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THE CORNER OF THE BUTCHER'S SHOP.
All that same Sunday morning, the minister and Dorothy had of course
plenty of work to their hand, for their more immediate neighbors were
all of the poor. Their own house, although situated on the very bank of
the river, was in no worse plight than most of the houses in the town,
for it stood upon an artificial elevation; and before long, while it had
its lower parts full of water like the rest, its upper rooms were filled
with people from the lanes around. But Mr. Drake's heart was in the
Pottery, for he was anxious as to the sufficiency of his measures. Many
of the neighbors, driven from their homes, had betaken themselves to his
inclosure, and when he went, he found the salmon-fishers still carrying
families thither. He set out at once to get what bread he could from the
baker's, a quantity of meat from the butcher, cheese, coffee, and tins
of biscuits and preserved meat from the grocers: all within his bounds
were either his own people or his guests, and he must do what he could
to feed them. For the first time he felt rich, and heartily glad and
grateful that he was. He could please God, his neighbor, and himself all
at once, getting no end of good out of the slave of which the
unrighteous make a god.
He took Dorothy with him, for he would have felt helpless on such an
expedition without her judgment; and, as Lisbeth's hands were more than
full, they agreed it was better to take Amanda. Dorothy was far from
comfortable at having to leave Juliet alone all day, but the possibility
of her being compelled to omit her customary visit had been contemplated
between them, and she could not fail to understand it on this the first
occasion. Anyhow, better could not be, for the duty at home was far the
more pressing. That day she showed an energy which astonished even her
father. Nor did she fail of her reward. She received insights into
humanity which grew to real knowledge. I was going to say that, next to
an insight into the heart of God, an insight into the heart of a human
being is the most precious of things; but when I think of it--what is
the latter but the former? I will say this at least, that no one reads
the human heart well, to whom the reading reveals nothing of the heart
of the Father. The wire-gauze of sobering trouble over the flaming
flower of humanity, enabled Dorothy to see right down into its
fire-heart, and distinguish there the loveliest hues and shades. Where
the struggle for own life is in abeyance, and the struggle for other
life active, there the heart that God thought out and means to perfect,
the pure love-heart of His humans, reveals itself truly, and is gracious
to behold. For then the will of the individual sides divinely with his
divine impulse, and his heart is unified in good. When the will of the
man sides perfectly with the holy impulses in him, then all is well; for
then his mind is one with the mind of his Maker; God and man are one.
Amanda shrieked with delight when she was carried to the boat, and went
on shrieking as she floated over flower-beds and box-borders, caught now
and then in bushes and overhanging branches. But the great fierce
current, ridging the middle of the brown lake as it followed the tide
out to the ocean, frightened her a little. The features of the flat
country were all but obliterated; trees only and houses and corn-stacks
stood out of the water, while in the direction of the sea where were
only meadows, all indication of land had vanished; one wide, brown level
was everywhere, with a great rushing serpent of water in the middle of
it. Amanda clapped her little hands in ecstasy. Never was there such a
child for exuberance of joy! her aunt thought. Or, if there were others
as glad, where were any who let the light of their gladness so shine
before men, invading, conquering them as she did with the rush of her
joy! Dorothy held fast to the skirt of her frock, fearing every instant
the explosive creature would jump overboard in elemental sympathy. But,
poled carefully along by Mr. Drake, they reached in safety a certain old
shed, and getting in at the door of the loft where a cow-keeper stored
his hay and straw, through that descended into the heart of the Pottery,
which its owner was delighted to find--not indeed dry under foot with
such a rain falling, but free from lateral invasion.
His satisfaction, however, was of short duration. Dorothy went into one
of the nearer dwellings, and he was crossing an open space with Amanda,
to get help from a certain cottage in unloading the boat and
distributing its cargo, when he caught sight of a bubbling pool in the
middle of it. Alas! it was from a drain, whose covering had burst with
the pressure from within. He shouted for help. Out hurried men, women
and children on all sides. For a few moments he was entirely occupied in
giving orders, and let Amanda's hand go: every body knew her, and there
seemed no worse mischief within reach for her than dabbling in the
pools, to which she was still devoted.
Two or three spades were soon plying busily, to make the breach a little
wider, while men ran to bring clay and stones from one of the condemned
cottages. Suddenly arose a great cry, and the crowd scattered in all
directions. The wall of defense at the corner of the butcher's shop had
given away, and a torrent was galloping across the Pottery, straight for
the spot where the water was rising from the drain. Amanda, gazing in
wonder at the fight of the people about her, stood right in its course,
but took no heed of it, or never saw it coming. It caught her, swept her
away, and tumbled with her, foaming and roaring, into the deep
foundation of which I have spoken. Her father had just missed her, and
was looking a little anxiously round, when a shriek of horror and fear
burst from the people, and they rushed to the hole. Without a word
spoken he knew Amanda was in it. He darted through them, scattering men
and women in all directions, but pulling off his coat as he ran.
Though getting old, he was far from feeble, and had been a strong
swimmer in his youth. But he plunged heedlessly, and the torrent, still
falling some little height, caught him, and carried him almost to the
bottom. When he came to the top, he looked in vain for any sign of the
child. The crowd stood breathless on the brink. No one had seen her,
though all eyes were staring into the tumult. He dived, swam about
beneath, groping in the frightful opacity, but still in vain. Then down
through the water came a shout, and he shot to the surface--to see only
something white vanish. But the recoil of the torrent from below caught
her, and just as he was diving again, brought her up almost within
arm's-length of him. He darted to her, clasped her, and gained the
brink. He could not have got out, though the cavity was now brimful, but
ready hands had him in safety in a moment. Fifty arms were stretched to
take the child, but not even to Dorothy would he yield her. Ready to
fall at every step, he blundered through the water, which now spread
over the whole place, and followed by Dorothy in mute agony, was making
for the shed behind which lay his boat, when one of the salmon fishers,
who had brought his coble in at the gap, crossed them, and took them up.
Mr. Drake dropped into the bottom of the boat, with the child pressed to
his bosom. He could not speak.
"To Doctor Faber's! For the child's life!" said Dorothy, and the fisher
rowed like a madman.
Faber had just come in. He undressed the child with his own hands,
rubbed her dry, and did every thing to initiate respiration. For a long
time all seemed useless, but he persisted beyond the utmost verge of
hope. Mr. Drake and Dorothy stood in mute dismay. Neither was quite a
child of God yet, and in the old man a rebellious spirit murmured: it
was hard that he should have evil for good! that his endeavors for his
people should be the loss of his child!
Faber was on the point of ceasing his efforts in utter despair, when he
thought he felt a slight motion of the diaphragm, and renewed them
eagerly. She began to breathe. Suddenly she opened her eyes, looked at
him for a moment, then with a smile closed them again. To the watchers
heaven itself seemed to open in that smile. But Faber dropped the tiny
form, started a pace backward from the bed, and stood staring aghast.
The next moment he threw the blankets over the child, turned away, and
almost staggered from the room. In his surgery he poured himself out a
glass of brandy, swallowed it neat, sat down and held his head in his
hands. An instant after, he was by the child's side again, feeling her
pulse, and rubbing her limbs under the blankets.
The minister's hands had turned blue, and he had begun to shiver, but a
smile of sweetest delight was on his face.
"God bless me!" cried the doctor, "you've got no coat on! and you are
drenched! I never saw any thing but the child!"
"He plunged into the horrible hole after her," said Dorothy. "How
wicked of me to forget him for any child under the sun! He got her out
all by himself, Mr. Faber!--Come home, father dear.--I will come back
and see to Amanda as soon as I have got him to bed."
"Yes, Dorothy; let us go," said the minister, and put his hand on her
shoulder. His teeth chattered and his hand shook.
The doctor rang the bell violently.
"Neither of you shall leave this house to-night.--Take a hot bath to the
spare bedroom, and remove the sheets," he said to the housekeeper, who
had answered the summons. "My dear sir," he went on, turning again to
the minister, "you must get into the blankets at once. How careless of
me! The child's life will be dear at the cost of yours."
"You have brought back the soul of the child to me, Mr. Faber," said the
minister, trembling, "and I can never thank you enough."
"There won't be much to thank me for, if you have to go instead.--Miss
Drake, while I give your father his bath, you must go with Mrs. Roberts,
and put on dry clothes. Then you will be able to nurse him."
As soon as Dorothy, whose garments Juliet had been wearing so long, was
dressed in some of hers, she went to her father's room. He was already
in bed, but it was long before they could get him warm. Then he grew
burning hot, and all night was talking in troubled dreams. Once Dorothy
heard him say, as if he had been talking to God face to face: "O my God,
if I had but once seen Thee, I do not think I could ever have mistrusted
Thee. But I could never be quite sure."
The morning brought lucidity. How many dawns a morning brings! His first
words were "How goes it with the child?" Having heard that she had had a
good night, and was almost well, he turned over, and fell fast asleep.
Then Dorothy, who had been by his bed all night, resumed her own
garments, and went to the door.
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