CHAPTER III “NOT DEATH BUT LIFE”

MR. FENTON walked on slowly with his hand at the horse’s head. He was guiding and encouraging, as he floundered through the heavy snow, almost as light in quality as sifted flour.

Tory rode, holding the reins and standing so that she might better observe the objects ahead.

With apparent good judgment, the Emperor did not rush on out of sight. He kept stopping and turning to discover if his much-needed assistants in whatever cause he had at heart were following.

As a matter of fact, Tory was forgetting the seriousness of their quest. The morning was enchantingly lovely. With the appearance of her uncle her fears had subsided.

Doubtless Memory Frean would make her way home in their absence and discover that the House in the Woods had sheltered an unknown occupant during the night.

Overhead the long feathery fingers of snow suspended from the branches of the trees31 sparkled and swung, falling to earth at the lightest breath of wind.

In truth the morning was remarkably still, as suddenly toward dawn the storm had ceased entirely.

Tory affectionately studied her uncle, his fine scholarly face unusually reddened and glowing by the surprising exertions of his struggles through the drifted snow. His shoulders, oftentimes slightly bowed, were now erect in order that he might better survey his surroundings.

Plainly he was more troubled than Tory by what might lie ahead.

Suddenly the Emperor halted and glanced backward with an expression of imploring anxiety, then swerving toward the left, he galloped toward a small grove of pine trees. His patience was finally exhausted.

Mr. Fenton brought his horse to a standstill.

“Stay here, please, Tory,” he said quietly, but in a tone of authority that would be instinctively obeyed.

More cautiously and slowly he followed their guide.

Tory suffered in the next interval of ten minutes.

32 She watched Mr. Fenton striding through the opening toward the small grove of trees. Then from her present position she was unable to see him.

Of course it was only a few moments, but it seemed interminable to Tory before she heard him calling her name in a tone of voice entirely new to her ears.

It left no room for hesitation or doubt.

Getting out of the sleigh, she ran in the direction she had seen Mr. Fenton take, fighting her way with her arms and hands as well as her feet and legs.

Without realizing what she had done, she left the horse standing midway in the snow-piled country road.

Before Tory reached the grove of trees Mr. Fenton appeared at the edge, his dark figure against the white background. He was staggering under a heavy load.

No longer running ahead but close beside him stalked the Emperor with downcast head.

Tory gave a cry of mingled fear and pain.

The weight Mr. Fenton was carrying was the figure of a woman. Her coat was encrusted with snow, her body appeared entirely limp and lifeless. About the figure there was a bewildering familiarity.

33 An instant Tory sank to the ground. Memory Frean had been out all night trying to find her way home to the House in the Woods. She, of all persons, to have lost her way in a storm, with her knowledge of the outdoor world!

What must be done? Tory rose up but did not go forward to offer aid. Instead, she floundered back the way she had come, not many yards in reality. As soon as possible she reached her horse’s head and attempted to turn him from the road.

The idea was her own, but Mr. Fenton, appreciating the wisdom of her plan, laid down his burden and came at once to her assistance.

They must get Miss Frean back to her own home. The distance was not great, and now they had made a trail the return would require only a few moments.

Inside the sleigh Tory partly supported the body of her friend, chafing her wrists and forehead with snow and vainly trying to discover some suggestion of life and warmth. Her face appeared as intensely white as the snow itself.

Less than a quarter of an hour found them before the door of the House in the Woods.

Flinging it open, Mr. Fenton, aided by34 Tory, carried in the woman who had never before crossed her own threshold in such a fashion.

“Don’t close the door, please; the room must be kept cool,” Tory demanded, when Memory Frean had been placed on the cot she herself had occupied so short a time before. If she had believed the long night difficult, how much worse had she known the truth! Not far away the friend, dearer to her than any other woman, was perhaps dying near her own door!

There was still hope, but little more than hope. How many hours Memory Frean had been seeking shelter there was no way to conjecture!

Tory realized that she had forgotten the first aid in the emergency that faced her uncle and herself. She could recall only this one fact: the change in the temperature must not be too decided. On Memory Frean’s table amid her most cherished books lay a Scout manual.

Tory’s hands seemed frozen and helpless as she searched for the desired page. After a hurried glance about the unfamiliar room, Mr. Fenton had disappeared, murmuring that he would return as soon as possible. He must in some way get word to the doctor. He appeared35 strangely annoyed that Miss Frean had no telephone. Tory had learned to understand that Mr. Fenton was often irritable when he was most deeply concerned and distressed.

His going made no especial difference. Alone Tory was struggling to remove Miss Frean’s stiff clothes, now wet and clinging from the change to the indoors.

Now and then she called her friend’s name, not expecting a response.

Sitting beside her what seemed an endless time, Tory continued rubbing her with rough cloths wet in cold water.

As Tory worked, her mind felt extraordinarily clear.

She recalled her first meeting with Memory Frean on the autumn road a little more than a year before, and the gift of the Indian talisman, an eagle’s feather.

Later she remembered the evening in the old Fenton drawing-room when she made the surprising discovery that her uncle and Miss Frean had been devoted friends many years before, but of late had seen nothing of each other.

If the room in which she and Miss Frean were at this tragic moment had since grown36 almost as familiar as her own, she recalled the impression it first had made upon her. She had realized that it possessed a kind of fine simplicity like the woman it sheltered. Tory’s artistic temperament demanded that the outward form be the expression of the inner nature. How many pleasant hours she and Memory Frean had passed together in this room! They were more than pleasant hours, they had been inspiring. Only the night before she had come to seek the same inspiration. Must the past be all she would ever have from the friend so still and serene beside her?

Once only Tory arose. The fire was dying out. She must not allow this to happen, as Dr. McClain might desire the room to be warmer. There was one small log. It must be sufficient; not for another moment could she relax her vigilance.

If only she could discover the faintest warmth, one flicker of life, the lifting of an eyelash, what comfort!

Of all her Troop of Girl Scouts why should she, the most inadequate of them all, be the one to meet this disaster? So far Tory had not called it by any other name, although behind her outer consciousness there was an impression she resolutely declined to face.

37 Upon Mr. Fenton’s return she scarcely paid any attention to him save to say what he should do to assist her. She was aware that he looked older than she had ever seen him as he awkwardly attempted to follow her directions.

Incredibly short as the time was, in reality it was an eternity to Tory before Dr. McClain’s car drew up before the House in the Woods.

He came in, followed by a nurse and Dorothy McClain.

As Tory attempted to move and give place to them, she found her legs suddenly unable to do her bidding. She had grown rigid and would have fallen save that Dorothy McClain caught her.

She almost carried her out of the room into the little kitchen that adjoined the living-room.

“You must not give up now, dear; father may need our aid. I don’t believe you have had any breakfast. We will all be wanting coffee by and by. We were just sitting down to the table when the message came. Don’t be disheartened. Miss Frean will recover, she is so beautifully healthy and strong. Remember what an outdoor life she has led!”

38 As Dorothy chattered on to distract the other girl’s attention, she was busily doing a number of important acts—lighting an oil stove and placing water to boil, finding the coffee and setting a corner of the kitchen table with a cup, saucer and plate.

Still Tory sat in the chair where she had been placed, but by and by drank some coffee and suggested that Mr. Fenton be persuaded to do the same thing.

For a little Dorothy’s hopefulness and warm vitality wakened a response in her. This ebbed away as the moments passed and no word came that Miss Frean was recovering consciousness.

Now and then, like a chord repeating itself, a quotation she had learned the evening before came and went in her consciousness:

“We will work thy will, who love thee.”