A LITTLE COWARD.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VIII, Issue 48, 28 November 1891, Page 640

A LITTLE COWARD.

BY

ANNA SHIELDS.

♦SiiuS3CZ> VCH a little coward !’ mEoID The words come floating up to me from a group of cbildien playing under my window al| d carr y ~,e hack two years, to the summer I spent in Westonville and the ‘ little coward’ I ,net Z'rilfS'y I had been in practice as a physician for .VSu/J several years, when Aunt Jane, the rich aunt <• of the Hutchinson family, wrote to invite me

to spend a few weeks with her. I was rather amazed at the invitation, as Aunt Jane had never had the slightest affection for me ; but the letter was cordial enough to tempt me.

‘ I have three young ladies visiting me,’ she wrote, ‘and you may fall in love with any of them, with my consent. They are all well-born and well-bred, which is more than can be said of most girls nowadays. Seiena Maybury is just the woman for a physician’s wife, self-possessed, calm, courageous and yet perfectly womanly. She is very handsome, too. Julia Strong is a literary girl and wiites for the newspapers. She is pretty, but abstracted, lives in a poetic region above my reach. Susy Markham is scarcely more than a child, eighteen years old, and small as a girl of twelve, fair haired, blue-eyed, gentle and loving; but will not attract you, as she is the worst little coward I ever saw—screams at a spider, faints at a mouse, clings to the boat when on the water, and gets as white as a ghost if a horse prances. But come and see me and the girls, and stop poisoning patients, sawing bones and prancing about sickrooms, for a month at least.’

So I went. I had been at Aunt Jane’s in my boyish days, and the large, beautiful house, with its wide, high-ceilinged rooms, its broad porches and airy halls, was quite familiar to me. Lying near a river and in the shadow of a mountain, Westonville was a most charming summer residence, and Aunt Jane had visitors from the first warm day to the last one, so that I was not surprised to find others beside those mentioned in my letter of invitation. Pleasant days were the rule in that sunny July' weather, and we boated, rode, drove, clambered up the mountain for picnic parties, played lawn tennis and croquet, and enjoyed life as youth only can enjoy it in summer days free from toil or care.

Aunt Jane gave me a most cordial welcome, and the first time she was alone with me, said : ‘lt is time you were married, Harry. I have thought it all over, and I mean to give you a house well furnished as soon as you introduce me to Mrs Hutchinson. No ! You needn’t gush about it. I can afford it, and you deserve it ! But don’t imagine from my letter that the girls know of my match-making intentions. They would pack up and leave at five minutes’ notice if they suspected it. And they are all popular in society, making a sacrifice of other pleasant invitations to come to Westonville. Serena is the wife for you, if you can win her.’ And I cordially admired Serena. Certainly she was the most queenly, self-sustained, beautiful girl I ever met. Nothing fluttered her, or moved her from a calm composure. It was impossible to imagine Serena in hysterics, and her health was absolutely perfect. I devoted myself to Seiena, and found her mind as attractive as her face. She was well read, and had a keen interest in the current topics of the day. I never met anyone who so thoroughly read and understood a newspaper, and she could converse well on all the political, foieign and domestic affairs. Julia was in agonies of composition, gathering scenes and incidents for her first novel, and going about as if asleep with eyes wide open. And Susy. The first time I saw Susy she was in the orchard, dressed in something blue and thin, all rutiles and bows. She was standing under an apple tree absolutely paralysed with terror, ami gazing in terror at a huge caterpillar creeping up her arm. Hearing my step, she raised a colourless face, with stained blue eyes and quivering lips, to say :

‘ Oh, take it off ! oh, please take it off !’ Another minute found her sobbing hysterically, and with a choking sob of thanks she ran away. It all passed so quickly that she was gone before I saw how pretty she was, leaving behind a half picture of short golden curls and frightened baby blue eyes. The next time 1 saw those eyes they were full of tearful gratitude for my heroic handling of caterpillars. It was odd bow they haunted me. Quite resolved to win Serena, if persistent wooing would accomplish it, I sought her on all occasions, but, being a united party of friends, we were not often fr’Ze << tete. And it was to me, always, that Susy turned, in boms of peril, when a toad sat upon her white dress, when the boat tipped a hair’s breadth more than usual, when horrible crawling things crossed our paths, and cows lifted their heads to contemplate us. On all such occasions, two tiny hands, white as milk, soft as satin, suddenly clasped my arm, and ‘oh ! oh !' called my attention to the terror . And it was not done for effect. You cannot deceive a physician to that extent, and my professional eyes noticed how the pretty face blanched, the pulse quickened, and the whole little figure trembled. She really was the worst little coward I ever saw.

An<l yet, although I chided myself for it, I could not share Serena's openly expressed contempt, or sufficiently admire her own scornful indifference to toads and grasshoppers, boat tipping or fractious horses. She rode well, a magnificent figure on horseback, while Susy trembled and shivered, and clung to the gentle anima) she rode with desperate energy. It was late in the season and all of my Aunt Jane's guests had departed excepting Serena, Susy and myself, when one morning we were seated in the sitting room, discussing an

important matter. A far away cousin of Aunt Jane’s had been a collector of rare jewellery and plate, and had left his valuable treasures, the result of years of purchase and selection, to her. ‘ And the whole lot has Ireen sent here,' said Aunt Jane. ‘ I am not a coward, but I have let it be well understood in Westonville that I never keep money in the house, have very little plate and few jewels. There is nothing discourages a burglar more than a certainty that there is nothing to steal.’ • Does any one know ?’ I asked. ‘ The editor of the JlWonir/Z/c Gazette published the whole story on Saturday. He must have seen some of the servants who heVd us talking over the lawyer’s letter.’ ‘ I’ll run up to the city and arrange to send the boxes to a safe-deposit company,’ I said. ‘Do ! Go now ! You can come back on the five thirty,’ said Susy. ‘ I shall not sleep a wink if they stay here. Oh !’ and her very lips were white, ‘ if I saw a burglar, I believe I should die !'

And looking into her white, terrified face, I believed so too, although Serena said, loftily : ‘ What nonsense you do talk, Susy.’ But, Aunt Jane consenting, I went upon my proposed errand, arranged to have the boxes sent for the following day, and was on my way to the depot, when I met an old friend and patient. The ten minutes chat that followed cost me the loss of the 5.30 train. Not another one stopped at Westonville, excepting the midnight express, until the next day.

I*’retting, reproaching myself, I passed the time as I best could until midnight, my heart sinking at the thought of the three lonely ladies at Westonville. There was but one man on the place, and he slept in a room over the stable. What if any thief attempted to obtain the valuable boxes piled in the hall ? Serena could be trusted to be cool and collected ; Aunt Jane w'as not timid ; but Susy—poor little Susy !—she would die, she said ; and I feared she would. As the train sped on, this thought of Susy’s terror became almost maddening ; and when, at last, I was at the little wayside station, quarter of a mile from Aunt Jane’s, I started on a run for the house.

The hall-door stood open, and I heard a sound in the sit-ting-room that seemed to chill the blood in my veins. Throwing open the door, I saw Susy—little Susy !—clinging at the throat of a man roughly dressed, who held Aunt Jane in a chair, while he tried to shake off Susy’s arms, at the same time keeping Aunt Jane down. Serena lay in a dead faint on the floor. ‘ You shall not hurt her !’ Susy cried, her slender arms strained to choke the sufferer. ‘ Let go, you wretch ! I’ll kill you !’ One blow on the top of his head from my heavy walking stick brought the fellow down insensible. Susy dropped her arms and stood white as death, but perfectly calm, facing me. ‘ Can you find me a rope to tie this fellow ?’ I asked. She nodded, sped away, and returned with a coil of clothes-line.

• Listen !’ she said, speaking quickly. ‘ There is another one in the china closet, locked in. He is trying to kick the door down. Do you see, this is James !’ James was the one man servant Aunt Jane employed. Tying him firmly, I gave my next attention to Aunt Jane, whose whole face was covered with blood from a wound in the head. Knowing how the sight of blood always sickened Susy, 1 tried to keep her back, but she said, quietly : ‘ Tell me please, what you want and how to help you.’ I sent her for water, rags, laudanum, and while we bound up Aunt Jane’s head and restored her to, consciousness, Serena came to her senses and sat up, white and shaking. ‘ Oh, Susy, that man will kick the closet door down ?’ she cried, as the blows from the next room became more violent. It seemed as if he would, and I started to quiet him, when Susy grasped my arm. ‘ Don’t open the door !’ she said. ‘ There may be more than one man there. You see, we were all sitting up here, hoping you would come on the midnight train, but Aunt Jane had not told James to go to the station because she thought you had rather walk up than have us alone. So I suppose James thought you were gone for all night, and he came in at some time in the evening, we do not know when, and hid in that china closet. I went to the dining-room in the dark for some water just as he crept out. I could just see him, and that another man was creeping after him, but not out of the closet. I slammed the door, locked it, and ran in here just as Janies struck dear Aunt Jane on the head and tried to push her down in her chair. Then I flew at him and you came in. But there may be more than one man in the closet. The door is strong, and I will run down to the police station while you take care of Aunt Jane and Serena.’ Before I could stop her she was running across the hall, out at the door and down the road, while James suddenly revived and began to struggle and curse. My hands were full, for Aunt Jane was severely hurt, and Serena was so terrified that she could not stir, sobbing and half fainting in sheer terror. I cannot tell how long it was before Susy came speeding back with three strong policemen behind her, but in the meantime some of the maids were roused and had come to my assistance. There proved to be but one burglar in the closet, a Westonville man and crony of James's, and the two were marched off, securely bound. Aunt Jane was put to bed and made as comfortable as possible ; Serena had gone to her own room ; the house was locked up when I turned to bid Susy good night. She was standing at the foot of Aunt Jane's bed, holding fast, to a chair, her face perfectly colourless, and her limbs trembling. 1 mixed her a dose of composing medicine and put it to her lips. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said, smiling faintly. ‘I always was a cowaid.’ ‘ Nobody shall ever call you so where I am,’ I said, and then—well, I will not add all I said, but then and there I won my darling’s confession of love for me, and gave my life's allegiance to the woman I loved. Aunt Jane was delighted. She understood perfectly the love that prompted the child to attempt to divert the attack of the ruffian James to herself, and it was a delight to her to make ready the pretty house foi us. Serena comes often to visit us, calm and self poised as ever, and quite as contemptuous when Mrs Hutchinson Hies to my arms in an

agony of terror if a mouse runs across the floor, or a spider crawls up the wall. For, although she has proved herself a heroine. Susy is still, in such matters as mice and spiders, a little coward.