by Homer Greene
CHAPTER X
Whenever a member of the Pickett family set his mind on theaccomplishment of a certain object, he found no trouble too great, notask too arduous, no effort too severe to bring about the desired end.Abner Pickett set his mind on going home with Dannie. He knew that itwould be impossible, that day, to drive back through the blockadedcountry roads, but that did not deter him. There was the railroad. Itwas possible that trains might be running on the Mooreville branch.By going on the cars twenty-five miles to Port Lenox, and thence downthe river to Fisher's Eddy, he might still be able to reach home thatnight. With this plan in view, he hurried along to the railroad stationwhich, fortunately, was only a block from the court-house, and foundthat a train was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes. There was alunch-room near by, and, remembering that Dannie had had nothing toeat since his early morning meal, he took the boy in and furnishedhim with food. Much as it went against Dannie's inclination to eat, hefound himself, after having partaken of his hurried meal, stronger andin better spirits than at any time since his arrival at Mooreville.
The conductor on the branch train could not promise them that theywould reach Port Lenox that night. Indeed, it seemed, a dozen times, asthough the cars would be stalled in the huge drifts of snow that werepiled across the rails. But the wind had gone down, and the fartherthe train went the more clear track was found, and finally, at teno'clock in the evening, they pulled triumphantly into Port Lenox. Thetrain on the main line was four hours late, and they were just in timeto catch it. It brought them to Fisher's Eddy an hour before midnight.There, where Abner Pickett was known by every one, he had no troublein procuring a team and a driver who was willing to make the attemptto get up through the drifted roads to Pickett's Gap. It never onceoccurred to the persistent old man that it would be wiser, safer, andfar more comfortable, both for him and Dannie, to remain at the villageuntil morning. He had made up his mind to set his grandson down by thePickett fireside that night, and no obstacle that had yet presenteditself was sufficient to deter him from carrying out his purpose.
And, after all, the journey was not a hard one. It had ceased either tosnow or to blow. The road up the hill was by no means impassable. Itwas on the sheltered side of the ridge, and had not felt the full furyof the storm. Through the gap there were no drifts; the horses couldtrot easily along; and, within an hour after midnight, the travellerswere in their own home. That Aunt Martha was rejoiced to see themgoes without saying. She was spending the night as she had spent theday, moving about the house in an agony of fear, censuring herselfconstantly for permitting her dear boy to leave home that morning inthe face of the impending storm, awaiting news of him which she feltshe must have, and yet dreaded to hear.
And here, at last, he was, unexpectedly home, safe and sound--ah, no!not quite safe and sound; his haggard face, his lustreless eyes, hispinched lips, his weak voice, all told a story of exhaustion, the causeof which Aunt Martha was not long in learning. She made ready, with allhaste, some nourishing food and hot drink, and both the old man andthe boy partook of it freely. After this Dannie dragged his tired feetup the dear old staircase to his own room, to his own bed, to his ownsweet pillow, and not--he knelt to thank his God--not to the hard cotbehind the grated door of a dreadful cell in the county jail. But hecould not sleep. It was not the joy of being in his own home that droveslumber from his eyes, nor the memory of that awful journey throughthe drifting snow, nor yet his hard experience as a witness on thestand--it was the joyful, the dreadful, the bewildering thought that inone brief hour he had found a father who was more than all he had everpictured him to be, a father who loved him and would have taken him andcared for him and rejoiced in him; and in the same brief hour had losthim, perhaps forever. It was sweet, indeed, to have found him, but itwas terrible, very terrible, so soon to have lost him. And yet Danniefelt, he knew, that his proper place was with the grandfather who hadbeen so good to him, so kind, so tender, so absolutely true.
In all the journey from Mooreville to the door of the Picketthomestead, Abner Pickett had never once spoken of his son, of the scenein the jury room, or of his triumphant possession of his grandson;and Dannie knew that these things must remain forbidden subjects, asall things pertaining to Charlie Pickett had been from his earliestrecollection. But when Aunt Martha came in to bid him good night, theswelling tide of emotion that he had repressed for many hours, forcedits way to his lips, and he put his arms around her neck and, amid manysobs, he told the story of the afternoon.
"I must have 'im, Aunt Martha," he said at last; "I must have 'em both.Some way we must get Gran'pap to make up with 'im. I don't know howit's to be done; but some way we must do it. It's terrible to let itgo on like this; an' Gran'pap's so good to me--so good. Why won't heforgive 'im, Aunt Martha? Why won't he?"
"I don't know, dearie. It's his way. His father was so before him. It'sin the blood. All we can do, you and I, all we can do is to hope and topray. Your grandfather will never yield to argument, nor to pleading.But I still have faith to believe that some time, in some way, the goodGod will bring about a reconciliation."
"Thank you, Aunt Martha! I shall hope for it, and pray for it, andwork for it, too, every day and all day until it comes."
"And may it speedily come. There, now, you are very tired; go tosleep. Try to forget everything and go to sleep! You will feel betterto-morrow. Good night!"
"Good night, Auntie!"
But when the morning came Dannie did not feel better. He slept late,yet he was not refreshed by his sleep. He was still tired, and hislimbs dragged heavily as he went about the house. And, try as hemight to forget it, that scene in the jury room the day before wasever present in his mind, a vivid picture of what he had found--andlost. Little by little the members of the household gathered from hislips the complete story of his journey through the storm. And whileAbner Pickett smiled grimly at the boy's pluck and will and mightydetermination, since it proved him to be every inch a Pickett, AuntMartha, moved by the lad's tale of physical suffering, and touched bythe moral energy that led him to endure it, turned her head away morethan once to hide the tears that kept swelling to her eyes.
In the afternoon Gabriel came home. Of the equity trial he could giveno news except that the evidence had been completed and a day fixed forthe argument of counsel. But of Dannie's journey through the storm,of his appearance in the court room, of his testimony on the witnessstand, he never ceased to talk. For days and weeks it formed the soletopic of his discourse.
"It was wuth a year's wages," he declared many a time; "it was wuth ayear's wages not to 'a' missed it. Ez ol' Isra'l Pidgin use to say:'Truth is jest ez mighty an' pervailin' w'en it comes f'om the lips uva child, ez w'en it comes f'om the mouth uv an archangel.'"
That night, when Dannie went to bed, his pulse was beating rapidly,his face was flushed, his head was very hot and heavy, and he wastroubled with a hacking cough. He did not complain of any pain, exceptthe soreness and constant aching of all his joints and muscles; butthat was due, he thought, to the violent effort necessary to force hisway through the drifts the day before. Aunt Martha saw, however, thatbeyond the mere fact of physical fatigue, the boy was ill; and sheinsisted upon putting him to bed in the large guest-chamber adjoiningher own sleeping room on the ground floor, where a fire could be keptburning on the hearth, and she could give him constant attention bynight and day. He demurred to this arrangement at first, but soon,through sheer weariness, he yielded; and it was not long after hishead touched the pillow, before he was fast asleep. Later in the nighthe appeared to be troubled and restless, and turned constantly in hisbed, asking frequently for water. Aunt Martha tried to allay his feverwith some simple remedies, but she found that her efforts were in vain.Early in the morning she awoke Abner Pickett and told him that Danniewas ill. He dressed himself, came in and looked at the boy, and saw, atthe first glance, that the services of a physician were needed.
Before daylight Gabriel was on his way to Port Lenox to summon Dr.Chubbuck, and at nine o'c
lock the doctor came. He was short and stout,and red in the face, and carried with him always an air of joviality.But when he came out from the sick room he looked grave.
"What is it, Doctor?" inquired Abner Pickett, anxiously.
The doctor sat down by the table and unlocked his medicine chest beforereplying. He was always deliberate with his answers.
"I'm afraid it's pneumonia," he said finally. "One lung seems to bepretty badly involved. I guess we'll pull him through, though."
He weighed out the medicine and divided the powder into separate doses.
"Give him one every three hours." Then he added, "Martha's been tellingme what he did Tuesday. What under the canopy possessed him to paddlethrough that storm to Mooreville, I can't see. Why, he might have diedof exhaustion. As it is he--well, we'll do what we can for him."
He turned his attention then to the compounding of a liquidprescription.
"Give him a teaspoonful every hour," he directed, "till you get hispulse down to something reasonable--say a hundred and twenty. How's thelawsuit going to come out, Abner?"
"I don't know, an' I don't much care if you'll only pull this boythrough."
"Just so. Do the best we can, of course. Nice boy; hate to lose him. Idon't think you'll have any particular trouble to-night, though, andI'll come up in the morning again and see how he is."
When he came the next morning, he found Dannie no better. The feverwas still high, and the congestion was still spreading in the affectedlung. The next day both lungs were involved. Then Dr. Chubbuckrealized that the case was getting critical. He gave to his task allthe energy, all the skill, all the best thought and judgment, at hiscommand. He was fond of the boy; he had been fond of the boy's fatherbefore him. He had known Abner Pickett intimately from childhood,and, while he respected him for his many good and sterling qualities,he did not hesitate to condemn his faults to his face. And, strangeas it may seem, Dr. Chubbuck was the only man in the world, underwhose condemnation Abner Pickett would sit quietly with no show ofresentment. The old man believed in him, trusted him, and relied on himin everything. There was only one topic that he would not permit him tomention, and that was the estrangement between him and his son.
Notwithstanding the doctor's skilful treatment, and Aunt Martha'stender nursing, Dannie grew steadily worse. He did not suffer greatpain, but he was growing constantly weaker, and there was no abatementof the fever. He often wandered in his mind. He thought he was againbattling with the storm. He would cry out that it was impossible forhim to go farther through those dreadful drifts; that he was sinking tohis death in the deep snow; and he would beg piteously for some one tocome and rescue him.
"There are no drifts, Dannie," Aunt Martha would say to him. "You arenot out in the snow-storm now; you are at home in bed; and I am sittinghere beside you; and Gran'pap is standing there by the foot-board. Youare dreaming, that is all."
But by the time Dannie would turn his glassy eyes toward the foot ofthe bed, Gran'pap would not be there. He would be in the next roomwiping from his face the tears that Dannie must not see. Hour afterhour he would pace up and down the carpeted floor, or sit silent by thefire, waiting, in an agony of dread, for what the next moment mightbring forth. While Dannie's life was hanging in the balance he couldneither work nor eat nor sleep. It distressed him greatly to hear thesick child's constant call for water to alleviate his thirst. They wereobliged to give it to him in small quantities, inasmuch as his stomach,yielding to the general weakness, was participating actively in thedisease.
"Can't he have somethin', Doc?" exclaimed the old man, impatiently,"somethin' that he can just drink down--somethin' that'll satisfy himif it ain't but for five minutes? I can't stan' it to hear him beggin'that way all the time for water!"
The doctor explained why liquids taken on the stomach in largequantities, in Dannie's case, might prove disastrous, and thenmentioned a certain carbonated water, put up in siphon bottles, whichhe thought might be taken more freely and with good effect.
"I can't get it in Port Lenox," he added; "but Chamberlain atMooreville has it. You might send up by the stage to-morrow morning andget some and try it."
"Write down the name of it, Doctor."
The doctor did so. Without another word Abner Pickett took the slip ofpaper and left the room. He hurried to the barn and summoned Gabriel.
"Here," he said, "help me to hitch up, quick! Take the team and thelight cutter. You go to Mooreville to Chamberlain's, as fast as thetwo horses'll draw you, an' back again. Get three dozen bottles of thestuff that's written down on this paper, an don't waste a minute, asyou hope for Heaven!"
Gabriel obeyed the order to the letter. He saved neither the horses norhimself. At dinner time he was back again with the effervescent water.Abner Pickett was so pleased with the haste made, that he asked it as aspecial favor that Gabriel might go in to see Dannie.
"It's Gabriel," said Aunt Martha. "He brought you something fromMooreville, something to drink. Here it is in the glass. See how itsparkles!"
"And may I drink it from the glass?"
"Certainly."
She raised his head gently from the pillow and held the tumbler to hislips. When he had swallowed the liquid he turned his grateful eyes onGabriel.
"Thank you!" he said. "Thank you, very much. That--was so good--youwere always--doing nice things for me--Gabriel."
And Gabriel, not daring to trust himself to reply, turned and left theroom. When he was able to control his voice, he said to Abner Pickett:--
"They tell me he thinks he's in the drifts a-goin' from the poor-houseto Mooreville, an' that the snow's a-smotherin' 'im. You tell 'im theroad's all clear now. Tell 'im I went by there a-flyin'. Tell 'im ababy could walk through them drifts now without any help. Maybe it'llsort o' relieve 'is mind on that p'int."
The old man looked up at him grimly: "Gabriel, you're a--God bless you,Gabriel! Get to your dinner."
But Dannie's dreams were not all of his journey through the storm.He often thought he was with his father. And always some one camebetween them and forced them apart and compelled him to go away. Itwas pitiful at these times to look upon his distress. It required allof Aunt Martha's power of persuasion to induce him to believe that hisimaginings were not realities. And if, at last, he was made to realizethat his father was not with him, he would turn his head wearily on hispillow and sigh with disappointment. One morning Aunt Martha called thedoctor aside and spoke to him very earnestly.
"Yes," he replied; "yes, certainly. He must do it."
He went out into the sitting room where Abner Pickett was pacing up anddown the floor.
"Abner," he said, "I've been used to expressing my mind to you prettyfreely, and I'm going to do it now. I don't know much about the quarrelbetween you and Charlie, and I don't want to know. I don't know whichof you is to blame, and I don't care. But, granted the fault is allCharlie's, he has, nevertheless, some rights as a father, which you, asa man, are bound to respect. And one of them is to know that his childis desperately ill, and to have the opportunity to come, if he wantsto, and look on the boy's face while there's life in it. Now, that'sall. If you don't know where to find him, Martha does."
Abner Pickett stopped in his monotonous walk and looked at the doctorfor a full minute from out his haggard eyes. In that minute he wentover the entire past, he considered the terrible present, he lookedinto the dark future. Then he said simply:--
"Tell Martha to send for him."
At midnight Charlie Pickett came home. He entered by the kitchen door,as in the old days, and passed on into the sitting room. His father wasthere, seated by the fire, gazing steadfastly on the burning coals.
"Father, I've come."
The old man did not answer him. He did not even lift his eyes fromthe blazing logs. But whether his silence was due to the old feud andstubbornness, or whether he dared not trust himself to reply, Charliedid not know.
"Father," he said again, "I've come--to see Dannie."
Still the old man d
id not answer, but he motioned with his head towardthe inner room, and then turned again to the fire. So Charlie enteredthe room where his sick child lay. Aunt Martha met him at the thresholdand kissed the cheek he bent down to her. Dannie was talking softly inhis delirium, in the broken sentences that tell of rapid respiration.He thought he was walking up the gap in the moonlight, with his father,the engineer.
"It's most morning now," he murmured; "I--must hurry home.Gran'pap--don't know--I'm out. Yes, it is; it's a--beautiful curve,beautiful. That's my--mother's grave there--you know. Gran'papwouldn't--have a stake there--for worlds--an' worlds. You're sogood--to go--around it. That's because--you're my father. Are you--myfather? I'm so glad. Don't hold me--quite so tight--father; it hurtsme--here in my side--so. That's better. Who's that--pulling you away?Don't go, father,--don't go. Oh, don't go!"
"No, Dannie; I'll not go. I'm here now to stay until you get well."
Dannie opened his eyes wearily, and saw his father's face bent overhim. He did not seem surprised, only gratified. He reached out both hishot hands and grasped the strong cool hand of his father.
"I'm so glad--you're going--to stay," he said; "I want you--all thetime. I lost you--last night--in the snow. I called--and called--butyou didn't--hear me. I'm so glad--you're here again--so glad--so glad!"
With his father's hand in his he fell asleep, and on his face, forthe first time during his illness, there was an expression of supremecontent.
When Dr. Chubbuck left the sick-room the next morning no one asked himhow his patient was; the look on his face forestalled that question. Hesent his team and driver back to Port Lenox. "I shall not leave hereto-day," he said; "the boy needs me."
So he watched hour after hour at Dannie's bedside, fighting, with everyresource of skill and experience, against what seemed, to all, to bethe inevitable end. At midnight the crisis came. They all knew it wason. No one in the house went to bed. Gabriel, in the kitchen hallway,stood ready for instant service, as he had stood for days--and nights.Even Max, lying by the sitting-room fire, never took his sleeplesseyes from the door that led to Dannie's room. The hush that tells ofthe near approach of man's last enemy lay heavy on the house and allits inmates. There came a time when even those who were nearest anddearest to the sick boy could no longer bear the strain of watching athis bedside. The sudden fall of temperature, predicted by the doctor,had come, bringing its ghastly pallor, its relaxed muscles, its vividsigns of physical collapse; and Abner Pickett and his son, both unableto continue looking on the unequal struggle, had left the room.
Since Charlie's arrival, the night before, no word had passed betweenthem. The old man maintained a studied silence that said as plainly aswords could have expressed it that he did not intend to permit Dannie'sdesperate illness to be made the occasion for a reconciliation. AndCharlie, looking now and again at the haggard and anxious, yetdetermined, face of his father, knew that even Dannie's death would notsuffice to bridge the awful gulf of estrangement. They sat there now,in the outer room, the old man, with his chin in his hands, staringinto the fire, and Charlie resting his head on the table and waitingfor the end; and the unhappy, the unholy power of stubborn pride andself-will and resentment holding them aloof from each other, while,under their very eyes, death was grappling for a life that either wouldhave given his own to save.
In the midst of their reverie they became suddenly aware that Dr.Chubbuck was standing in the doorway of the sick-room, ready to speakto them. Both men felt that the end was approaching, or had alreadycome, and they rose reverently to their feet. The doctor advanced a fewsteps into the room, and spoke low, but distinctly:--
"Gentlemen, the crisis has passed. The temperature has risen to normal,and the patient has just fallen into a restful sleep. I believe he willlive."
Then he turned and went back into Dannie's room. For a moment both menstood as if stunned. Instinctively they gazed into each other's faces.Then Abner Pickett, with great strides, crossed the room to whereCharlie stood. He put a trembling hand on each of his son's stalwartshoulders, and looked straight into his clear blue eyes.
"My son," he said, "I have been to blame."
And Charlie, putting his arm caressingly about the old man's neck,replied:--
"Father, for all that I have done against your wish and will, forgiveme!"
That was all. No more words were necessary. The reconciliation wascomplete. That which even Dannie's death could not have brought aboutwas accomplished in one instant by the announcement that he would live.Joy will sometimes crush the heart that sorrow cannot touch.
A minute later, when Aunt Martha was about to cross the room hurriedlyon some errand of mercy, she stopped suddenly, astounded at the sightthat greeted her. But she grasped at once the beautiful meaning of itall, and raising her eyes devoutly toward heaven, she gently murmured:--
"Thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory!"
When Gabriel learned that Dannie would live, his joy knew no bounds;and when, in addition to that, he was told that Abner Pickett hadbecome reconciled with his son, he could find but one mode ofexpressing his deep exultation. He plunged through the trackless fieldsand up the steep, snow-covered side of the ridge till he reached thetopmost peak above the glen; and there, where no sound that he couldmake would disturb the sufferer, facing alternately to the bright eastand the clear west, he blew blast after blast on his faithful horn;blast after blast, with bulging cheeks and reddening face and poundingheart, till it seemed as though the echoes of the hill and glen wouldtire of answering.
But Dannie was not yet wholly out of danger. His convalescence was veryslow. There were still days of disappointment and nights of anxiety. Henever seemed to wonder at his father's presence, although it was plainthat he rejoiced in it. It was thought best not to tell him at once ofthe reconciliation between Abner Pickett and his son. It was necessaryto avoid every pretext for undue excitement; and the two men were neverin his room together after that terrible night when the crisis waspassed; never until they were sure he would be able to bear the news.It was one day when he was sitting propped up in bed, looking out overthe snow-clad hills, that they came in quietly and stood together athis side before he was aware of their presence. He looked wonderinglyfrom one to the other; but there was a smile on the face of each, andthen Charlie laid his arm gently about the old man's shoulders.
"Is it true?" asked Dannie, flushing with joy and pride as he looked.
"It is true," said Abner Pickett.
"And, please God, it will stay true," added Charlie.
Swift tears sprang into Dannie's eyes, and he put a thin, weak armaround each of their necks, and drew their faces down to his andkissed them. In the doorway Gabriel stood with a newspaper in his handendeavoring to attract attention. When at last the two men turnedtoward him, he exclaimed in a loud and exultant whisper:--
"We've won it."
"Won what?" asked Charlie.
"The lawsuit. It's all here in the paper."
He held up the page so that they could read the head-lines.
"Judge Moore Continues the Injunction against the D. V. & E. and Makesit Permanent. Holds that the Adoption of the Pickett's Gap Route by theBoard of Directors of the T. & W. was First in Point of Time. Declaresthat the Deed of Right of Way through Pickett's Graveyard is Invalid,having been Obtained through a Misunderstanding of Facts. Concludesthat the D. V. & E. Company has no Right to Lay its Tracks in the Gapor the Graveyard."
"I'm so glad!" exclaimed Dannie.
"I knowed we'd knock 'em out in the fust round," said Gabriel. "Ez ol'Isra'l Pidgin use to say, 'It ain't ev'ry--'"
"Gabriel," interrupted the old man, with a smile on his face that toldof the joy in his heart even though he gave voice to the old familiarwords, "Gabriel, you're a fool."