Out of the Storm

by Grace Livingston Hill

  It was raining a fine mist in a driving slant, and the old lady pulled up her little plaid shawl over her head and shoulders and defiantly plodded out into the sand. She has halfway over to where the man lay before Corinne returned and discovered her and hustled after her.

  "Oh now, Mis' Battin, child, what you done do? You come right back in de house. What Mr. Sam gonna say to me when he come back--lettin' you go way 'lone out in de rain?" But the old lady was determined now to go and ordered her servant most energetically.

  "You go right back, Corinne, and bring those things!" she said, standing still and stamping her foot in the damp sand. "Go!" And the black woman turned and fled.

  "Oh, my soul!" she said. "Mis' Battin done got one ob her fits, an' what kin I do? Mr. Sam mos' kill me when he done git back foh lettin' her rampage around in de rain!" But she got the things and returned in a hurry.

  By the time she came back, the old lady was down on her rheumatic knees in the wet sand with her hand on the breast of the man, holding the ammonia bottle to his nostrils. A long shuddering gasp was the response to this, and the heart of the girl leaped with joy. By this time, he seemed like her own child.

  "You can't do anything with him out here in the wet!" complained the old lady, her sudden spurt of courage forsaking her and fear and sudden childishness returning upon her.

  "Take me back to the house, Corinne. I'm all wet!" she cried, and the tears began to course down her cheeks.

  As if she had been a spoiled child, the woman lifted her to her feet and almost carried her over the sand back to the steps.

  "Thar now, honey, Mis' Battin, yoh poh little thing. Thar now, honey, don't you cry. I'se goin' to put you to bed and make a hot drink foh you, honey, so you won't get col' an' be sick. Thar now, honey, Mis' Battin."

  The changing mood of the hysterical old lady took another turn.

  "No, Corinne, nothing of that sort," she said sharply. "You'll go right up to the attic and get that folding cot that's up there by the stairs, and you can take it down there and help the girl get the man on the cot and bring him up here. I'll stay by the fire and drink some hot milk, and I'll be all right till you get back. Hurry now, quick!"

  There was that tone again that Corinne had to obey. She set her mistress reluctantly down in the doorway and hurried upstairs after the cot.

  "Great day in de mawnin'!" she muttered. " 'Zif I was hyahed to tote round grea' big dead men wid der shoes on. Why don't he git up hisse'f an' come up here, I'd like to know. I don't like to be round dead men, anyhow, and Mis' Battin better look out, she git dis yer house hanted, an' den whar she be at? She can't git Corinne stay in no hanted house, not eber!"

  Corinne lumbered up the two flights of stairs and thumped the cot down, step by step, talking to herself all the way.

  Somehow they got him on the cot, and the two, the big servant and the exhausted girl, lifted it and carried him across the intervening sand to the house, staggered up the steps with their heavy burden and into the bedroom off the sitting room, where the old lady stood waving a crutch like a brigadier general and directing their slow progress.

  Then suddenly, before the cot was fairly set upon its legs beside the comfortable-looking bed, the girl crumpled in a heap on the floor. She had gone to the limit of her strength.

  "My soul!" exclaimed the black woman, dropping her end of the cot and flying around to the girl. "My soul! She's done gib clean out! Now ain't dat a pity!"

  The old lady was on hand with her aromatic ammonia, and in a moment more, the girl opened her eyes. She turned at once to the cot.

  "We must get him warm and dry," she said as she tried to get up.

  "No, honey chile, you jes' leab him to me," said Corinne in a caressing voice. "You leab him to me, chile; I'll put him in bed in no time. You jes' lie still a minute, and I get him fixed, an' den we'll ten' to you, too. 'Pears like I'se jes got my ole brack hands full dis mawnin'. Mis' Battin, you sit down, please; you know you can't stan' up like dat 'dout gettin' lame. Now, Mister gemmen, we'll jes' git you out de way."

  She stooped over capably, like one accustomed to care for the helpless, and began to pull off his sodden shoes and few wet garments, rolling him in a blanket and putting the hot-water bag to his feet. Then she turned back the covers of the bed and hurried off to the kitchen, returning presently with several bottles of hot water wrapped in towels. These she laid in the bed then stooped once more and lifted the great man, half carrying him, half rolling him, and put him into the bed, packing the hot bottles about him and covering him up carefully.

  The girl had closed her eyes again, and the old lady had thrown a big flowered comforter over her. But she shivered in her wet garments and felt suddenly too weak and sick to lift her head.

  "Now, honey chile, you gotta git dem wet cloes off ur you boun' to cotch your deaf o' cole. Mis' Battin, what we gwine put on dis chile?"

  "Eh?" said the deaf old lady, lifting a trembling hand to her ear.

  Corinne lifted her voice mightily: "What we gwine put on dis chile, Mis' Battin, some o' your cloes ur some o' mine?"

  The old lady looked at her uncertainly with a startled comprehension, "H'm! Why--something--anything!"

  There was a sudden working about her mouth, and the tears filled her faded old eyes. She turned away abruptly to hide her emotion. The old servant stood arms akimbo watching her, mingled pity and satisfaction in her face. Finally the old lady turned back.

  "Help me upstairs, Corinne. I'll go up and find something of Jeannette's that she can wear."

  Corinne's face shone.

  "Dat's right, Mis' Battin, honey. Reckon Miss J'nette won't need none o' dem follies up dar in de heab'nly kingdom, with all dem robes of righteousness, an' gold'n slippahs, an' dimon' crowns she's wearin' now. An' you all know, Mis' Battin, honey, dat Mistah Sam done tole you you oughta gib dem tings to someone what needed 'em. Dis chile needs 'em, sure nuf!"

  She chattered like a magpie all the way upstairs, and then she came down thumpily, rolling her huge body from side to side as she set each ample foot upon a stair.

  She took the girl upstairs to the bathroom and helped her undress, turning on the hot water to take the chill off the room. She even helped her rinse the salt water from her long tangled hair and rubbed it dry in a big Turkish towel. Then she got her into the nice clean garments that the old lady grudgingly handed out from a room that nowadays was always kept shut and locked. There was a soft warm bathrobe and slippers in the outfit, and when Gail was arrayed in these and her hair brushed out on a big towel over her shoulders to dry, she began to feel more like herself, though her limbs were shaky and stiff from the long confinement in a cramped position and her whole body felt weary even unto death. If it had not been for the responsibility of her fellow traveler, she would have dropped down on the floor where she was and gone to sleep, feeling that she did not care what happened anymore. But more and more as she went through her hasty grooming, she felt the burden of this life that she had taken upon herself.

  Now that she knew beyond a doubt that he was still living, she felt that responsibility doubly. If he should die now, she would feel it had in some way been her fault. Perhaps that was not reasonable, but she felt it. He seemed somehow to belong to her out of the whole world to care for. By and by she might be able to find out who he was and send for his friends, but just now he was hers and hers alone, for God has sent him straight to her hand in his dire necessity, and she had brought him so far safe.

  A doctor! She must have a doctor at once. How could one be reached? They had said the storm had cut off communication with the mainland and there was no one to send. Well, then she would have to take a boat and go. She knew how to row. She would find out how far it was to the mainland and row there if there was nothing else to be done. Perhaps her strength was far gone, but she knew her will and nerve would hold out to get her there and send a doctor back, and then what did it matter? There was no one anywhere that cared very much what became of her no one for whom
she cared deeply now anymore. She might as well die helping a man who had given his chance of life to help others. It was all in a lifetime anyway, and what did it matter?

  She was thinking these thoughts as she slowly descended the stairs with Corinne. But she was left to walk across the floor by herself, and the floor suddenly seemed to rise and enfold her to itself.

  Chapter 4

  It was some minutes before Gail came to consciousness again, and she looked around bewildered.

  "I'm sorry to make so much trouble," she said, "but perhaps if you could give me something to eat, I would be able to do something. I have a little money. I can pay you for whatever expense and trouble we are to you."

  She spoke into the old lady's ear as she bent over her, and her hostess answered her sharply:

  "Nonsense, child! Don't talk about pay!" For the thought had come to her, "What if this had been Jeannette?"

  Corinne waddled up with a bowl of hot soup she had been concocting, and Gail ate it eagerly.

  "I must get a doctor right away," she said as she ate, while the two stood watching her. "Could you tell me how to get there? Did you say you had to go by boat? Could I get a boat here on the island? I know how to row."

  "Great day in de mawnin'! Honey! You row? You couldn't neber row to mainland wid yo' poo' little weak streng', and yoh poo' little white cole han's in all dis mis' an' stawm! 'Sides, der ain't no need. I done sent foh de doctah a'ready. De boy was here wid de fish fom up at de point an' I tole him to go right quick, dat a man was dyin', an' he'd be hanted foh eberlast'n' ef he didn't git dat doctah here right-quick-away. So you jes' res' yoh bones, honey chile, an' don' you worry none. Say, honey chile, is dat man you all's husband?"

  "Oh, no!" said Gail, with her white cheeks growing pink. "Oh, no, indeed! I don't even know him at all."

  "He ain't no kin 'tall to you all? Den how you cum to brang 'im hyar?"

  "Indeed, I never saw him before until I came out on deck and tried to find a boat," said Gail. "This man was helping people into the last boat that was left, and he was going to help me, but before he could get me over the rail, the boat went off and left us and the ship began to sink. Then he tore up a hatchway and lashed me to it with a rope and just got me away from the steamer in time before it sank. I saw him spring overboard after me, but something struck him on the head as he fell, and after that I didn't see him anymore till he floated by the raft. I caught him and held him, and by and by got him pulled up beside me. But he must have been hurt, for he never opened his eyes nor moved."

  "How d'yoh know he wa'n't daid?"

  "I was afraid he might be," said Gail, wearily closing her eyes, "but I couldn't take the chance. I held him on the raft till I got my scarf around him, and that helped to hold him. It was a terrible night!" She shuddered at the memory.

  "An' you stayed on dat air raf' all night in dat big stawm wif dat air might-be-a-daid man! Wasn't you scairt?"

  "I don't know," sighed Gail. These seemed such trivial questions.

  "Yoh do' know! Yoh do' know! Mis' Battin, she say she do' know ef she's scairt sittin' all night on a ship-do' tied on wid a might-be-daid man! My soul, honey, I'd-a jumped right out into dat sea an' drownded, I'd-a been so scairt. An' ain't you got no idee 'tall who dat man might be? Ain't you seed him 'foh on de ship? Wasn't he one ob de pass'ng's?"

  "No, I hadn't seen him before that I remember. We had only been out a night, you know, and the lady I was with was afraid of being seasick and wanted to stay in her stateroom, so we didn't go about on the ship that evening at all."

  "What cummed dat lady? You reckon she got drownded?"

  "She jumped overboard into a crowded boat. No, I think she was saved. She always looked out pretty well for herself--and made other people look out for her, too."

  "An' she done lef' you, my pretty? Wal, honey chile, yoh want know my 'pinion ob dat lady? Well, she ain't no lady 'tall; that's just me 'pinion ob huh.

  "An' so yoh don't know dat man 'tall. Well, now, ain't dat strange! Yoh don' eben know what's his name? I reckum I best look in his pants pocket an' see 'f I c'n find out. It might cum in mighty handy to know what to call him ef he should come to pretty soon."

  Gail suddenly roused herself and went over by the bed to look at her patient. She laid her hand on his forehead. It was warm, and a faint look of life was creeping into his white face. Now and then he moved his lips slightly, but the face was upturned almost in the same position as when he was placed in the bed--thrown back with the chin up, a strong, well-cut chin, and the long dark lashes lay unquivering on his cheeks, lean, well-modeled cheeks. Now that his hair was drying and loosed up about his brow, he looked young, almost a boy. Gail's heart was stirred with a strange emotion as she looked at him, so strongly, finely built, so splendid in the lines of his face and head, and lying there so helpless, yet not dead. What could it mean? Had the blow on his head taken away his senses forever, and if so, would it not have been better that she had let the sea have him rather than that he should live and not come into possession of his faculties again? No, for his friends would rather have the precious clay and know for a surety how he died. Somehow she must find his friends, whether he was to live or die.

  She turned to Corinne, who had brought the wet clothing and was fumbling in the pockets.

  "Reckum yoh bettah take dis junk," she murmured, plunging her hand in the damp pocket and hauling it out again full.

  Gail sat down and held her hands out for the things. A handkerchief first, some loose change, some trinkets of gold, cuff links, tie-claps, a couple of scarfpins, a curious little old-fashioned locket with the picture of a beautiful girl in a quaint outfit, as if she were sitting for her portrait, that somehow oddly gave Gail a feeling as she looked at it that he did not really belong to her anymore, only until she found that other girl. That was all, besides a handsome gold watch with monogrammed initials and an elaborate fob hanging from a wide rich ribbon on which was clasped a small jeweled fraternity pin bearing the same initials on the back.

  Gail sat with them in her hands, studying the initials and the picture in the locket and wondering about it all, a strange, sad sinking in her heart that she could not explain. It was as if she held the fragments of a life and happiness in her hands, and hers was the hand that must put them together again if they were ever to go on, and she was helpless and knew not how to perform her task. In that moment, her lifelong habit of prayer came to her assistance. Her heart was lifted up in behalf of this stranger who was for a time in her keeping. Inexperienced girl though she was, God had led her thus far, and He would show her now what to do.

  She studied the initials while the black woman watched her and then looked at the silent man on the bed. But the old lady hobbled away to a desk drawer and brought back a little box.

  "You'd better put the things in there and keep them for him. Those clothes need to be hung up by the stove to dry. If he should ever need them again--" She stopped short, for at that minute the man on the bed spoke:

  "Wait! There is a woman! Don't cast off yet! There is a woman on board!"

  His voice was clear and commanding, and the silence that filled the room was startling. Even the deaf old lady heard and sat down suddenly in her rocking chair. The black woman drew quickly near to her, half in fear, half in protection.

  "What yoh t'ink he gwine do, Mis' Battin, honey?" she asked in an awed whisper, but the old lady shook her head, and the tears began to gather in her eyes.

  To Gail, the words were like an electric shock startling her into new life. It was the call of the man who had tried to save her, to her who had tried to save him. It was the strange, mysterious bond that bound them, two utter strangers, to one another. Each owed a life to the other.

  Somewhere the girl had read a book or a story--it wasn't very clear, just a vague remembrance--on the theme of how far one was bound to the person who had saved his life. But there was no question of any such thing in her heart when she heard that clear ringing command. She rose
from her chair on the instant and went to his side. She was drawn to stand by him, to try in some way to let him know that he had saved her.

  She stooped over and took the hand that lay tossing outside the coverlet, laying her other hand on his forehead, which she noticed was growing hot and dry. Standing so with his hand in hers, she prayed silently that somehow she might make him know that he had saved her, that he might come back to life if possible. And then, he opened his eyes for an instant and looked into hers, a straight, keen look that seemed to be struggling with some perplexity. Somehow he found a solution in her eyes, for a dawning look of understanding and relief came into his, and the lids dropped once more as if he had never opened them. Just that flash of recognition and then he was gone back into the land of oblivion where he had been since his plunge into the sea.

  Was this the end? Was he going to die now? Had that been the return of the spirit to things material before it took its final departure from this life?

  She put her hand anxiously over his heart but found it beating distinctly. She listened fearfully lest his breath should stop, but the rise and fall of his chest, and the quiver of his nostrils, were distinctly visible. Do people die so, after enduring such terrible things, and then just go out? Suppose this should be the end and they should never find out who or what he was, and she would have only that look and that one splendid sentence of his to remember as hers! Well, she would be glad to have just that. Something in his eyes and voice told her he was a man she would be proud to call her friend. If he had others who had a better right to him, at least the past night and day were hers alone, and she might feel this much of him, this look and this last word of saving her, were rightly her own and no other's. It came to her how exceedingly lonely her life had been in the past two years that she was content to take joy from a dead man's look, that it had the power to thrill her.