Chapter II
It was a wild March night. The wind blew loud and cold, though there was in the air a faint breath of spring, and the brooks were coming down with fuller currents every hour to swell the Susquehanna. There had been heavy rains for the last few days, and the roads were deeply gullied, and somewhat dangerous by night.
The wild, white moon, nearly at the full, was plunging swiftly through heavy masses of gray cloud, that at times quite obscured her light, and the solid shapes of hill and wood, and the sweeping, changing shadows were so mingled that it was hard to distinguish what was real earth and what was but the effect of cloud and wind-blown moonshine. All the twilight world seemed sound and motion.
Phœbe, as well as her rider, perhaps, felt some of the influences of the time; for she snorted and turned her head homeward, as if minded to return to her warm stable; but she gave way to Fayette’s voice and hand, and, striking into a steady pace, picked her way down the steep and deeply-furrowed road as soberly as an old cart-horse.
The Ford farm-house lay half way up the side of a high hill, and the farm extended into the valley below in pasture and meadow land. Here, for a space, was a hard gravel road; and Fayette, yielding to the spur of the moment, let Phœbe canter, which she was only too willing to do, and was relieved to find how easily she kept her seat, and how gentle was the motion.
In a few minutes the bounds of the farm were passed, and Fayette’s heart sank low as they drew near the roaring, sounding woods through which the road lay. The trees stood up like a black wall, with one blacker archway, into which the path ran, and was lost in the darkness beyond.
People who have never been allowed to hear the word “ghost,” who know nothing of popular superstitions, who are strangers to ballad lore and to Walter Scott, will, nevertheless, be often awed and sometimes panic-struck by night, and darkness, and wind, and that power of the unseen which laughs Mr. Gradgrind himself to scorn.
Fayette, however, had not been properly brought up, according to Mr. Gradgrind’s system. She had read all sorts of wild tales, and listened to them from the lips of a Scotch nurse. She knew many a ballad, and many a bit of folk lore, and old paganism,—pleasant enough puppets for imagination to play with under the sunshine, but which now rose up in a grim life-likeness quite too real.
The owls began to call from the shadows, and once and again came a long, wild scream, which, in the darkness and wind, had an awful sound.
Fayette knew perfectly well that it was only a coon calling, but for all that it frightened her. There came over her that horrible feeling which most people have experienced once in their lives at least—the sense that some unseen pursuer is coming up behind. In a sudden spasm of terror, she very nearly gave way to the impulse that urged her to rush blindly on anywhere to escape the dread follower. Nerves and imagination were running wild; but Fayette, from her earliest years, had been trained to self-control and duty. She checked the panic that urged her to cry and scream for help. She used her reason, and forced herself to look back and assure her senses that, so far as she could see the dim track, she and Phœbe were the only living creatures there.
“I am doing what is right,” she said to herself. “God is here as much as in my room at home. It is folly to fear things that are not real, and as for living beings, not even a wolf could catch me on Phœbe.”
Resolutely rousing her will, she grew more used to her situation, and, more able to control her terrors, she sternly refused to give rein to her frightened fancy. She drew a long breath, however, when once the wood was passed and the road began to climb the opposing hill, behind which, and across the creek, lay Springville. She thought of William of Deloraine and his ride to Melrose, and smiled at the remembrance of that matter-of-fact hero.
“It’s a good thing, Phœbe, dear, that you and I have no deadly feud with any one,” she said; and then she patted the mare and praised her, and Phœbe, quickening her pace, broke into a gallop, and took the hill road with long, sweeping strides that soon brought them to the summit.
Fayette began to enjoy the swift motion and a sense of independence and safety in Phœbe’s gentle compliance with her will; but at the hill-top she checked the pace, fearing a stumble down the deeply gullied hill, which was still sending rivulets to the creek. The amiable Phœbe chose to obey, and picked her way, careful both for herself and her rider.
Now rose a new voice on the wind. It was the sound of angry waters, a long roar rising louder from time to time.
“How high the creek must be!” thought Fayette; and as the roar increased, she began to have a sort of fear of the bridge, which she knew must be crossed; but she classed the feeling with her ghostly terrors, and soon found herself drawing near the bridge, the noise of the water almost drowning that of the wind.
As she came to the bank, a heavy cloud came over the moon, involving the whole landscape in sudden and dense blackness; and at that instant Phœbe planted her feet like a rock, and refused to stir an inch.
In vain Fayette coaxed and urged, for she dared not strike, even if she had had a whip. Phœbe was immovable as a horse of bronze; but at last she began to pull at the bridle, as though she meant to turn homeward.
Just then the moon came out, and Fayette, looking eagerly forward, saw, to her horror, that the bridge was gone. A post and rail only remained, and beyond was a chasm where the furious waters had not even left a wreck behind.
Had Phœbe’s senses not been more acute than her own, two steps more would have plunged horse and rider into the flood.
Fayette turned sick, and felt as if she should fall from the saddle. She rallied, however, for she knew she must. Her senses came back in thankfulness to God, and she confessed humbly enough to Phœbe that she had known best; and Phœbe, looking over her shoulder, said, “I told you so,” as plainly as a horse could.
Fayette was at a loss. A mile further up the stream was another and much better bridge than the rickety old plank structure that was missing; but to reach it she must turn back and make a long detour, that would nearly double her journey, while every minute lessened the chances of the sufferer at home.
She knew that just below the bridge was a ford easily passable in summer, and she remembered hearing her uncle say that once, when the bridge was down, he had crossed this ford on horseback. It might be that even now she and Phœbe could make their way across.
A wagon track led down to the water’s edge, and Phœbe did not refuse to follow this path to the stream’s edge, where Fayette checked her, afraid to face the passage.
The creek was coming down ruffled before the wind into waves “crested with tawny foam,” and the “wan water” looked eerie and threatening.
Fayette refused to think of the water kelpie, who just then obtruded himself on her mind. She bent from the saddle and scanned the road.
Judging from the traces on the gravel, she thought that a wagon must have passed not many hours before. Her courage rose, and she set her will to the task before her.
“If Phœbe thinks it safe, I’ll try it,” she said; and as the rein hung loose, Phœbe stepped cautiously in. She seemed doubtful at first, but she went on, and the water rose and rose.
The moon cast an uncertain, wavering light on the dancing stream; the roar filled Fayette’s ears like a threatening voice; the waves, as they plunged toward her, seemed hands raised to pull her down; and still Phœbe stepped steadily on, and the stream came higher and higher. Fayette drew up her feet as far as she could, and glanced back to the shore, half minded to turn; but it was now as far to one bank as to the other. The water touched her feet; it flowed over them.
The next instant she scarcely checked the shriek that rose to her lips, for she felt that the mare no longer touched bottom, but was swimming for her life and her rider’s.
At the real danger her ghostly terrors fled. With a sense of wonder she felt her mind grow calm, her courage rise, her senses wake to their work.
To her relief she saw that Phœbe had not lost her wits, but was keeping straight across the creek. She let the mare take her own way, only helping her as far as she could by keeping her head in the way she wished to go. She thought of nothing but the minute’s need; and of all the possibilities before her, the only fear that shaped itself in her mind was one for her horse.
The current was strong, but so was Phœbe, and her blood was up. She snorted fiercely, as if angry with the force that crossed her will, and putting out her strength, she breasted the storm gallantly.
It was but a minute, though it seemed an hour to Fayette, before she touched bottom.
The water sank rapidly, and she reached the shore but a little below the usual landing. The bank came down to the stream with a somewhat steep incline; but mountain-bred Phœbe planted her fore feet firmly, scrambled cat-like up the incline, shook the clinging water from hide and mane, and with a joyous whinny, rushed like an arrow on the track.
The way was plain before her, and in a minute or two more Fayette, with some trouble, checked Phœbe’s gallop at Dr. Ward’s gate. A light was burning over the office door.
Fayette slipped from the saddle, but before she turned to the house, she put her arms round Phœbe’s neck, and kissed the white star on her forehead. As she ran up the walk, she felt, for the first time, that she was wet nearly to her knees, and the wind made her shiver.
She rang the bell sharply, and to her relief the door was opened directly by Dr. Ward himself, who had just come in.
Hurriedly, but clearly, Fayette told her story.
“Yes, I understand,” said Dr. Ward. “But, dear me,” he added, as the light fell on her more clearly, “where have you been to get so wet?”
“In the water,” said Fayette. “The creek is so high, and the bridge is down.”
“Child! You did not ride that ford to-night?”
“Not all the way, sir. Phœbe swam.”
“Phœbe, indeed! A pretty pair are you and Phœbe to race round the country at midnight. Go to Mrs. Ward and get some dry clothes, while my man gets out the gig.”
“O, sir, please be quick.”
“Yes, yes; only get off those wet things. Let Phœbe stay here till to-morrow, for my old gig can’t swim the creek, whatever you and the mare can do. We must go by the upper bridge.”
Mrs. Ward, called out of bed, supplied Fayette with dry things, and Phœbe was consigned to the doctor’s admiring colored man, to be well cared for before she took possession of her bed in the warm stable.
The doctor kept a trotter for emergencies, and in an hour and a half from the time she had left home Fayette came back.
Sue came to meet them, white and scared; and, as she came, Fayette heard a cry of anguish, which she knew that nothing but the direst extremity could have wrung from her strong, self-controlled aunt.
The doctor took out his ether flask and sponge, and hurried to the bedside.
Before long the ministering spirit did its good office. The tortured nerves relaxed, and the patient slept.
Fayette put on her wrapper, and curled herself up on the sofa, leaving Sue and the doctor watching by the fire.
When she woke it was broad daylight. All seemed quiet about the house. She stole across the floor, and looked into her aunt’s room. Mrs. Ford was awake, and held out her hand.
“Is the pain gone, aunt?” asked Fayette, kissing her, and feeling a new love rising in her heart.
“Yes, child; but I am very weak.”
“It was the ether saved your life, I really think,” said Fayette, to whom the past night seemed like a dream.
“No, my dear,” said Mrs. Ford. “It was you.”