SOPHIE’S WORK

A nature half transformed, with qualities
That oft betrayed each other, elements
Not blent, but struggling, breeding strange effects
Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes.

George Eliot.

High minds of native pride and force
Most deeply feel thy pangs, remorse!
Fear for their scourge, mean villains have,
Thou art the torturer of the brave.

Scott.

This was what Sophie had done: she had invoked forces that she could not control, and she felt, as people are apt to feel when they watch their monster growing into strength, a little frightened and a little sorry. No doubt it had seemed to her a very small thing, to favor the folly of a girl of seventeen, fascinated by the voice and manner of a nameless stranger; it was a folly most manifest, but she had nothing to do with it, and was not responsible; a very small thing to allow, and to encourage what, doubtless, she flattered herself, her discouragement could not have subdued. It was very natural that she should not wish Richard to many any one; she was not more selfish than most sisters are. Most sisters do not like to give their brothers up. She would have to give up her home (one of her homes, that is,) as well. She did not think Richard’s choice a wise one: she was not subject to the fascination of outline and coloring that had subjugated him, and she felt sincerely that she was the best judge. If Richard must marry (though in thinking of her own married life, she could not help wondering why he must), let him marry a woman who had fortune, or position, or talent. Of course there was a chance that this one might have money, but that would be according to the caprice of a selfish old man, who had never been known to show any affection for her.

But money was not what Richard wanted: his sister knew much better what Richard wanted, than he knew himself. He wanted a clever woman, a woman who would keep him before the world and rouse him into a little ambition about what people thought of him. Sophie was disappointed and a little frightened when she found that Richard did not give up the outline and coloring pleasantly. She had thought he would be disillusionized, when he found he was thrown over for a German tutor, who could sing. She had not counted upon seeing him look ill and worn, and finding him stern and silent to her; to her, of whom he had always been so fond. She found he was taking the matter very seriously, and she almost wished that she had not meddled with the matter.

And this German tutor who could sing well, it was strange, but he was the worst feature of her Frankenstein, and the one at which she felt most sorry and most frightened. Richard was very bad, to be sure, but he would no doubt get over it: and if it all came out well, she would be the gainer. As to “this girl for whom his heart was sick,” she had no manner of patience with her or pity for her.

“She must suffer: so do all;” she would undoubtedly have a hard future, no matter to which of these men who were so absurd about her, Fate finally accorded her: hard, if she married Richard without loving him (nobody knew better than Sophie how hard that sort of marriage was); hard, if she married the German, to suffer a lifetime of poverty and ill-temper and jealous fury. But about all that, Sophie did not care a straw. She knew how much women could live through, and it seemed to be their business to be wretched.

But this man! And she could not gain anything by what he suffered, with his dangerous nature, his ungovernable jealousy, his possibly involved and unknown antecedents; what was to become of him, in case he could not have this girl of whom six weeks ago he had not heard? A pretty candidate to present to “mon oncle” of the Wall-street office, for the hand of the young lady trusted to their hospitality a very pretty candidate a German tutor who could sing. If he took her, it was to be feared he would have to take her without more dowry than some very heavy imprecations. But could he take her, even thus? Sophie had some very strange misgivings. This man was desperately unhappy: was suffering frightfully: it made her heart ache to see the haggard lines deepening on his face, to see his colorless lips and restless eyes. She was sorry for him, as a woman is apt to be sorry for a fascinating man. And then she was frightened, for he was “no carpet knight so trim,” to whom cognac, and cigars, and time would be a balm: this man was essentially dramatic, a dangerous character, an article with which she was unfamiliar. He was frantic about this silly girl: that was plain to see. Why then was he so wretched, seeing she was as irrationally in love with him?

“If it only comes out right,” she sighed distrustfully many times a day. She resolved never to interfere with anything again, but it came rather late, seeing she probably had done the greatest mischief that she ever would be permitted to have a hand in while she lived. She made up her mind not to think anything about it, but, unfortunately for that plan, she could not get out of sight of her work. If she had been a man, she would probably have gone to the Adirondacks. But being a woman she had to stay at home, and sit down among the tangled skeins which she had not skill to straighten.

“If it only comes out right,” she sighed again, the evening of that most uncomfortable drive, “If it only comes out right.” But it did not look much like it.

I had gone directly in to tea, and so had Richard. Richard’s face silenced and depressed everybody at the table; and Mr. Langenau did not come.

“There is going to be a terrible shower,” said some one, and before the sentence was ended, there was a vivid flash of lightning that made the candles pale.

“How rapidly it has come up,” said Sophie. “Was the sky black when you came in, Richard?”

“I do not know,” said Richard, and nobody doubted that he told the truth.

“It had begun to darken before we came up from the river.” said Charlotte Benson. “The clouds were rising rapidly as we came in. It will be a fearful tempest.”

“Are the windows all shut?” said Sophie to the servant.

“I should think so,” exclaimed Kilian. “The heat is horrid.”

“Yes, it is suffocating,” said Richard, getting up.

As he went out of the dining-room, some one, I think Henrietta, said, “Well, I hope Mr. Langenau will get in safely; he was out on the river when we were on the hill.”

The storm was so sudden and so furious that everybody was concerned at hearing this; even Kilian made some exclamation of alarm.

“Does he know anything about a boat?” he asked of Richard, who had paused in the doorway, hearing what was said.

“I have no idea,” said Richard, shortly, but he did not go away.

“It isn’t the sail-boat that he has, of course,” said Kilian, thoughtfully. “He always goes out to row, I believe.”

“Why, no,” said Charlotte Benson, “he’s in the sail-boat; don’t you remember saying, Henrietta, how bright the gleam of the sunset was on the sail, and all the water was so dark?”

Kilian came to his feet very suddenly at these words.

“That’s a bad business,” he said quickly to his brother. “I’ve no idea he can manage her in such a squall.”

Sophie gave a little scream, and Charlotte and Henrietta both grew very pale, as a frightful shock of thunder followed. The wind was furious, and the unfastened shutters in various parts of the house sounded like so many reports of pistols, and in an instant the whole force of the rain fell suddenly and at once upon the windows. Somewhere some glass was shattered, and all these sounds added to the sense of danger, and the darkness was so great and so sudden, that it was difficult to realize that half an hour before, the sunset could have whitened the sails of a boat upon the river.

“I’m afraid it’s too late to do much now,” said Kilian, stopping in front of his brother in the doorway.

“What’s the use of talking in that way,” returned Richard in a hoarse, low voice. “If you hav’nt more sense than to talk so before women, you can stay at home with them,” he continued, striding across the hall, and picking up a lantern that stood in a corner near the door. Charlotte Benson caught up one of the candles from the table, and ran to him and lit the lamp within the lantern. Sophie threw a cloak over Kilian’s shoulders, and Henrietta flew to carry a message to the kitchen. Richard pulled a bell that was a signal to the stable (the stable was very near the house), and in almost a moment’s time two men, beside Kilian, were following him out into the tempest. We saw their lanterns flicker for an instant, and then they were swallowed up in the darkness. The fury of the storm increased every moment. The flashes of lightning were but a few seconds apart, and the roll of thunder was incessant. Every few moments, above this continued roar, would come an appalling crash which sounded just above our heads. The children were screaming with fear, the servants had come into the hall and seemed in a helpless sort of panic. Sophie was very pale and Mary Leighton clung hysterically to her. Charlotte Benson was the only one who seemed to be self-possessed enough to have done anything, if there had been anything to do. But there was not. All we could do was to try to behave ourselves with fortitude in view of the personal danger, and with composure in view of that of others. Presently there came a lull in the tempest, and we began to breathe freer; some one went to the door and opened it. A gust of cold wind swept through the hall and put out the lamp, at which the children and Mary Leighton renewed their cries of fright.

The respite in the tempest was but temporary; before the lamp was relit and order restored, the storm had burst again upon us. This was, if anything, fiercer, but shorter lived. After fifteen or twenty minutes’ rage, it subsided almost utterly, and we could hear it taking itself off across the heavens. I suppose the whole storm, from its beginning to its end, had not occupied more than three quarters of an hour, but it had seemed much longer.

We were very glad to open the door and let the cool, damp air into the hall. The children were taken up-stairs, consoled with the promise that word should be sent to them when their uncles should return. The servants went feebly off to their domain; one was sent to sweep the piazza, for the rain had beaten in such torrents upon it that it was impossible to walk there, till it should be brushed away. Wrapped in their shawls, Henrietta and Charlotte Benson walked up and down the space that the servant swept, and watched and listened for a long half-hour. I took a cloak from the rack and, leaning against the door-post, stood and listened silently.

From the direction of the river there was nothing to be heard. There was still distant thunder, but that was the only sound, that and the dripping of the rain off the leaves of the drenched trees. The wind was almost silent, and in the spaces of the broken clouds there were occasional faint stars. A fine, young tree, uprooted by the tempest, lay across the carriage-way before the house, its topmost branches resting on the steps of the piazza: the grass was strewed with leaves like autumn, and the paths were simply pools of water. Sophie, more than once, came to the door, and begged us to come in, for fear of the dampness and the cold, but no one heeded her suggestion. Even she herself came out very often, and looked and listened anxiously. Finally my ear caught a sound: I ran down the steps, and bent forward eagerly. There was some one coming along the garden-path that led up from the river. I could hear the water plashing as he walked, and he was coming rapidly. In a moment the others heard it too, and starting to the steps, stood still, and waited breathlessly. He had no lantern, for we could have seen that; he was almost at the steps before I could recognize him. It was Richard. I gave a smothered cry, and springing forward, held out my hands to stop him.

“Tell me what has happened.” He put aside my hands, and went past me without a second look.

“There has nothing happened, but what he can tell you when he comes,” he said, as he strode past me up the steps, and on into the house. Then he was alive to tell me: the reaction was a little too strong for me, and I sat down on the steps to try and recover myself, for I was ill and giddy.

In a few moments more, more steps sounded in the distance, this time slowly, several persons coming together. I started and ran up the steps, I don’t exactly know why, and stood behind the others, who were crowding down, servants and all, to hear what was the news. Kilian came first, very drenched, and spattered, and subdued looking, then Mr. Langenau, leaning upon one of the men, very pale, but making an attempt to smile and speak reassuringly to Sophie, who met him with looks of great alarm. It evidently gave him dreadful pain to move, and when he reached the house he was quite faint. Charlotte Benson placed a chair, into which they supported him.

“Run, Pauline, and get some brandy,” said Sophie, putting a bunch of keys into my hand without looking at me.

When I came back with the glass of brandy, he was conscious again, and looked at me and took the glass from my hand. The other man had been sent for the doctor from the village, who was expected every moment, and Mr. Langenau, who was now revived by stimulants, was quite reassuring, and attempted to laugh at us for being so much frightened. Then the young ladies’ curiosity got the better of their terror, and they clamored for the history of the past two hours. This history was given them principally by Kilian. I cannot repeat it satisfactorily, for the reason that I don’t know anything about jibs, and bowsprits, and masts, and centre-boards, and I did not understand it at the time; but I received enough out of the mass of evidence presented in that language, to be sure that there had been considerable danger, and that everybody had behaved well. In fact, Kilian’s changed manner toward the tutor of itself was quite enough to show that he had behaved unexpectedly well.

The unvarnished and unbowspritted and unjib-boomed tale was pretty much as follows: Mr. Langenau had found himself in the middle of the river, when the storm came on. I am afraid he could not have been thinking very much about the clouds, not to have noticed that a storm was rising; though every one agreed that they had never known anything like the rapidity of its coming up. Before he knew what he was about, a squall struck him, and he had great difficulty to right the boat. (Then followed a good deal about luffing and tacking and keeping her taut to windward; that is, I think that was where he wanted to keep her.) But whatever it was, he didn’t succeed in doing it, and Kilian vouchsafed to say nobody could have done it. Then something split: I really cannot say whether it was the mast, or the bowsprit, or the centre-board, but whatever it was, it hurt Mr. Langenau so much that for a moment he was stunned. And then Kilian cannot see why he wasn’t drowned. When he came to himself he was still holding the rudder in his hand.

The other arm was useless from the falling of this thing that split upon it. And so the boat was floundering about in the gale till it got righted, and it was Mr. Langenau’s presence of mind that saved him and the boat, for he never let go the rudder, and controlled her as far as he could, though he did not know where he was going, the blackness was so great, and the flashes did not show him the shore; and he was like one placed in the midst of a frightful sea wakened out of a dream, owing to the blow and the unconsciousness which followed.

Then Richard came upon the stage as hero; he and one of the men had gone out in the only boat at hand, a very small one, toward the speck, which, by the flashes of lightning, he saw out upon the river. It was almost impossible to overhaul her, and it could not have been done at the rate she was going, of course; but then occurred that accident which rendered Mr. Langenau unconscious, and which brought things to a standstill for a moment. Kalian said we did not know anything about the storm up here at the house; that more than one tree had been struck within a few feet of him on the shore. The river was surging; the wind was furious; no one could imagine what it was who had not witnessed it, and he, for his part, never expected to see Richard come back to land. But Richard did come back, and brought back the disabled sail-boat and the injured man. That was the end of the story; which thrilled us all very much, as we knew the heroes, and had one of them before us, ghastly pale but uncomplaining.

It seemed as if the doctor never would come! We were women, and we naturally looked to the coming of the doctor as the end of all the trouble. It was impossible to make the poor fellow comfortable. He could not lie down, he could not move without excruciating pain, and very frequently he grew quite faint. Charlotte Benson and Sophie administered stimulants; endeavored to ease his position with pillows and footstools; and did all the nameless soothing acts that efficient and good nurses alone understand; while I, paralyzed and mute, stood aside, scarcely able to bear the sight of his sufferings. I am sorry to say, I don’t think he cared at all to have me by him. He was in such pain that he cared only for the attendance of those who could alleviate it in a measure; and the strong firm hand and the skilled touch were more to him than the presence of one who had nothing but excited and unavailing sympathy to offer. It was rather a stern fact walking into my dreamland, this.

By and bye Kilian went away to take off his wet clothes, and he did not come back again, but sent down a message to his sister that he was very tired and should go to bed, but if he were wanted for anything he could be called. This was not heroic of Kilian, but, after the manner of men, he was apt to keep away from the sight of disagreeable things.

After all, he could not do much good, but it was something to feel there was a man to call upon, besides Patrick, who was stupid; and I saw Charlotte Benson’s lip curl when Kilian’s message was brought down.

Richard was in his room: we all thought he had done enough for one night, and had a right to rest.

At last, after the most weary waiting, wheels were heard, and the doctor drove up to the door. The servants had begun to look very sleepy. Mary Leighton had slipped away to her room, and Sophie had told Henrietta and me to go, for we were really of no earthly use. We did not take her advice as a compliment, and did not go. Henrietta opened the door for the doctor, which was doing something though not much, as two of the maids stood prepared to do it if she did not.

The doctor was a reassuring, quiet man, and became a pillar of strength at once. After talking a few moments with Mr. Langenau, and pulling and twisting him rather ruthlessly, he walked a little away with Sophie, and told her he wanted him got at once to his room, and he should need the assistance of one of the gentlemen. Would not Patrick do? Besides Patrick. Mr. Langenau’s shoulder was dislocated, badly, and it must be set at once. It was a painful operation and he needed help. I was within hearing of this, and I was in great alarm. Sophie looked so too, and I don’t think she liked disagreeable things any better than her brother, but she was a woman, and could not shirk them as he could.

“Pauline,” she said, finding me at her side as she turned, “run up and tell Richard that he must come down, quick. Tell him how it is, and that he must make haste.”

I ran up the stairs breathlessly, but feeling all the time that it was rather hard that I must be sent to Richard with this message. Sophie did not want to ask him to come down herself, and she thought me the most likely ambassador to bring him, but it was not a congenial embassy. Perhaps, however, she only asked me because I happened to be nearest her, and she was rather upset by what the doctor said.

I knocked at Richard’s door.

“Well?”

“Oh, they want you to come down-stairs a minute. There’s something to be done,” panting and rather incoherent.

“What is to be done?”

“The Doctor’s here, and he says he must have help.”

“Where’s Kilian?”

“Gone to bed.”

Some suppressed ejaculation, and he pushed back his chair, and rose, and came across the room: at least it sounded so, and I ran down the stairs again. He followed me in a moment. The Doctor came forward and talked to him a little while, and then Richard called Patrick, and told Sophie to see that Mr. Langenau’s room was ready.

“How can he get up two pairs of stairs,” said Charlotte Benson, “when he cannot move an inch without such suffering?”

“That’s very true,” the Doctor said. “I doubt if he could bear it. You have no room below?”

“Put a bed in the library,” said Charlotte Benson, and in ten minutes it was done; the servants no longer sleepy when they had any definite order to fulfill.

“In the meantime,” said Richard to his sister, “send those two to bed,” pointing out Henrietta and me.

“I’ve told them to go, but they won’t,” said Sophie, somewhat sharply.

Henrietta walked off, rather injured, but I would not go.

Mr. Langenau had another faint attack, and I was quite certain he would die. Charlotte was making him breathe sal volatile and Sophie ran to rub his hands. The Doctor was busy at the light about something.

“The room is all ready,” said the servant.

“Very well; now Mr. Richard, if you please,” the Doctor said.

“Pauline,” said Richard, coming to me as I stood at the foot of the balusters, “You can’t do any good. You’d better go up-stairs.”

“Oh, Richard,” I cried, “I think you’re very cruel; I think you might let me stay.”

I suppose my wretchedness, and youthfulness, and folly softened him again, and he said, very gently, “I don’t mean to be unkind, but it is best for you to go. You need not be so frightened: there isn’t any danger.”

I moved slowly to obey him, but turned back and caught his hand and whispered, “You won’t let them hurt him, Richard?” and then ran up the stairs. No doubt Richard thought I went to my own room; but I spent the next hour on the landing-place, looking down into the hall.

It was rather a serious matter, getting Mr. Langenau even into the library, and it was well they had not attempted his own room. Patrick was called, and with his assistance and Richard’s, he began to move across the hall. But half-way to the library-door, he fainted dead away, and Richard carried him and laid him on the bed, Patrick being worse than useless, having lost his head, and the Doctor being a small man, and only strong in science.

Pretty soon the library-door closed, and Sophie and Charlotte were excluded. They walked about the hall, talking in low tones, and looking anxious. Later, there came groaning from within the closed door, and Charlotte Benson wrung her hands and listened. The groans continued for a long while: the misery of hearing them! After a while they ceased: then Richard opened the door, hastily, it seemed, and called “Sophie.”

Sophie ran forward, and the door closed again. There was a long silence, time enough for those who were outside to imagine all manner of horrid possibilities. Then the Doctor and Richard came out.

“How is he, Doctor?” said Charlotte Benson, bravely, going to meet them, while I hung trembling over the landing-place.

“Oh better, better, very comfortable,” said the Doctor, in his calm professional tone.

I could not help thinking those groans had not denoted a very high state of comfort; but maybe the Doctor knew best how people with dislocated shoulders and broken ribs are apt to express their sentiments of satisfaction.

I listened with more than interest to their plans for the night: the Doctor was going away at once; two of the servants and Patrick were to relieve each other in sitting by him, while Richard was to throw himself on the sofa in the hall, to be at hand if anything were needed.

“Which means, that you are to be awake all night,” said Charlotte Benson. “You have more need of rest than we. Let Sophie and me take your place.”

Richard looked gratefully and kindly at her, but refused. The Doctor assured them again that there was no reason for anxiety; that Richard would probably be undisturbed all night; that he himself would come early in the morning. Then Richard came toward the stairs, and I escaped to my own room.