Under the Lilacs (20 page)

“Hi, there! Mrs. Moss! Something has happened to Miss Celia, and I’m going to find her. Thorny is asleep; tell him easy, and
I’ll come back as soon as I can!”

Then, giving Lita her head, he was off before the startled woman had time to do more than wring her hands and cry out —

“Go for the Squire! Oh, what shall we do?”

As if she knew exactly what was wanted of her, Lita went back the way she had come, as Ben could see by the fresh, irregular
tracks that cut up the road where she had galloped for help. For a mile or more they went, then she paused at a pair of bars,
which were let down to allow the carts to pass into the wide hayfields beyond. On she went again, cantering across the new-mown
turf toward a brook, across
which she had evidently taken a leap before; for, on the farther side, at a place where cattle went to drink, the mud showed
signs of a fall.

“You were a fool to try there; but where is Miss Celia?” said Ben, who talked to animals as if they were people, and was understood
much better than anyone not used to their companionship would imagine.

Now Lita seemed at a loss, and put her head down, as if she expected to find her mistress where she had left her, somewhere
on the ground. Ben called, but there was no answer; and he rode slowly along the brookside, looking far and wide with anxious
eyes.

“Maybe she wasn’t hurt, and has gone to that house to wait,” thought the boy, pausing for a last survey of the great, sunny
field, which had no place of shelter in it but one rock on the other side of the little stream. As his eye wandered over it,
something dark seemed to blow out from behind it, as if the wind played in the folds of a skirt, or a human limb moved. Away
went Lita, and in a moment Ben had found Miss Celia, lying in the shadow of the rock, so white and motionless, he feared that
she was dead. He leaped down, touched her, spoke to her; and, receiving no answer, rushed away to bring a little water in
his leaky hat to sprinkle in her face, as he had seen them do when any of the riders got a fall in the circus, or fainted
from exhaustion after they left the ring, where “do or die” was the motto all adopted.

In a minute, the blue eyes opened, and she recognized the anxious face bending over her, saying faintly, as she touched it
—

“My good little Ben, I knew you’d find me — I sent Lita for you — I’m so hurt, I couldn’t come.”

“Oh, where? What shall I do? Had I better run up to the
house?” asked Ben, overjoyed to hear her speak, but much dismayed by her seeming helplessness, for he had seen bad falls,
and had them, too.

“I feel bruised all over, and my arm is broken, I’m afraid. Lita tried not to hurt me. She slipped, and we went down. I came
here into the shade, and the pain made me faint, I suppose. Call somebody, and get me home.”

Then she shut her eyes, and looked so white that Ben hurried away, and burst upon old Mrs. Paine, placidly knitting at the
end door, so suddenly that, as she afterward said, “It sca’t her like a clap o’ thunder.”

“Ain’t a man nowheres around. All down in the big medder gettin’ in hay,” was her reply to Ben’s breathless demand for “everybody
to come and see to Miss Celia.”

He turned to mount, for he had flung himself off before Lita stopped, but the old lady caught his jacket, and asked half a
dozen questions in a breath.

“Who’s your folks? What’s broke? How’d she fall? Where is she? Why didn’t she come right here? Is it a sunstroke?”

As fast as words could tumble out of his mouth, Ben answered, and then tried to free himself; but the old lady held on, while
she gave her directions, expressed her sympathy, and offered her hospitality with incoherent warmth.

“Sakes alive! poor dear! Fetch her right in. Liddy, get out the camphire; and, Melissy, you haul down a bed to lay her on.
Falls is dretful uncert’in things; shouldn’t wonder if her back was broke. Father’s down yender, and he and Bijah will see
to her. You go call ’em, and I’ll blow the horn to start ’em up. Tell her we’d be pleased to see her, and it won’t make a
mite of trouble.”

Ben heard no more, for as Mrs. Paine turned to take down the tin horn he was up and away.

Several long and dismal toots sent Lita galloping through the grassy path as the sound of the trumpet excites a war-horse,
and “father and Bijah,” alarmed by the signal at that hour, leaned on their rakes to survey with wonder the distracted-looking
little horseman approaching like a whirlwind.

“Guess likely grandpa’s had ‘nother stroke. Told ’em to send over soon’s ever it come,” said the farmer, calmly.

“Shouldn’t wonder of suthing was afire some’r’s,” conjectured the hired man, surveying the horizon for a cloud of smoke.

Instead of advancing to meet the messenger, both stood like statues in blue overalls and red flannel shirts, till the boy
arrived and told his tale.

“Sho, that’s bad,” said the farmer, anxiously.

“That brook always was the darndest place,” added Bijah; then both men bestirred themselves helpfully, the former hurrying
to Miss Celia while the latter brought up the cart and made a bed of hay to lay her on.

“Now then, boy, you go for the doctor. My women folks will see to the lady, and she’d better keep quiet up yender till we
see what the matter is,” said the farmer, when the pale girl was lifted in as carefully as four strong arms could do it. “Hold
on,” he added, as Ben made one leap to Lita’s back. “You’ll have to go to Berry ville. Dr. Mills is a master hand for broken
bones and old Dr. Babcock ain’t. ‘T isn’t but about three miles from here to his house, and you’ll fetch him ‘fore there’s
any harm done waitin’.”

“Don’t kill Lita,” called Miss Celia from the cart, as it began to move.

But Ben did not hear her, for he was off across the fields, riding as if life and death depended upon his speed.

“That boy will break his neck!” said Mr. Paine, standing still to watch horse and rider go over the wall as if bent on instant
destruction.

“No fear for Ben, he can ride anything, and Lita was trained to leap,” answered Miss Celia, falling back on the hay with a
groan, for she had involuntarily raised her head to see her little squire dash away in gallant style.

“I should hope so; regular jockey, that boy. Never see anything like it out of a race-ground,” and Farmer Paine strode on,
still following with his eye the figures that went thundering over the bridge, up the hill, out of sight, leaving a cloud
of dust behind.

Now that his mistress was safe, Ben enjoyed that wild ride mightily, and so did the bay mare; for Lita had good blood in her,
and proved it that day by doing her three miles in a wonderfully short time. People jogging along in wagons and country carryalls
stared amazed as the reckless pair went by. Women, placidly doing their afternoon sewing at the front windows, dropped their
needles to run out with exclamations of alarm, sure someone was being run away with; children playing by the roadside scattered
like chickens before a hawk, as Ben passed with a warning whoop, and baby carriages were scrambled into dooryards with perilous
rapidity at his approach.

But when he clattered into town, intense interest was felt in this barefooted boy on the foaming steed, and a dozen voices
asked, “Who’s killed?” as he pulled up at the doctor’s gate.

“Jest drove off that way; Mrs. Flynn’s baby’s in a fit,” cried a stout lady from the piazza, never ceasing to rock, though
several passersby paused to hear the news, for she was a doctor’s wife, and used to the arrival of excited messengers from
all quarters at all hours of the day and night.

Deigning no reply to anyone, Ben rode away, wishing he could leap a yawning gulf, scale a precipice, or ford a raging torrent,
to prove his devotion to Miss Celia, and his skill in horsemanship. But no dangers beset his path, and he found the doctor
pausing to water his tired horse at the very trough where Bab and Sancho had been discovered on that ever-memorable day. The
story was quickly told, and, promising to be there as soon as possible, Dr. Mills drove on to relieve baby Flynn’s inner man,
a little disturbed by a bit of soap and several buttons, upon which he had privately lunched while his mamma was busy at the
washtub.

Ben thanked his stars, as he had already done more than once, that he knew how to take care of a horse; for he delayed by
the watering place long enough to wash out Lita’s mouth with a handful of wet grass, to let her have one swallow to clear
her dusty throat, and then went slowly back over the breezy hills, patting and praising the good creature for her intelligence
and speed. She knew well enough that she had been a clever little mare, and tossed her head, arched her glossy neck, and ambled
daintily along, as conscious and coquettish as a pretty woman, looking round at her admiring rider to return his compliments
by glances of affection, and caressing sniffs of a velvet nose at his bare feet.

Miss Celia had been laid comfortably in bed by the farmer’s wife and daughter; and, when the doctor arrived, bore the setting
of her arm bravely. No other serious damage appeared, and bruises soon heal, so Ben was sent home to comfort Thorny with a
good report, and ask the Squire to drive up in his big carryall for her the next day, if she was able to be moved.

Mrs. Moss had been wise enough to say nothing, but quietly made what preparations she could, and waited for tidings.
Bab and Betty were away berrying, so no one had alarmed Thorny, and he had his afternoon nap in peace — an unusually long
one, owing to the stillness which prevailed in the absence of the children; and when he awoke he lay reading for a while before
he began to wonder where everyone was. Lounging out to see, he found Ben and Lita reposing side by side on the fresh straw
in the loose box, which had been made for her in the coach house. By the pails, sponges, and currycombs lying about, it was
evident that she had been refreshed by a careful washing and rubbing down, and my lady was now luxuriously resting after her
labors, with her devoted groom half asleep close by.

“Well, of all queer boys you are the queerest, to spend this hot afternoon fussing over Lita, just for the fun of it!” cried
Thorny, looking in at them with much amusement.

“If you knew what we’d been doing you’d think I ought to fuss over her, and both of us had a right to rest!” answered Ben,
rousing up as bright as a button; for he longed to tell his thrilling tale, and had with difficulty been restrained from bursting
in on Thorny as soon as he arrived.

He made short work of the story, but was quite satisfied with the sensation it produced; for his listener was startled, relieved,
excited, and charmed, in such rapid succession, that he was obliged to sit upon the meal chest and get his breath before he
could exclaim, with an emphatic demonstration of his heels against the bin —

“Ben Brown, I’ll never forget what you’ve done for Celia this day, or say ‘bowlegs’ again as long as I live!”

“George! I felt as if I had
six
legs when we were going the pace. We were all one piece, and had a jolly spin, didn’t we, my beauty?” and Ben chuckled as
he took Lita’s head in his lap, while she answered with a gusty sigh that nearly blew him away.

“Like the fellow that brought the good news from Ghent to Aix,” said Thorny, surveying the recumbent pair with great admiration.

“What fellow?” asked Ben, wondering if he didn’t mean Sheridan, of whose ride he had heard.

“Don’t you know that piece? I spoke it at school. Give it to you now; see if it isn’t a rouser.”

And, glad to find a vent for his excitement, Thorny mounted the meal chest, to thunder out that stirring ballad with such
spirit that Lita pricked up her ears and Ben gave a shrill “Hooray!” as the last verse ended.

“And all I remember is friends flocking round,

As I sat with his head ‘twixt my knees on the ground,

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.”

C
HAPTER
16

A
few days later, Miss Celia was able to go about with her arm in a sling, pale still, and rather stiff, but so much better
than anyone expected that all agreed Mr. Paine was right in pronouncing Dr. Mills “a master hand with broken bones.” Two devoted
little maids waited on her, two eager pages stood ready to run her errands, and friendly neighbors sent in delicacies enough
to keep these four young persons busily employed in disposing of them.

Every afternoon the great bamboo lounging chair was brought out and the interesting invalid conducted to it by stout Randa,
who was head nurse, and followed by a train
of shawl, cushion, footstool and book bearers, who buzzed about like swarming bees round a new queen. When all were settled,
the little maids sewed and the pages read aloud, with much conversation by the way; for one of the rules was, that all should
listen attentively, and if anyone did not understand what was read, he or she should ask to have it explained on the spot.
Whoever could answer was invited to do so, and at the end of the reading Miss Celia could ask any she liked, or add any explanations
which seemed necessary. In this way much pleasure and profit was extracted from the tales Ben and Thorny read, and much unexpected
knowledge as well as ignorance displayed, not to mention piles of neatly hemmed towels for which Bab and Betty were paid like
regular sewing-women.