Chapter VII: The Unknown Deliverer

Very rapidly the spring passed away, and the soft, sunny skies of June had more than once tempted the blind man and his daughter into the open fields, or the woods which lay beyond. Their favorite resort, however, was a retired spot on the bank of the river, where, shut out from human eyes, they could speak together of the past, the present, and what the future might bring. Here, one pleasant afternoon, they came, and while Mr. Warren talked of his childhood and his early home, Alice sat sewing at his feet, until growing somewhat weary, she arose and began to search for wild flowers upon the mossy bank. Suddenly espying some beautiful pond lilies floating upon the surface of the water, she exclaimed:

“Oh, father, father, these must be white lilies just like those you used to gather when a boy.”

“Where, where?” the blind man asked, and his face shone with the intense longing he felt to hold once more within his hand the fair blossoms so interwoven with memories of his boyhood.

“They are here on the river,” Alice replied, “and I can get them, too, by going out upon that tree which has partly fallen into the stream.”

“Don’t, Alice—don’t! There may be danger,” Mr. Warren said, shuddering even while he spoke with an undefinable fear.

But Alice was not afraid, and springing lightly upon the trunk of the tree she ventured out—farther, and farther still, until the lilies were just within her reach, when, alas, the branch against which she leaned was broken, and to the ear of the blind man sitting on the grass there came the startling cry of “Father!” while a heavy splash in the deep, dark water, told that Alice was gone.

In wild agony the distracted man ran to the water’s edge and unhesitatingly waded in, shrieking, as he did so:

“My child! my child! Is there no eye to pity, no arm to save?”

Yes, there was an eye to pity, and it raised up an arm to save; for, rushing from a clump of alders which grew not far away, there came a rough, hard-featured man, who, catching up Mr. Warren as if he had been a child, bore him back to the grassy bank, then boldly plunging into the river, he seized the long tresses of the drowning girl, just as they were disappearing for the third and last time. Wringing the water from her brown hair, the stranger folded his light burden gently to his bosom, and bending over her still, white face, looked earnestly to see if she were dead. There was yet life, he hoped, and swimming to the shore, he laid the unconscious maiden upon the grass, resting her head in the lap of her father, who cried:

“Is she dead—oh, tell me, is she dead!”

But the stranger made him no reply, save to take his hand and lay it on the little heart which was beating faintly. Then with rapid footsteps he walked away, half pausing once as he heard the poor old man call after him imploringly.

“Don’t leave me all alone, for I am blind, and Alice’s heart will stop beating, I’m afraid. It has stopped beating! She’s dead! oh, she’s dead!” he screamed, as in the distance he heard the tramping footsteps going from him fast.

Still though he knew it not, they went for him, and Mr. Howland, whom chance had led that way, was surprised in his walk by the sudden appearance of a man with uncovered head and dripping garments, who bade him hasten to the river bank, where a young girl, he feared, was drowned.

“I am going for a physician,” he said, and he sped away, while Mr. Howland hurried on to the spot where Alice still lay insensible, and whiter than the lilies for which she had risked her life. Over her bent the poor old man, his tears falling like rain upon her face, and himself whispering sadly:

“It’s darker now than midnight—they are all gone from me—wife, daughter, all; oh, Alice, Alice, my bright, my beautiful one. Why did God take you from me when I needed you so much?”

“She may not be dead,” said Mr. Howland, and touched with the grief of the stricken man, his own tears dropped on Alice’s face.

But they did not rouse her, and with a terrible fear at his heart, he lifted her lightly in his arms, saying to her father:

“My house is nearer than any other—we must go there.”

Dizzy and faint with excitement, Mr. Warren arose to his feet, but to walk was impossible, and sinking back upon the grass, he cried:

“Leave me here and care for her. You can send for me by and by.”

This seemed the only alternative, and Mr. Howland started for home, meeting ere long with several of the villagers who had been alarmed by the stranger. A few of them kept on to the river, while others accompanied Mr. Howland to the house, where crowds of people were soon assembled, and where every possible means were used for Alice’s recovery. But they seemed in vain, and when at last the poor old father reached the door he knew by the death-like silence pervading the room, that the physician had said, “no hope.”

“Lead me to her, somebody—lead me to Alice,” he whispered, and taking his outstretched arm, Mr. Howland led him to the couch where Alice lay, her wavy hair clinging in damp masses to her forehead, and her long eyelashes resting upon her marble cheek.

Quickly the trembling fingers sought the heart, but alas! they felt no motion, and more than one turned away to weep as they saw the look of bitter anguish settling down upon the father’s face. There was yet one test more, and laying his ear upon the bosom of his child, the blind man listened intently, while the lookers-on held their breath in agonizing suspense.

Suddenly through the room there rang the wild, glad cry, “I hear it—she lives, she lives!” and with renewed courage the people returned to their labor, which this time was successful, for she who had been so near to death, came slowly back to life, and when the sun went down, its last parting rays shone on the bowed head of one who from his inmost soul was thanking God for not having written him “childless.”

It was thought advisable that Alice should remain where she was for a day or two, and they carried her into a large, pleasant chamber, overlooking the town, Miss Elinor constituting herself the nurse, and ever and anon bending down to kiss the lips of the young girl who had so narrowly escaped a watery grave.

Meanwhile, in the parlors below, both Mr. Warren and Mr. Howland were making inquiries for the stranger, who, after giving the alarm, had suddenly disappeared. No one had seen him since, and of those who had seen him before, none knew who he was or whence he came.

“If I could have heard the sound of his voice, I should know him anywhere,” said Mr. Warren, while Adelaide Huntington, who had not been there long, and who, for some reason, did not like to hear much of the stranger, suggested that it might have been some foot traveler, who, not caring for thanks, had gone on his way.

This seemed probable and satisfactory to all, save Mr. Warren, who replied:

“If he would come back, I’ve nothing in the wide world to offer him; but an old man’s blessing might be of some avail, and that he should have, even though he were my bitterest enemy, and had done me terrible wrong.”

There was a deep flush on Adelaide’s cheek as Mr. Warren said these words, and turning quickly away, she walked to the window to hide the emotions which she knew were plainly visible upon her face. She seemed greatly excited, and far more interested in the accident than her slight friendship for the Warrens would warrant, and when she learned that Alice was to remain, she, too, insisted upon staying all night, provided she could be of any assistance. But Miss Elinor declined her offer, and at a late hour she started for home, managing to steal away when Mr. Howland did not see her. She evidently did not wish to have him accompany her, and for a few succeeding days she avoided him going to his house but once, and that on the morning when Alice was taken home in the carriage. There was something preying upon her mind—something, too, whose nature neither Mr. Howland nor his far-seeing sister could divine, though the former fancied he had discovered it, when, a little more than a week after the accident, she came to him with her face all wreathed in smiles and handed him the entire amount of money then due for the rent.

That provoking agent had attended to them at last, she said, and she was so glad, for it was very mortifying to be owing any one.

“And _this_ is what has been troubling you of late?” said Mr. Howland, who was greatly pleased at seeing her appear like herself again.

“Then you noticed it,” Adelaide replied, coloring crimson, and adding hastily: “We have recently been much annoyed and perplexed, but for the future our agent will be prompt, and so shall we.”

Whether the agent referred to was prompt or not, there seemed for several weeks to be plenty of money at the white house on the hill—so much so, in fact, that Adelaide did not, as usual, go to Springfield to take her accustomed lesson, while old Peggy, whose shabby dress was beginning to create some gossip among the villagers, presented quite a respectable appearance in her new gingham and muslin cap. About this time, too, there was sent by mail to Mr. Warren the sum of twenty-five dollars, and as there was no word of explanation accompanying it, he naturally felt curious to know from whom it came.

“Miss Elinor sent it, I am sure. It is exactly like her,” said Alice, who was now entirely well, and that afternoon, when her work was done, she went up to see Miss Howland, whom she found suffering from a severe headache, and in ministering to her wants she entirely forgot to speak of the money. The next day Miss Elinor was much worse, and for many weeks was confined to her bed with a lingering fever, which left her at last so nervous and low that her physician advised a journey to the West as the surest means of restoring her health. Her only sister was living in Milwaukee, and thither Mr. Howland, who began to be seriously alarmed, tried to persuade her to go. For a time Miss Elinor hesitated, and only consented at last on condition that her brother promised not to engage himself to Adelaide Huntington during her absence.

Bursting into a laugh, Mr. Howland assured her that she need have no fears of finding her station, as mistress of his house, filled on her return, for though Adelaide might possibly some day bear the name of Howland, he could wait a while, and would do so for his sister’s sake.

With this promise Miss Elinor tried to be satisfied, and after giving him many charges not to neglect the blind man, she started for Milwaukee in company with some friends who, like herself, were westward bound.