. Even if you wanted to go ever so much I wouldn’t let you do it, no, not if I had to keep you by force and violence!” said Susan.

“Quite right. I shall give you no trouble, my gentle jailer,” laughed Ronald Bruce.

As soon as supper was over Em. slipped away and went upstairs to inquire how her poor old friend, Mrs. Whitlock, was.

Ann Whitlock’s chamber was over the dining-room. As Em. entered it she saw that it was at once warmed and lighted by a blazing wood fire in the fireplace, near which sat old Monica in a big arm-chair.

The sick woman lay on her comfortable bed, apparently asleep.

Em. closed the door noiselessly and crossed the room on tiptoe. When she had reached the side of old Monica she whispered:

“Will my whispering disturb her?”

“Oh, no, honey; nothing ’sturbs her. She don’t take no notice ob nothing,” answered the old nurse, not in a whisper exactly, but in that low tone that well-trained people use in a sick-room.

“Is she very ill, Aunt Monica? _You_ know as well as anybody.”

“Oh, no, honey. Not near so bad as what old marster was. Why, _she_ can swallow and look at you; dough she can’t move or speak.”

“Do you think she will get over it?”

“Yes, honey, dough I doubt she will ebber be as well as she was before. And whenebber she hab another ’tack like dis it will be sure to finish her, honey! But she’s gettin’ de best of ’tention now, you may be sure, honey.”

“I know she is. Now, Aunt Monica, I will take your place and watch here until you go down and get your supper.”

“No such thing, Miss Em.! I heard young Captain Bruce come in just now, and I ain’t a-gwine to take you away from his company for de sake o’ my supper. So you go right straight downstairs and entertain de young gentleman as you ought for to do!”

“No, Aunt Monica; you know that I will not. Mrs. Whitlock has always been a kind friend to me, and I must help to wait on her. Go now and get your supper.”

“Well, Miss Em., when you have once said a thing I know you’ll stick to it; so I’ll go down,” replied the old woman, getting up and leaving the room.

Em. went to the bedside and looked at the paralytic.

Ann Whitlock lay there like one placidly sleeping; there was no sign of suffering about her.

Em. knelt beside her and offered up an earnest prayer for her recovery, and then she returned to her arm-chair before the fire, sat down and lapsed into thought. She had so much to think of! Her meeting with the Lady of Edengarden; her discovery of the identity of this lady with that of the long mourned Emolyn Wyndeworth; the strong, mutual attraction that seemed to draw and bind her to that lady and that lady to her; the fatal attack of Ann Whitlock; the unexpected arrival of Dr. Willet; the sudden reappearance of Ronald Bruce;—all these unexpected events that seemed to have in them something of the nature of destiny took hold on her imagination, filled her mind and occupied all her thoughts.

Time passed unheeded until the re-entrance of old Monica, who unceremoniously said:

“Now, honey, if you please, I’ll jes’ take my old rocking-chair, and you’ll go downstairs to your young man! Young man for young gal, and ole rocking-chair for ole ’omen. Behold de beauty ob de ’daptations!” concluded Aunt Monica as she settled herself in the depths of the softly-cushioned arm-chair and put out her feet to the fire.

Em. stepped on tiptoe from the room, noiselessly closed the door behind her and went downstairs, where she found the family circle gathered around the kitchen fire listening to one of Ronald’s sea yarns.

The young man arose and gave her his chair and went and got another, which he took good care to place beside her as he seated himself.

How Ronald taxed his brain that night to invent marvelous stories of voyages, storms, battles, fires, shipwrecks, rescues, pirates, barbarous shores, desert islands, deliverances, and treasure-trove!

And how John listened with eyes wide open and mouth often agape to swallow such huge prodigies.

In a short pause, while John mended the fire, Ronald found time to whisper to Em.:

“If everything else goes by the board, my dear, and you and I have to go to housekeeping together in a cottage I can keep the pot boiling by writing stories for the papers, can’t I?”

“Oh, Ronald! Then it is not all true?” whispered Em.

“I suppose it is—of some other people on some other seas and shores, on some other planets in this boundless universe, or it never would have come into my head; but it is not true of _this_ world, as far as I know!”

When the last wonderful tale was told the family separated and retired to bed, leaving only Em. and her mother to settle up the kitchen.