CHAPTER XVII.

RECONCILIATION AND REVELATION.

It was Ephraim who first recovered himself.

Leaping from his horse, he flung both bridles to any hand would catch them and with a strength and agility due eighteen rather than eighty years, he lifted his unconscious “Little Captain” in his arms and ordered:

“Ambulance! St. Luke’s hospital!”

Then he tenderly laid Jessica’s bleeding cheek against his shoulder, and with shaking hand did his utmost to stanch the flow of blood. For a moment he did not even weep, then the tears coursed down his bronzed face till they blinded him.

The whole party had gathered at a small distance, silent, stunned, unbelieving that such a dreadful thing could have happened, and to her the most unselfish, most innocent of them all.

“She gave her life to save the girl who hated her!” sobbed Rosalie Thorne, and again turned her eyes away.

“Look--look--at Helen! She seems--as if she were marble!” whispered another, feeling that even that subdued murmur were sacrilege.

The clang of an ambulance bell broke in on that silence and, as he had done once before, poor old Ephraim mounted the steps at its rear and followed his darling to her fate.

He had not heart for hope left in him. Girls could not twice escape such peril and live. His “Little Captain” was done for, she would see her beloved home no more; and again, as he had often felt, he realized that her coming east at all had been a grievous mistake. Then a strange feeling of exultation that he should be the only one of her “boys” who had followed her to the death rose within him and when he realized it, frightened him.

“It’s as if I was glad--’t she’s--she’s--Hold on there, Ephraim Marsh! While there’s life there’s hope and if--if ’twas so--she’d--there wouldn’t have been this on that!” he considered, holding before him the handkerchief he had pressed to Jessica’s cheek, now so sadly stained with red.

Of course, Jessica was not dead. Had she been, this story would have ended then and there; but for a long time her young life swayed in the balance and the skill of the best was brought to her aid. Her mother was notified, for a time by hourly telegrams, then by daily ones, of her exact condition; and that she did not immediately hasten to her daughter’s side was that she had herself suffered an accident of a broken limb and was helpless on her back.

Ned and Luis had disappeared up the canyon and as they had before--imperilled their lives in the mines--so now a presentiment of danger to them had sent her in pursuit. An unwary step, a loosened bit of rock, and her search was ended. She was carried home by the miners, two sadly repentant youngsters in her train, and for a time so discreet was their behavior that the ranch mistress could scarcely regret her own mischance which had brought this improvement about.

Fortunately, Aunt Sally, aided by Cousin Margaret, was able to dispel much of the mother’s anxiety; and when the news came that the girl was “out of danger” the former made a great feast and, preparing all the ranchmen by a preliminary dose of “medicine” for any possible ill results, celebrated the event in royal style.

Then she sat down and wrote a letter:

“MY DEAR LITTLE JESS:

“Your Ma has broke her leg, and a fine thing too. Nothin’ short of broke bones would have set them two boys on the road to Good-ville. Sence then they’ve been next door to saints. Ain’t hooked none of my pies nor browbeat Wun Lung. I made a supper for the ‘boys’ and all the rest the men-folks, and I tell you I made Wunny cook for all he was worth. I picry-ed ’em all ’round, first, so as to carry off any indigestion they might get, over-eating, and it done ’em good. Even though my son John did say ’t he seen the most of ’em fling it on the ground, ’stead of into their stummicks.

“I’m glad you’re to that hospital, where that Sophy girl is; and ’twon’t do you a mite of harm to rest up a little from that studying. Too much book learning never did set well on a Trent’s digesters and Ephraim Ma’sh, he wrote John that you’d been kind of peaked. So ’twon’t hurt you. Tell them hospital folks that if they’d admire to have one my rising-sun or log-cabin quilts I’d admire just as much to send ’em. And I’ll piece as many more as they’ll furnish the patches for. I spoke of that to Mis’ Dalrymple and all she did was laugh in that slow, ladylike way of hern. She’s real nice, Mis’ Dalrymple is. Me and her has real good times a-comparin’ notes about what used to be and isn’t no more. I can see, easy as fiddlin’, where ’tis your Ma gets her politeness. She was raised by Margaret Dalrymple; and you was raised by your Ma; and I do hope to goodness, Jessie Trent, that you’ll try to do them credit. Neither don’t you go flinging yourself against them ortymo_beels_, that fool folks have hatched out of their brains, these last years. I seen one. If you’ll believe me, girlie, one of ’em come whizzing onto this very ranch of Sobrante only last week that ever was. It was chock full of towerists and it scared the ranch horses into fits. But, worse and more of it. They fair set Ninian Sharp wild to own one hisself. He’s makin’ real good wages now, Ninian is, a-managin’ the mines; and he seems to want every new-fangled thing a-going. Him with a world full of horses, and I thought he had more sense.

“Well, I’m sending you by express--John pays the cost--a box of home-made guava jelly, some fresh figs, some oranges, some--Well, I reckon a little of ‘some’ everything ’t I could think of that would keep on so long a road. John, he says you could buy ’em all better and cheaper right there in that New York city than it’ll cost to send this box. But I know better. Anyhow I know none bought there would begin to taste as nice to you as these right from Sobrante. You may be gettin’ a terrible smart scholard, as Ephraim Ma’sh he wrote, but you’ll never get to be anything except a girl that loves her home and her folk better than anything else in the world. Bless you, my lamb! there ain’t a night nor day that I don’t go down on my old hunkies--I mean knees--and ask the Good Father to take special care of you, His fatherless child. There’s many a heart aches for you, deary, and many an eye will shine--and cry, too--when that day comes that fetches you home. I’ve made up my mind to quit ‘Boston,’ to coax my silly, sick cousin to come out here and we’ll build her a little bungalow to live in. ‘Bungalow’ is the new-fangled name they’re getting here in Californy for just plain house, or cottage. The world thinks it’s growin’ powerful smart, don’t it? There’s doin’s here, too, I tell you. We’ve got a regular village of houses for the miners, started already. You won’t know Sobrante when you get back to it.

“Never mind. It won’t be more’n three or four years, now, for you have been gone one already. Just think! A whole endurin’ year, and you’ve been burned to death, and ortymo_beel_ed to death, and got lost on the streets, and land knows what hasn’t happened. But I’m thankful for the good word that come to-day; how you’ll soon be back to that big school. Your Ma says that the teacher is going to take you and some the other scholards to camp out in the Airondacks this summer. I’m glad of it. I don’t justly know what Airondacks, or Airydondacks, or whatever ’tis are. But I sort of sense that they’re partly woods and partly water and partly mountings. Them three parts put together, and you sleeping right outdoors in a tent--What do they do when it rains?--will make it seem most like Californy.

“Now no more till next time. I’d admire to put a bottle or so of picry or somethin’ in the box but John he won’t hear to it. He says--No, I shan’t repeat what he says. Not to a girl like you, ’cause it’s so sort of onrespectful. I know you’ll be glad to know I’ve got four more quilts ready pieced and fit to put on the quiltin’-frames. When them are done and I get two--three more done I’ll nigh have reached my hundred limit, what I set for myself. John says what in--I mean he says what does anybody want of a hundred quilts, here in Californy with a summer climate all the year round. But John, he don’t know everything, even if he thinks he does.

“It is ‘good-by’ for sure, this time. I’ve got to stop writin’ and talkin’ to you--as it seems like--’cause there’s some sort of goings-on out in Wunny’s kitchen. I cal’late them childern has been into some his messes and I can’t let Gabriell’ hear ’em, for it would make her fidget. Everybody sends love, and don’t forget to tell the hospital folks about the rising-sun and log-cabin.

“Your loving, foolish, hungry-for-you, “AUNT SALLY.”

This letter was duly read by the nurse who had charge of Jessica to her convalescent, and as attentively listened to by Sophy, Ephraim, and even Granny Briggs, herself. It was visitors’ day and “Little Captain” was so far recovered that these now happy, cheerful callers could not harm her by the fatigue of conversation. The others laughed over it, enjoyed it, and even the sharpshooter somewhat ridiculed it.

Upon which, quoth “Sophia Badger, that was:”

“Now Ephraim Marsh, you ain’t half as smart as you think. I take that letter for just what it’s worth--right out of the heart of one the best women the Lord ever made. From all you’ve told me about her before, and what her own letter tells itself, I’d ‘admire’ myself to know her. She may be queer--so are you. I’m like the old Quaker who said: ‘All the world’s queer except thee and me, Hannah, and even thee’s a little queer sometimes.’ We can’t see ourselves and our own queernesses. A good thing, too; but I wish there were a lot more ‘Aunt Sallies’ scattered around the world, brightening it and dosing it and keeping it wholesome. Think what a difference ’twould have made to Sophy and me if there’d been an ‘Aunt Sally’ living in Avenue A when we were starving there. No, Ephraim Marsh, you always were a light-headed kind of boy and you never have grown up. So, don’t let me hear no more fun-making of that good woman in Californy, that I’d admire to know.”

Thus strictly corrected the dame, who had fully assumed charge of her old playmate’s mind and morals.

To divert attention from her beloved sharpshooter, Jessica cried:

“So you _shall_ know Aunt Sally, Mrs. Briggs! And you are right; she _is_ one of the best women in the world. I don’t know what my dear mother would ever have done without her. In all her troubles and worries, mother has turned to Aunt Sally, and has always found help. So, when we go home; when Sophy, too, has finished her nurse’s training and got her diploma; we’ll _all_ go home together. Sophy is to be superintendent of the hospital mother is to have built and we’ll none of us who love each other be separated again, never again.

“Oh! the dreams I’ve had, the plans I’ve formed, lying here just getting well. Seems if my whole life long and every dollar that comes into my hands must go to make somebody happy. Somebody--no matter who--just the somebody that comes nearest and the happiness can reach the first. Life--it makes a girl think pretty seriously when she knows that just the tiniest bit more of a bruise or a cut would have ended that life. It seems as if I must hurry, hurry, to make up to somebody for any mischance has come to them. I----Beg pardon, nurse, what did you say?”

“That these visitors have stayed their full time; that Sophy must be taken back to her own place; and that there is one more visitor wishing to see you. I think you have had enough callers as it is, but this one has been here nearly every day, inquiring, though not before asking permission to come up to your room. I think she is one of your schoolmates, and you must not expect to keep her long. Nor do you talk much. Let her talk and you just listen and she must not stay long.”

The others made their prompt adieus and departed; Jessica remarking: “I think it must be Rosalie Thorne. She’s been so kind and sympathetic. I don’t see how she has given so much time to calling, when she’s working so hard for her last examination. Only another week and then Commencement. Oh! I hope I may be ‘discharged’ by that time, so I can see the girls in their pretty frocks and their flowers and their pride. Helen and Rosalie are honor girls, I know. Poor Helen. I wish she would learn to like me just a little bit before she goes away forever. She’s to live in Europe, Madame said, and perfect herself in music. At least, to go on with it, though nobody can ever ‘perfect’ himself I suppose. Poor Helen! How near, how near she came to losing her own life that day! I remember I warned her about that Beauty. He----”

“There, my little patient. That’s quite enough ‘remembering’ for now. What I want you to do is some forgetting, if you please, of all that is past and gone. Think! in another week you will be back at school, well and happy once more. Ah! here comes a maid with the young lady.”

Jessica was sitting in her pretty chair, but rose as the caller entered; then promptly settled back again, while her outstretched arm sank slowly to her side. She was still weak enough to be unnerved by the sight of Helen Rhinelander whom her visitor proved to be and whom she had not seen since they two faced death together. Nor was she at all prepared for the strange behavior of the haughty senior, who hesitated on the threshold of the room, cast one glance toward the nurse--as if wishing that person elsewhere--then hurriedly crossed to Jessica’s chair and sank on her knees beside it.

Helen’s face was streaming with repentant tears and her voice tremulous with profound emotion as she caught up Jessica’s still-bandaged hand and kissed it humbly.

“O Jessica, you savior of my life! Will you forgive me? Can you ever, ever learn to do it?”

“The--savior--Helen--Why, what can you mean? Why do you kneel? Why are you crying? Oh! don’t please. Please, please, don’t! It seems so queer--as if things were all coming to an end to have you kneel there and ask me--_me_--to ‘forgive you.’ What in the world have I to forgive? It’s I should be forgiven, for I was angry. I was fearful angry that day, because you slighted Sobrante and praised Beauty. I--Yes, nurse. I know. I won’t talk about it, only long enough to make dear Helen understand.”

It was plain enough then that Jessica either did not know how brave her own action had been nor that all her recent suffering had been the price of saving her enemy’s life. Understanding this, the nurse delicately slipped away, leaving those two young souls to find out the truth from one another and to make that peace which their words signified had not existed between them.

“Jessica, don’t you know? Is it possible that nobody has told you how your flinging yourself upon that vicious Beauty prevented his trampling me under his feet and surely saved my life? He trampled you instead and I feel--I feel--O Jessica! I have been so mean, so little, so dastardly and hateful all along from the beginning. I can’t tell you how mean I feel. Can you forgive me? _Can you_----”

“Helen, Helen! Let’s change the question. Can you love me a little, tiny bit? That’s all I want in this world to be loved; or what’s better, be let to love other people just as much as I wish. You are so beautiful, so clever, I’ve just longed to love you, only--only--Say, Helen, that you can and will now.”

The senior’s answer was to clasp the convalescent in such a close embrace as satisfied forever Jessica’s longing in that question.

“Love you, ‘Little Captain’? Oh! with all my heart and soul; and to try to be somewhat like you is now my dearest ambition. Kiss me, Jessie, kiss me once.”

Not only kisses but tears commingled, to that extent the watchful nurse from the room beyond came back to her post and cut the interview short. But it was a very different, most radiant Helen who left that hospital room and repaired with her story and her good news to the motherly presence of Madame Mearsom.

When she had finished that narration, she added:

“And now, Madame, I want you to help me find a way to, at least, partially repay Jessica for her suffering. I know about hospitals. That it is very expensive to have a private room and one ‘special’ nurse, even one; yet Jessica has had two, and sometimes three. That means, I suppose, that she has been in extremest danger. I want to help her. Will you find out for me, and arrange it as only your tact can, so that her pride won’t be hurt? The whole bill, surgeons, nurses, room, every possible expense; my mother and I wish to pay it and as soon as we can learn how much it is. Of the larger debt--that I owe her my very life--I can’t speak yet. Time will show me some way, I hope, to prove I’m grateful for all that.

“Why, Madame! You are smiling! What can I have said? Haven’t I offered it right? I’m glad, we’re glad, to do much more if you will tell us what.”

“Helen, what has put it into your head that Jessica Trent needs any financial ‘help’?”

“I--I really do not know. Except that all of the girls think, or have been told, that she is one of your charity pupils.”

Then, indeed, did Madame Mearsom laugh and heartily:

“My dear, that is the most absurd blunder your young heads ever made. Jessica Trent is what is called ‘A Copper Princess.’ She is the richest pupil I have ever had.”