large/5636/lmm_short_stories_1902_1012_librivox_64kb_mp3/lmmshortstories1902_07_montgomery_64kb_70
large/5636/lmm_short_stories_1902_1012_librivox_64kb_mp3/lmmshortstories1902_07_montgomery_64kb
English
5636
As she struggled to her feet and found her way again the blood trickled down over her face. "Oh God, don't let him die before I get to him  don't  don't  don't!" she prayed desperately with more of defiance than entreaty in her voice. AS SHE STRUGGLED TO HER FEET AND FOUND HER WAY AGAIN THE BLOOD TRICKLED DOWN OVER HER FACE OH GOD DON'T LET HIM DIE BEFORE I GET TO HIM DON'T DON'T DON'T SHE PRAYED DESPERATELY WITH MORE OF DEFIANCE THAN ENTREATY IN HER VOICE
elf noiselessly, but with feverish haste. Then she listened. The house was very still. Amelia and John had gone to bed. She wrapped herself in a heavy woollen shawl hanging in the hall and crept downstairs. With numbed fingers she fumbled at the key of the hall door, turned it and slipped out into the night. The storm seemed to reach out and clutch her and swallow her up. She went through the garden, where the flowers already were crushed to earth; she crossed the long field beyond, where the rain cut her face like a whip and the wind almost twisted her in its grasp like a broken reed. Somehow or other, more by blind instinct than anything else, she found the path that led through commons and woods and waste valleys to her lost home. In after years that frenzied walk through the storm and blackness seemed as an unbroken nightmare to Emily Fair's recollection. Often she fell. Once as she did so a jagged, dead limb of fir struck her forehead and cut in it a gash that marked her for life.  AND DRESSED HERSELF NOISELESSLY BUT WITH FEVERISH HASTE THEN SHE LISTENED THE HOUSE WAS VERY STILL AMELIA JOHN HAD GONE TO BED SHE WRAPPED HERSELF IN A HEAVY WOOLLEN SHAWL HANGING IN THE HALL AND CREPT DOWN STAIRS WITH NUMBED FINGERS SHE FUMBLED AT THE KEY OF THE HALL DOOR TURNED IT AND SLIPPED OUT INTO THE NIGHT THE STORM SEEMED TO REACH OUT AND CLUTCH HER AND SWALLOW HER UP SHE WENT THROUGH THE GARDEN WHERE THE FLOWERS ALREADY WERE CRUSHED TO EARTH SHE CROSSED THE LONG FIELD BEYOND WHERE THE RAIN CUT HER FACE LIKE A WHIP AND THE WIND ALMOST TWISTED HER IN ITS GRASP LIKE A BROKEN REED SOMEHOW OR OTHER MORE BY A BLIND INSTINCT THAN ANYTHING ELSE SHE FOUND THE PATH THAT LED THROUGH THE COMMONS AND WOODS AND WASTE VALLEYS TO HER LOST HOME IN AFTER YEARS THAT FRENZIED WALK THROUGH THE STORM AND BLACKNESS SEEMED AS AN UNBROKEN NIGHTMARE TO EMILY FERRIS RECOLLECTION OFTEN SHE FELL ONCE AS SHE DID SO A JAGGED DEAD LIMB OF FUR STRUCK HER FOREHEAD AND CUT IN IT A GASH THAT MARKED HER FOR LIFE
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