CHAPTER XLVII.THE YELLOW FEVER.
It was very hot in Florida that summer, but it suited Queenie, who, like some tropical plant, seemed to thrive under the burning sun which affected even the negroes, accustomed to it as they were. Physically she had never been better than she was at Magnolia Park, or prettier either, for the bright color had crept back to her cheeks and her eyes had in them a look of softness and humility, while the expression of her face was ineffably sweet and gentle like the faces of some of the Madonnas. She had suffered terribly, and the fierce storm through which she had passed had left its marks upon her so that she would never again be quite the same dashing, impetuous girl she once had been. Margery wrote to her often,—long letters full of tenderness and affection, and entreaties for her to return to the home which was not the same without her.
From Grace and Ethel Rossiter she also heard frequently, and their letters touched her closely, as they always addressed her as their cousin, ignoring altogether the terrible thing which had separated her from them. Once in speaking of Margery Ethel said: “She is very lonely at Hetherton Place, though we go there often, and Mr. Beresford, we hear, is there every day.”
This was underscored, and conveyed to Queenie’s mind just the meaning Ethel meant it to convey. Mr. Beresford was daily growing more and more interested in Margery, and Queenie rejoiced that it was so. She was so glad for Margery to be happy in a good man’s love, though her own sun had set in deepest gloom, and there was a ceaseless moan in her heart for poor Phil,while the load of humiliation which had come so suddenly upon her seemed sometimes greater than she could bear.
“If I only had something to do which would make me forget myself a little I should be happier,” she thought, as morning after morning she awoke to the same monotonous round of duties, or, rather, occupation of trying to kill the time.
She had no real duties, for everything pertaining to the household arrangements was managed by Aunt Judy, who petted her young mistress as if she had been a queen, while both Pierre and Axie, watched vigilantly to anticipate every want before it was framed in words.
Mrs. Strong was absent on her plantation near Lake Jackson, and thus Queenie was left almost entirely alone and free to let her morbid fancies feed upon themselves. Shedidneed something to do, and at last the something came, though in a very different form from what she would have chosen had it been hers to choose.
As the summer advanced it grew hotter and hotter until the nights were like the days, and there came no breath of air to relieve the dreadful heat. There were rumors of sunstroke here and there, and talk of the sickness which must ensue if the state of things continued. And still in middle Florida it was comparatively healthy, and the air was free from malaria; but farther to the north, where a city spread itself over miles of territory, an ominous cloud was gathering. Once before the town had been scourged as with the plague, and the terror-stricken inhabitants had fled to the country for refuge from the pestilence, which oftentimes overtook them on the road and claimed them for its victims. And now it was coming again—was lurking in the corners of the lanes and alleys, where poverty and filth held high carnival—was breathed in the poisonous air which brooded over the doomed city like a pall, until at last it wasthere, and men spoke the awful word to each other in whispers, while their voices shook with fear and theirhearts sank as they remembered the past and thought of the possible future. Theyellow feverwas in their midst, and though as yet confined to the poorer classes and the unfrequented parts of the city, the people knew too well that, like fire applied to cotton, it would spread until there was no house however grand, or spot however exclusive, which its shadow would not reach, its horrid presence threaten. The city was doomed, and as the days went by and the disease and danger grew, and the death roll increased, and men who walked the streets to-day were dead to-morrow, a panic seized upon the terror-stricken inhabitants, who fled before the horror as those who live on a frontier in time of war flee from the rapidly advancing enemy. Then it was, when the city was almost deserted, that the cry went up for help for the sick and the dying. And the North heard that cry as well as the South, and poured out her treasures with a most liberal hand, and “help for Memphis” was the watchword everywhere. Physicians were wanted, with nurses for the sick and deserted ones, and this demand it was which tried to the very quick the courage of those on whom it was made.
It was an easy matter to give of one’s substance to the needy, to drop the money into the boxes placed everywhere for that purpose, but to take one’s life in his hands and go into the very jaws of death, where the air was full of infection and the very flowers seemed to exhale a deadly poison, was a different thing. But there were hundreds of brave men and women who, from the New England hills, and the prairies of the West, and the pine glades of the South, went to the rescue, and by their noble heroism proved themselves more Christ-like than human. In her far-off Florida home Queenie heard the cry for help, and to herself she said:
“Here is something for me to do. Here is my chance, and I’ll take it.”
Had she known just what yellow fever was, she mighthave hesitated ere she made her decision, or having made it, might have drawn back from it at the frantic entreaties of Pierre, who, when she communicated her intention to him, fell upon his knees and with blanched face and chattering teeth begged her not to go where there was certain death for them both, for his place was with her: if she went, he must go also. Axie, too, tried to dissuade her from her purpose, but Queenie would not listen.
“I am not afraid,” she said. “I shall not take the fever. I never catch things as some people do. I sat three hours once with a servant who had the small-pox, and who died two hours after, and I did not take it. Somebody must go, and I have nobody to care much if I should die. Nobody but Margery, and she would say I was doing right. So pack my trunk, like a good, brave girl, for I must be off to-morrow. Something which I cannot resist is calling me to Memphis. What it is I cannot tell, but I must go.”
And so the next night the northern train for Savannah took in it Pierre and Queenie, bound for the fever-smitten city where the people were dying so fast and help was sorely needed. By some strange coincidence while Queenie was making up her mind togoto Memphis, Christine La Rue was already there. She, too, had heard the cry for help, and it roused her from the state bordering on insanity into which she was falling.
“I am going,” she said, to Margery, “for I feel that I can do some good. I am not a bad nurse, and if I can save one life or ease one dying pillow, maybe it will atone to God for some of my misdeeds. I am not afraid of the fever, and if I should take it and die, better so than end my own life, as I am often tempted to do.”
Her mind was made up, and Margery did not oppose her, but promised her plenty of money in case it should be needed. And so the mother and the daughter were bound for the same work—the one to have something todo, the other to atone. It was a fancy of Mrs. La Rue to assume the gray dress of a lay sister, as she felt freer and safer in this garb, and could go where she pleased. It was not her wish to be hampered by any restrictions; and when the physicians saw how efficient and fearless she was, they let her take her own course and do as she liked.
Sister Christinewas the name by which she was known, and many a poor dying wretch blessed her with his last breath, and commended to her care some loved one struggling in the next room, perhaps, with the dread destroyer. Money Christine had in plenty, for Margery kept her supplied, and it was spent like water where it was of any avail, so that Sister Christine became a power in the desolated city, and was known in every street and alley of the town. Queenie had written to Margery of her intentions, and with a cry of horror on her lips Margery read the letter and then telegraphed to Christine:
“Queenie is or will be there. Find her at once and send her away.Queenie must not die.”
There was a faint smile about Christine’s lips as she read the dispatch, and then whispered to herself, “No, Queenie must not die,” while her pulse quickened a little as she thought what happiness it would be to nurse the fever-tossed girl, should she be stricken down, and bring her back to life and health.
“I’ll find her, if she is here, and keep a watch over her,” she said; and two days after they met together high up in a tenement house, where, in a dark, close room, two negro children lay dead, and the mother was dying.
Queenie was doing her work bravely and well, seeking out the worst cases, and by her sweetness and tenderness almost bringing back the life after it had gone out. Always attended by Pierre, who carried with him every disinfectant of which he had ever heard, she went fearlessly from place to place where she was needed most,but found frequently thatSister Christinehad been there before her. Naturally she felt some curiosity with regard to this mysterious person, whose praises were on every lip, and also a great desire to see her.
“If she could impart to me some of her skill, I might do more good and save more lives,” she said to Pierre, and there was a thought of the woman in her heart as she bent over the dying negress, wiping the black vomit from her lips and the sweat-drops from her brow. “Shemight have saved her, perhaps,” she said, just as the door opened and the gray sister came in.
Far gone as was the poor colored woman, she still had enough of sight and sense to recognize the new-comer, and something like a cry of joy escaped her as she managed to say:
“Sister Christine!”
In an instant Queenie sprang to her feet, and mother and daughter stood confronting each other for a moment, neither speaking, but each looking into the other’s eyes with an eager questioning look. In Christine’s there was love, and tenderness, and anxiety and fear, all blended together, while in Queenie’s there was great surprise and something like gladness, too. She was the first to speak.
“Christine,” she said, “Sister Christine they call you, though I never dreamed it was you, how came you here, and when?”
Christine told her how and when, and then repeated Margery’s message—to find her and send her away.
“She says Queenie must not die, and I say so, too. Will you go before it is too late?” she asked, and Queenie answered her:
“No, my place is here, and I am glad you are here, too. It makes me feel safer and stronger.”
“Oh, Queenie, Queenie, God bless you for saying even so much,” and the woman who had stood undaunted by many a death-bed trembled like a leaf as shesnatched Queenie’s hand to her lips, and then went swiftly from the room, where her services were no longer needed, for while she was speaking the negress was dead.
That night a telegram went to Margery: “She will not go away, and sheshall not die.”
So there was nothing for Margery to do but pray earnestly and unceasingly for the young girl who seemed to bear a charmed life, so fearlessly did she meet every peril and overcome every difficulty. Almost as popular as Sister Christine, she was hailed with delight everywhere, and more than one owed his recovery to her timely aid. At last, however, she began to flag a little, and was not quite as strong to endure as she had been. There were about her no symptoms of the fever; she was only tired and worn, she said to Pierre, as she sat in her room one evening. The day had been damp and sultry, and the night had closed in with rain and fog, while the air was heavy as if laden with noxious vapors. Queenie had thrown off her street dress and put on a comfortable wrapper, when there came a quick, sharp ring, and Pierre brought her a note, or rather a bit of paper torn from a pocket tablet, and on which was written in French:
“Come immediately to No. 40, —— street. You are needed there.
“Christine.”
“Christine.”
“Christine.”
“Christine.”
The handwriting was very uneven, as if penned in great excitement, and as Queenie looked at it there swept over her an undefinable apprehension of something, she could not tell what—a feeling that this call from Christine on such a night was no ordinary call, and the need no ordinary one.
“I believe I am growing nervous myself, and that will never do,” she thought, as she felt a faintness stealing over her and a kind of chill creeping through her veinscommunicated, she believed, by the message she had received.
Never before had Christine sent for her, but, on the contrary, had always tried to shield and spare her as much as possible from fatigue or exposure; but this “Come, you are needed,” was imperative, and, with trembling hands and a strange sinking from what she was to do, she donned her usual every-day attire, and with Pierre started for No. 40. It was a private hotel, which had remained free from infection until within a day or two, when the fever had suddenly broken out in its most malignant form. Two of the inmates had already died, one the wife of the proprietor, who with his guests had fled in dismay, leaving behind a young man who had come to the city the previous day, and who was now lying senseless in an upper chamber, where Christine had found him, burning with fever and raving with delirium. It was a very bad case, aggravated by nervous excitement and fatigue; but she had done for him what she could, and then had sent for Queenie, whom she met on the landing outside the sick-room, and to whom she explained why she had sent for her.
“He is very sick,” she said, “and needs the closest watching, and I know of no one who would be as faithful as you, for I must be elsewhere to-night. This weather has increased the danger tenfold, and there is no telling where it will end.”
Then she gave some minute directions with regard to the treatment of the patient who, she said, was sleeping, and must be allowed to sleep as long as possible. She seemed greatly excited as she talked, and there was a glitter in her eyes, and occasionally an incoherency in her manner of expressing herself, especially with regard to the sick man, which made Queenie look curiously at her, wondering if she were altogether in her right mind. When all had been said which was necessary to say Christine still stood irresolute, as it were, looking fixedlyat Queenie; then, with a sudden, upward movement of her arms, she wound them around the young girl’s neck, and kissing her forehead, said:
“God bless you, my child, and keep you, and all those whom you love, from harm.”
There were bright red spots upon her cheeks, but the lips which touched Queenie were cold as ice, as was the hand which accidentally brushed Queenie’s cheek. Ordinarily Queenie would have resented this liberty, but she did not now. She was too much excited to resent any thing, and she was so glad afterward that it was so—glad that she had some thought and care for Christine, to whom she said, as she felt her lips and hand:
“How cold you are, and why do you tremble so? You surely must be ill. Don’t go out to-night; there must be plenty of vacant rooms here. Stay and rest yourself. We cannot let you die.”
She had one of Christine’s cold hands in her own, chafing and rubbing it as she spoke, but when she said, so kindly, “We cannot let you die,” the woman drew it away suddenly, and bursting into a paroxysm of tears, exclaimed:
“Better so; better for me to die; but for you, oh! Queenie, you must live—you and——Oh, my child, summon all your strength and courage; you will need it. There is hard work ahead for you. Do you think you can meet it?”
Queenie did not know what the woman meant, but she was greatly moved and agitated, and shook from head to foot with a nameless terror.
“You, too, are cold are trembling, and that will never do. Drink this,” Christine said, pouring from a flask which she always carried with her a quantity of brandy, and offering it to Queenie, who swallowed it in one draught.
The brandy steadied her nerves, and after standing a moment watching Christine as she went slowly down thestairs, holding to the banisters, like one suffering from great physical weakness, she turned toward the door of the sick-room, and opening it softly, went in.