CHAPTER XX.RICHARD.
So absorbed was Mrs. West in Robert that she seldom noticed Richard, and so she paid no heed when he one day came into the sick-room, looking whiter even than his brother, by whose side he sat down as usual, doing for him the many offices he had been accustomed to perform, and except for his suffering face, giving no token of the terrible pain which wrung his heart when he that morning read in Jessie’s letter that the worst he had feared was true, and that Dora was to be married in September.
“For a person just engaged she acts very strangely,” Jessie wrote, “and Bell will insist that she does not love her future lord, but is marrying him from some mistaken sense of duty. What do you think?”
Dr. West could not tell what he thought, he only knew that his brain grew giddy, and his soul faint and sick as he realized that Dora was lost to him forever. Never even when Anna died had he suffered so keen a pang as now, when in the solitude of his chamber he tried to pray, while the words he would utter died away in unmeaningsounds. But God, who readeth the inmost secrets of the heart, knew what his poor sorrowing child would ask, and the needed strength to bear was given all the same.
It was very tedious now, waiting in that sick-room, for there crept into Richard’s mind the half conviction that if he would see Dora for only one brief moment, he could save her from the sacrifice. But Robert’s improvement was slow, and day after day went by, until at last there came a morning when there was put into Richard’s hand a soiled, worn-looking letter, whose superscription made his heart for an instant stop its beatings, for he recognized Dora’s handwriting, and involuntarily pressed the missive to his lips ere he broke the seal. It had been weeks and weeks upon the road, lying for a long time in another office, but it had come to him at last; he had torn the envelope open; he was reading Dora’s cry for help, written so long ago, a cry to which he gave a far different interpretation from what she had intended.
“Oh, why did I not speak to her again!” he exclaimed; “why was I permitted to form so wrong an estimate of woman’s character? But it is not yet too late. The wedding is to be the 15th of September, Jessie wrote. A steamer sails from here in a few days, and Robert must be able by that time to leave California, or if he is not I shall leave him behind with mother and fly to Dora. Oh if I could go to-day!”
An hour later, and Robert knew all there was to knowof Dora as connected with his brother, and warmly approved the plan of sailing in the Raritan. I shall grow stronger on the sea, he said, and the result proved that he was right, for when at last the Raritan was loosened from her moorings and gliding swiftly over the blue waters of the Pacific, he lay on her deck, drinking in new strength and vigor with each freshening breeze. But with Richard it was different. Now that they were really off, and Robert needed comparatively little of his help, he sank beneath the load of anxiety and excitement, and taking to his berth, scarcely lifted his head from the pillow while the ship went gliding on towards home and Dora Freeman.
CHAPTER XXI.THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING.
Never had a summer passed so slowly to Dora Freeman as had the last, and yet now that it was gone, it seemed to her scarcely more than a week since the night she had said words from which resulted all the busy preparations going on around her: the bridal dresses packed away in heavy travelling trunks, for they were going to Europe too,—the perfect happiness of Johnnie, who, twenty times each day, kissed her tenderly, whispering, “I am so glad that you are to be my mother”—the noisy demonstrations of the younger ones, and the great joy which beamed all over the Squire’s honest face each time he looked at his bride-elect and thought how soon she would be his. Gradually the pressure about Dora’s heart and brain had loosened, and she did not feel just as she had done when she first promised to be Squire Russell’s wife. She had accustomed herself to the idea, until each thought did not bring a throb of pain, while the excitement of getting ready, and the anticipated tour to places she had never expected to see, had afforded her some little satisfaction. She knew thatthe world generally looked at her in wonder, while Bell and Mattie totally disapproved, both framing some excuse for not being present at the wedding. But as is usually the case opposition only helped the matter by making her more determined to do what she really believed to be her duty. Besides this she was strengthened and upheld by Johnnie, who was to be the companion of her travels, and who always came between her and every sharp, rough point, smoothing the latter down and making all so bright and easy that she blessed him as her good angel. Owing to his constant vigilance, his father was not often very demonstrative of his affection, except by looks and deeds done for her gratification, but still there were times when, Johnnie being off guard, the father acted the fond lover to the pale, shrinking girl, who, shutting her teeth firmly together, suffered his caresses because she must, but gave him back no answering token of affection. Sometimes this quiet coldness troubled him, particularly as Letitia and Jimmie both asked him at different times why Auntie cried so much,—“did everybody just before they were married? Did mother?”
After Jessie came, Dora felt a great deal better, for Jessie made the future anything but gloomy. Jessie was like a brilliant diamond, flashing and sparkling, and singing and dancing and whistling until the house seemed like a different place, and even Squire Russell wished he could keep her there forever.
And now it was the day before the bridal. Every trunk was packed, and everything was ready for the ceremony, which was to occur at an early hour in the morning, as the bridal pair were to take the first train for New York. Jessie upon the grassy lawn was romping with the children, and occasionally addressing some saucy, teasing remark to the bridegroom-elect, who was smoking his cigar demurely beneath the trees, and wishing Dora would join them. But Dora was differently employed. With the quiet which had suddenly fallen upon the household, a terrible reaction had come to her, and as if waking from some horrid nightmare, she began to realize her position, to feel that only a few hours lay between herself and a living death. Vaguely, too, she began to see how, with every morning mail, there had come a shadowy hope that something might be received from Dr. West, that in some way he would yet save her from Squire Russell. But for months no news had been received of him by any one, and now the last lingering hope had died, leaving only a feeling of despair. She could not even write a line in her journal, and once she thought to burn it, but something stayed the act, and ’mid a rain of tears, she laid it away, resolving never to open its lids again until her heart ached less than it was aching now.
“I shall get over it, I know,” she moaned, as she seated herself by the window. “If I thought I should not, I would go to Squire Russell before the whole world,and on my knees would beg to be released; but I am tired now, and excited, and everything looks so dark,—even my pleasant chamber is so close that I can scarcely breathe. I wonder if the breeze from the lake would not revive me. I’ll try it,—I’ll go there. I’ll sit where Richard and I once sat. I’ll listen to the music of the waves just as I listened then, and if this does not quiet me, if the horror is still with me,—perhaps—”
There was a hard, terrible look in Dora’s eyes as the evil thought first flashed upon her, a look which grew more and more desperate as she began to wonder how deep the waters were near the shore, and if the verdict would be “accidental drowning,” and if Dr. West would care.
Alas for Dora! the tempter was whispering horrible things to her, and she, poor, half-crazed girl, was listening to him as she stole from the back door, and took her way across the fields to where the waters of the lake lay sparkling in the September sun now low in the western horizon.
CHAPTER XXII.DOWN BY THE LAKE SHORE.
The shadowy woods which skirt the lake shore tell no tales of what they see, neither do the mossy rocks, nor yet the plashing waves kissing the pebbly beach, and so Dora was free to pour out her griefs, knowing there was no listening human ear, and forgetting for a time that there was an eye which kept watch over her, as with her face upon the yielding sand she moaned so piteously. She could not sit where she and Richard sat, and so she chose the projecting trunk of a fallen tree, and sat where her feet could touch the water below if she should wish it so, as once she did, dipping the tip of her thin slipper, and holding it there till it was wet through to see what the feeling was!
Dora did not try to pray. She never thought of that, but only remembered how desolate, how miserable she was, vainly imagining that to rest beneath the waters lying so calmly at her feet was to end all the pain, the misery, and woe.
The sun was going down the west now very fast, andout upon the bosom of the lake, at some distance from the shore, it cast a gleam like burnished gold, and Dora, gazing wistfully upon it, fancied that if she could but reach that spot, and sink into that golden glory, it would be well with her. No thoughts of the hereafter crossed her disordered mind, and so she sat and watched the shining spot, until there came to her a memory of the night when Robin died, and the time when the sunshine round Anna’s picture looked like the bed of fire upon the lake.
“They are in heaven,” she said; adding mournfully, “and where is that heaven?”
“Not where they go who take their lives in their own hands,” seemed whispered in her ear, and with a shudder she woke to the great peril of her position.
“Save me, O God!” she sobbed, as she moved cautiously back from her seat upon the tree, breathing freer when she knew that beneath her there was no dark, cold water into which she could dip her feet at pleasure.
She had dipped them there until both hose and slippers were dripping wet, but this she did not heed, and once off from the tree, she sat down where Richard sat, and tried to look the present calmly in the face,—to see if there were not some bright, happy spots, if she would but accept them. With her head bowed down, she did not hear the footstep coming through the woods, and drawing near to her; but when a strange voice said interrogatively,“Miss Freeman?” she started and uttered a nervous cry, for the face she saw was the face of a stranger. And yet it was so like to Dr. West, that she looked again to reassure herself.
“I am Robert West,” the man began, abruptly. “I am Richard’s brother. He sent me here,—he sent me tohis Dora, and you are she.”
For an instant a tumultuous throb of joy shot through Dora’s heart, but it quickly passed, as she answered Robert:
“You are mistaken, sir. I am to be Squire Russell’s wife to-morrow.”
Sitting down beside her, Robert repeated rapidly a part of what the reader already knows, telling her of Anna, of his own sin, and exonerating Richard from all blame. Then he told her of the meeting in California, of his long illness,—of Richard’s anguish when he heard that she was to be married,—of the reaction when that letter so long in coming was received,—of his haste to embark for home, and his illness during the voyage,—illness which made him so weak that he was brought from New York on pillows, and partly in his brother’s arms.
“But he has reached here in safety,” Robert continued. “He arrived perhaps an hour ago. He is at his old boarding-place, Miss Markham’s, and mother is there with him. He knows you are not married yet, andwould have come to you himself, but for his illness, which made it impossible, and so he sent me to say that even as he loves you, so he believes that you love him, and to beg of you not to sacrifice your happiness to a mistaken sense of duty. You could not be found when I inquired for you, but a servant said she saw you going towards the lake, and as she pointed me the way, I came on until I found you. Miss Freeman, you know my brother, and know that there lives no better, more upright man, or one who will make you happier as your husband. You have heard my errand, and now what word shall I take back to Richard, or will you go yourself and see him?”
Dora had sat like one stunned as Robert told his story; hope, joy, and despair alternately succeeding each other in her heart as she listened. At a glance, too, she took in all the difficulties of her position, and saw how impossible it was for her to overcome them. This was in her mind when Robert asked if she would go to Richard, and with a bitter moan she answered:
“No, no; oh no! he has come too late. I cannot break my word to John, and he trusting me so fully. Tell Richard it might have been, but cannot be now.”
Again Robert West pleaded for his brother, and for the poor heart-broken girl beside him, but her answer was just the same:
“It might have been, but cannot be now.”
At last as it grew darker around them, and the night dew made Dora shiver, Robert gave up the contest, and said:
“You must go home, Miss Freeman. It is imprudent to stay here longer in the damp night air. I am satisfied that you do not know what you are saying, and so I shall see Squire Russell, and acquaint him with the whole.”
In an instant Dora was on her knees, begging that her betrothed might be spared this pain.
“Think of the sorrow, the disappointment, the disgrace,—for to-morrow morning early is the wedding, and everybody knows. Why, our passage to Europe is secured, and we must go.”
“Not if I have the power to prevent it,” was Robert’s reply, as he led her across the fields, still insisting that he should see Squire Russell.
At last, when she saw how much in earnest he was, she said, “I will tell him myself; I can do it more gently, and it will not hurt so much. Don’t go to him, but leave it with me.”
“Will you tell him all and ask to be released?” Robert said, making her stand still while she replied, “I’ll tell him all, how I love Richard best; but I shall not ask to be released.”
Robert was satisfied, for from what he had heard ofSquire Russell he believed he would never require of Dora so great a sacrifice.
“I shall be here with the early dawn,” he said, as he left her at the gate.
Dora did not reply, but stood with her eyes riveted upon the house across the street, where she knew was Dr. West. There was a light shining from the windows of the upper room, while the figure of a woman wearing a widow’s cap was occasionally seen passing to and fro.
“That is Richard’s room,” she whispered, feeling an intense desire to fly at once to his side and assert her right to stay there.
Then, remembering her promise to Robert, she walked slowly to the house, meeting in the door with Johnnie, who, wild with excitement, exclaimed, “Hurrah, guess who has come! Dr. West,—and I have been in to see him. He’s whiter than a ghost, and what is funny, his chin fairly shook when I told him I was to have a new mother to-morrow, and what do you think, that woman, his mother, put me out of the room and said too much talking hurt him. Did you know he was here?”
“Yes, I knew, Johnnie; where’s your father?” Dora asked, feeling that if she waited longer her courage would give way.
“Father’s in the library, and he’s ordered us youngsters to keep out. I guess he’s expecting you, for he asked lots of times where you was, and nobody knew,Jessie’s over there,” and Johnnie jerked his shoulder in the direction of the doctor’s window.
Very slowly, as if going to her grave, Dora walked on till she came to the library door. It was shut, and as she stood there trembling, she caught the sound of a voice praying within, a voice which trembled with happiness and gratitude as John Russell thanked the God who had given to him Dora.
“I can’t; oh, I can’t,” Dora sighed, as, faint and sick, she leaned against the wall, while that prayer proceeded.
Then, when it was finished, still feeling that she could not talk with him that night, she went up to her room, and in the garments all damp and stained with night dew, and the slippers wet with the waters of the lake, she sat down by the open window and watched the light across the way, until she heard Jessie coming and knew that Robert was with her. They were talking, too, of her, for she heard her name coupled with Dr. West’s, while Jessie said, “It’s dreadful, and I do so pity Squire Russell,—he is such a nice, good man.”
And Jessie did pity him and Dora, too, hardly knowing what was best, or what she ought to advise. She had been present when Robert returned from his interview with Dora, and as Richard could not wait till she was gone she came to know the whole, expressing great surprise, and wounding Richard cruelly by saying, “Ithas gone so far that I do not believe it can be prevented.”
But Robert thought differently, and repeated Dora’s promise to talk with Squire Russell that night.
“Then he will give her up,” Jessie exclaimed, “he is so generous and so wholly unselfish. Oh, how I do pity him!” and in the heat of her great pity Jessie would almost have been Dora’s substitute, if by that means she could have saved the Squire from pain.
She did admire and like him, and appreciated his kind, affable, pleasant ways, all the more because they were so exactly the opposite of her father’s quick, brusque, nervous manner. The door of the library was open now, and she saw him sitting there as she passed, and longed so much to go and comfort him if the blow had fallen, or prepare him for it if it had not. I’ll see Dora first, she thought, and she hastened up to Dora’s door, but it was locked, while to her whispered question, “Have you told him yet?” Dora answered, “No, no, not yet; I can’t to-night. Please leave me, Jessie; I want to be alone.”
It was the queerest thing she ever heard of, Jessie thought, as she turned away,—queerer than a novel ten times over. Then, as she spied Johnnie in the parlor, the little meddlesome lady felt a great desire to see if he suspected anything; but Johnnie did not, and only talked of Europe and the grand things he should see. Not a hint or insinuation, however broad, would he take,and mentally styling him stupid and dull, Jessie left him in disgust, and walked boldly into the library, apologizing for her call by saying she had been to see Dr. West, and thought the Squire might wish to hear directly from him. The Squire was very glad to hear, and glad also to see Jessie, who amused and interested him.
“I have been thinking of calling myself, with Dora, but have not seen her this evening. Where is she?” he said.
“Locked in her room,” Jessie replied, as she took the chair he offered her, and continued: “Dora acts queerly, but I suppose that is the way I shall do the night before I am married. Wouldn’t I feel so funny, though! Do you know you and Dora seem to me just like a novel, in which I am a side character; but to keep up the romance some tall, handsome knight ought at the last minute to appear and carry her off.”
“And so make a tragedy so far as I am concerned,” the Squire said, playfully, as he smoothed the little black curly head moving so restlessly.
“Oh, I guess you would not die,” Jessie replied; “not if Dora loved the knight the best. You would rather she should have him, and some time you would find another Dora who loved you best of all.”
Jessie was growing very earnest, very sympathetic, very sorry for the unsuspecting bridegroom, and as his hand still continued to smooth her curls, she suddenlycaught it between her own, and giving it a squeeze darted from the room, leaving the Squire to wonder at her manner, and to style her mentally “a nice little girl, whom it would not be hard for any man to love.”
CHAPTER XXIII.THE BRIDAL DAY.
The morning was breaking in the east,—a bright, rosy morning, such as is usual in early September,—a morning when the birds sang as gayly among the trees as in the summer-time, and when the dew-drops glittered on the flowers just as they had done in the mornings of the past. All night the gas had burned dimly in the sick-room across the street, and all the night the sick man had prayed that he might be prepared for what the future had in store, whether of joy or sorrow. All night Jessie and Johnnie had slept uneasily, dreaming, one of the Roman Forum, where he repeated the speech made at his last exhibition, and the other that she, instead of Dora, wore the bridal wreath and stood at John Russell’s side, and found it not so very terrible after all. All night Squire Russell had lain awake, with a strange, half sad, half delicious feeling of unrest, which drove slumber from his pillow, but brought no shadow of the storm gathering round his head. All night, too, Dora,—but over the scene of agony, contrition, remorse, terror, hope, and despair which her chamberwitnessed, we draw a veil, and speak only of the results.
With the dawn the household was astir, for the elaborate breakfast was to be served before the ceremony, which was to take place at half past seven. In the children’s room there was first the opening of sleepy little eyes, as Clem called out, “Come, come, wake up. This is your father’s wedding-day.” Then there was a scampering across the floor, a patter of tiny feet, a chorus of birdlike voices, mingled occasionally with wrathful exclamations as Ben’s antagonistic propensities clashed with those of Burt, who declared that “Aunt Dora was going to be father’s mother, too, as well as theirs.” Then there were louder tones, and finally a fight, which was quelled by Jessie, who appeared in dressing-gown, with her brush in hand, and seemed in no hurry to finish a toilet which she intuitively felt would be made for naught.
Across the yard came Squire John from visiting Margaret’s grave, where he had left a tear and a bouquet of flowers. Up the walk, from the front gate, came Robert West, a look of determination on his handsome face, which boded no good to the bridegroom-elect, who, guessing at once that he was the doctor’s brother, greeted him cordially and bade him sit down till the breakfast was announced. Up the same gravel walk came the woman who was to dress the bride, and just as Robert West wasstammering some apology for being there unbidden, she asked if Miss Freeman had come down.
Nobody had seen her yet; nobody had heard her either, though Jessie had been three times to her door, while Clem had been once, but neither could get an answer.
“Would she be apt to sleep so soundly on this morning?” Squire John asked, just as Jessie, who had again tried the door, came running to the head of the stairs, her brush in her hands, and her dressing-gown flying back as she breathlessly explained to the anxious group in the hall below how she was positive she had heard a moan as if Dora was in distress.
“Burst the door,” the Squire ordered, his face white as ashes, as he hurried up the stairs, followed by Robert West.
Yes, there was a moan, a faint, wailing sound, which met the ears of all, and half crazy with fear Squire John pressed heavily against the bolted door until it gave way, when he stood modestly back while Jessie, stooping under his arm, darted into the room, exclaiming:
“Dora, O Dora! what’s the matter? What makes her so sick?” and she cast an appealing glance at her companions, who stood appalled at the change a few hours had wrought in Dora, the bride of that morning.
In her soiled garments, damp and wet, she had sat orlain the entire night, but the burning fever had dried them and stained her face with a purplish red, while her eyes, bloodshot and heavy, had in them no ray of intelligence. She was lying now upon the bed, her hands pressed to her forehead, as if the pain was there, while she moaned faintly, and occasionally talked of the light on the wall which had troubled her so much.
“It would not go out,” she said to Jessie, who gently lifted up the aching head and held it against her bosom. “It was there all the night, and I know it burned for him. Does he know how sick I am?”
A glance of intelligence passed between Robert West and Jessie, for they knew that the light from Richard’s room had shone into Dora’s through the darkness, and this it was which troubled her. Squire John had no such suspicions, and when she asked, “Doesheknow how sick I am?” he bent over her tenderly, and smoothing her brown hair, said, “Poor child, poor darling, I do know, and I am so sorry. Is the pain very hard?”
At the sound of his voice Dora started, while there came into her face a rational expression, and as he continued to caress her, her lip quivered, her eyes filled with tears, and she said, pleadingly, as a child would beg forgiveness of an injured parent:
“Dear John, don’t be angry, I could not help it. I tried to come to you last night when everybody was asleep and the clock was striking twelve. I tried tocome, but I could not find the way for the light on the wall. I can’t, I can’t. The trunks are all packed too, and the people are coming. Tell them I can’t.”
“Poor little girl, never mind. I know you can’t, and it don’t make one bit of difference, for I can wait, and I will tell the folks how sick my Dora is,” John said, kissing her softly. Then in an aside to Jessie, he added, “She thinks I’ll be disappointed because the wedding is deferred, and it troubles her. There’s the door-bell now. I must go down to explain,” and he hurried away to meet the guests, who were arriving rapidly, and who, as they turned their steps homeward, seemed more disappointed than the bridegroom himself.
Blessed Squire John! He was wholly unselfish, and as in his handsome wedding-suit he stood bowing out his departing guests, he was not thinking of himself, but of Dora and how she might be served.
“Margaret believed fully in homœopathy,” he said to the last lady, who asked what doctor he would call; “but Dr. West is sick, and what can I do?”
“He might prescribe,” returned the lady, who was also one of Dr. West’s adherents. “You can tell him her symptoms, and he can order medicine.”
“Thank you; I never thought of that. I’ll go at once,” John said; and bareheaded as he was, he crossed the street, and was soon knocking at Mrs. Markham’s door.
“The doctor’s worse,” she said, in reply to his inquiry.“He seems terribly excited, and acts as if he was possessed.”
“But I must see him,” Squire John continued. “Miss Freeman is very sick, and he must prescribe.”
“Ain’t there no wedding after all? Wall, if that don’t beat me!” was Mrs. Markham’s response, as she carried to Dr. West the message which roused him from the hopeless, despairing mood into which he had fallen.
He had insisted upon sitting up by the window, where he could watch the proceedings across the street, and as Robert did not return, while one after another the invited guests went up the walk into the house, he gave up all as lost, and sick with the crushing belief, went back to his bed, whispering sadly:
“Dora is not for me. But God knows best!”
He did not see the bridegroom coming to his door, but when the message was delivered it diffused new life at once.
“Yes, show him up; I must talk with him,” he said, and a moment after Squire John stood before his rival, his honest face full of anxiety, and almost bedewed with tears as he stated all he knew of Dora’s case. “If I could see her I could do so much better,” Richard said; “but that is impossible to-day, so I must send,” and with hands which shook as they had never shaken before, he gave out the medicine which he hoped might save Dora’s life.
“If you were able to go,” the Squire said, as he stoodin the doorway, “I would carry you myself; but perhaps it is not prudent.”
He looked anxiously at the doctor, who replied:
“If she gets no better, I’ll come.”
And then as the door closed upon the Squire, he gave a great pitying groan as he thought how trustful and unsuspicious he was.
Holding fast to the medicine, and repeating the direction, Squire Russell hastened back to the house, finding that Dora had been divested of her soiled garments, and placed in bed, where she already seemed more comfortable, though she kept talking incessantly of the light on the wall which would not let her sleep.
“It’s perfectly dreadful, isn’t it?” Jessie said to Robert, who, ere going home, stepped to the door of Dora’s room. “I’m sure I don’t know what to do. I wish Bell was here.”
Dora heard the name, and said:
“Yes, Bell; she knows, she understands,—she said I ought not to do it. Send for Bell.”
Accordingly Robert was furnished with the necessary directions, and left the house for the telegraph office, just as the Squire entered.
Johnnie was nearly frantic. At first he had seemed to consider that his trip to Europe was prevented, and, boy-like, only was greatly disappointed; but when he was admitted into the room and saw Dora’s burning cheeks andbright, rolling eyes, he forgot everything in his great distress for her.
“Auntie must not die! Oh, she must not die!” he sobbed, feeling a keener pang than any he had known when they brought home his dead mother. Intuitively he seemed to feel that his father’s grief was greater than his own, and keeping close to his side he held his hand, looking up into his face, and whispering occasionally:
“Poor father, I hope she won’t die!”
The father hoped so too, but as the hours wore on and the fever increased, those who saw her, shook their heads doubtingly, saying with one accord:
“She must have help soon, or it will come too late.”
“Help from where? Tell me. Whom shall I get? Where shall I go?” John asked, and the answer was always the same. “IfDr. Westcould come, but I suppose he can’t!”
“Hecan! heshall!!” Johnnie exclaimed, as the house seemed filled with Dora’s delirious ravings. “Father and that Mr. West can bring him in a chair! He shall!” and Johnnie rushed across the street, nearly upsetting Mrs. West in his headlong haste, and bursting upon Richard with the exclamation, “She’ll die! she is dying, and you shall go! You must,—you will! We’ll take you in this big chair!” and Johnnie wound his arm around the doctor’sneck, while he begged of him to go and save Aunt Dora.
At first the doctor hesitated, but when his brother also joined in the boy’s request, he said, “I’ll go.”
CHAPTER XXIV.THE SHADOWS OF DEATH.
It was a novel sight to see the little procession which half an hour later left Mrs. Markham’s house and moved across the street. Wrapped in a blanket and reclining in the huge arm-chair which Squire John, his coachman, and Robert West were carrying was Dr. West, while behind him walked his mother, with Johnnie and Jim and Burt and Ben bringing up the rear.
“I think I had better go in alone. Too many may disturb her,” Richard suggested, as, supported by his brother and the Squire, he reached the upper hall and turned towards Dora’s chamber.
All saw the propriety of this, and so only Jessie was present when Richard first sat down by Dora’s side, and taking her hot hand pressed it between his own, calling her by name and asking if she knew him.
“Yes, Richard, and you have come to save me; I am so glad, and the night was so long, with the light on the wall,” Dora replied, and over her cheeks the tears fell refreshingly.
“You have done her good already,” Jessie whisperedto the doctor, who, repressing his intense desire to hug the sick girl to his bosom, proceeded carefully to examine every symptom and then to prescribe.
She was very sick, he said, and the utmost quiet was necessary; only a few must be allowed to see her, and no one should be admitted whose presence disturbed her in the least. This was virtually keeping Squire Russell away, for his presence did disturb her, as had been apparent all the day, for she grew restless and talkative and feverish the moment he appeared. It smote the doctor cruelly to see how meekly he received the order.
“Save her, doctor,” he said, “save my Dora and I will not mind giving you all I’m worth.”
But the power to save was not vested in Dr. West. He could only use the means, and then with agony of soul pray that they might be blessed, that Dora might live even though she should never be his. It was unnecessary for him to return to Mrs. Markham’s, and yielding to what seemed best for all, he remained at Squire Russell’s during the dreadful days of suspense when Dora’s life hung on a thread, when Bell and Mattie, both of whom came in answer to Robert’s telegram, bent over her pillow, always turning away with the feeling that she must die, when Jessie, yielding her place as nurse to more experienced hands, took the children to the farthest part of the building, where she kept them quiet, stifling her tears while she sang to them childishsongs, or told them fairy stories; and when Squire Russell, banished from the sick-room, sat in the hall all the day long watching Dora’s door with a wistful, beseeching look, which touched the hearts of those who saw it, and who knew of the blow in store for him even if Dora lived. It was no secret now, to five at least, that Dora could never be Squire Russell’s wife. Mrs. West, Bell, Mattie, Jessie, and Robert all knew it, and while four approved most heartily,Jessiein her great pity hardly knew what she should advise. She was so sorry for him sitting so patiently by the hall window, and she wanted so much to comfort him. Sometimes, as she passed near him, she did stop, and smoothing his hair, tell him how sorry she was, while beneath the touch of those snowy fingers, his heart throbbed with a feeling which prompted him to think much of Jessie, even while he kept that tireless watch near Dora.
It was strange how the doctor bore up, appearing better than when he first came to Dora. It was excitement, he knew, and he was glad of the artificial strength which kept him at her side, noting every change with minuteness which went far toward effecting the cure for which he prayed.
Two weeks had passed away, and then one night, just as the autumn twilight was stealing into the room, Dora woke from a long, heavy sleep, which Richard had watched breathlessly, for on its issue hung her life ordeath. It was over now, and the hand Richard held was wet with perspiration. Dora was saved, and burying his head upon her pillow, the doctor said aloud:
“I thank thee, O my Father, for giving me back my darling.”
Richard was alone, for Bell and Mattie had both left the room to take their supper, and there was no one present to see the look of unutterable joy which crept into his face, when, in response to his thanksgiving, a faint voice said:
“Kiss me once, Richard, for the sake of what might have been, then let me die,—here, just as I am, alone with you.”
He kissed her more than once, more than twice, while he said to her:
“You will not die; the crisis is past; my darling will live.”
Neither thought of Squire Russell then, so full, so perfect was that moment of bliss in which each acknowledged the deep love filling their hearts with joy. Dora was the first to remember, and with a moan she turned her face to the wall while the doctor still held and caressed the little wasted hand which did not withdraw itself from his grasp. There was joy in the household that night, for the glad news that Dora was better spread rapidly, while smiles and tears of happiness took the place of sorrow. Squire Russell was gone; business which required attentionhad taken him away for several hours, and when he returned it was too late to visit the sick-room; but he heard from Johnnie that Dora would live, and from his room there went up a prayer of thanksgiving to Heaven, who had not taken away one so dear as Dora.
CHAPTER XXV.BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT.
“Poor Squire Russell,” Jessie kept repeating to herself, as she saw him next morning going up to Dora, who would far rather not have seen him until some one had told him what she knew now must be.
But there was no longer a reason why he should not be admitted to her presence, and so he came, his kind face bathed in tears, and glowing all over with delight as he stooped to kiss “his lily,” as he called her, asking how she felt, and whispering to her of his joy that she was better.
“I knew the doctor would help you,” he said, rubbing his hands complacently. “You would have died but for him. We will always like Dr. West, Dora, for he saved your life.”
“I guess I would not talk any more now,—it tires her,” Jessie said, in a perfect tremor of distress; and taking his arm, she led him away; then, closing the door upon him, she went back to Dora, who was weeping silently.
“It seems dreadful to deceive him any longer,” Jessiesaid, and as Dr. West just then came in she appealed to him to know if it were not a shame for that nice man to be kept so in the dark. “If you and Dora love each other, as I suppose you do, why, you’ll have each other of course, and Squire Russell must console himself as best he can. For my part, I pity him,” and Jessie flounced out of the room, leaving Dr. West alone with Dora.
For a long time they talked, Dora weeping softly while the doctor soothed and comforted, and told her of the love cherished so many years for the little brown-eyed girl, who now confessed how dear he was to her, but cried mournfully when she spoke of Squire Russell. It was cruel when he trusted and loved her so much. Perhaps, too, it was wrong, she said. It might be her imperative duty to take charge of those children, and then she startled the doctor by saying:
“You know how much I love you. I am not ashamed to confess it, but I am most afraid that when the time comes to talk with John, I shall tell him that I will marry him.”
“Not by a jug full!I’ll tend to that myself. I know now what has been the matter!” was almost screamed in the ears of Dr. West and Dora, as Johnnie rushed into the room.
He had started to come before, he said, but had been arrested at the door by something Dora was saying to the doctor.
“I know it’s paltry mean to listen,” he continued, “but I could not help it, and so I stood stiller than a mouse, and heard all you had to say. That’s why Aunt Dora has looked so white and cried so much, and didn’t want father to kiss her. I understand. She didn’t like him, but she’s pesky willing to haveyouslobber over her as much as you want to,” and the boy turned fiercely toward the doctor. “I counted, and while I stood there you kissed herfourteentimes! It was smack, smack, till I was fairly sick, and sort of mad with all the rest. I know auntie alwayshasdone right, and so I s’pose she is right now, but somehow I can’t help feeling as if the governor was abused, andmetoo! How, I’d like to know, am I ever going to Europe if you don’t have father? O Auntie, think again before you quit entirely!” and overmastered with tears, Johnnie buried his face in the bed-clothes, begging of Dora “to think again, and not give poor father the mitten!”
“You are making her worse! You had better go out!” the doctor said kindly, laying a hand on Johnnie’s shoulder; but the boy shook it off, savagely exclaiming:
“You let mebe, old Dr. West. I shall stay if I have a mind to!” But when Dora said:
“Johnnie, Johnnie, please don’t,” he melted at once, and sobbed aloud.
“I was mad, Auntie; and I guess I’m mad yet, but I do love you. O Auntie, poor father! I’m going rightoff to tell him. He shan’t be fooled any longer!” and the excited child darted from the room ere Dora had time to stop him.
Rushing down the stairs and entering the library, he called loudly for his father, but he was not there. He had gone into the village, Jessie said, asking if it was anything in particular which he wanted. “Yes, of course. I want to tell him how it’s all day with him and Auntie. She don’t like him, and she does like Dr. West. Poor father! was there ever anything so mean?”
Here at last was one who in part expressed her own sentiments, and the impulsive Jessie replied:
“It is mean, I think, and I am so sorry for your father. Of course Dora intends to do right, and likes the doctor best, because he is not so old as your father; but young as I am, I should not think it so awful to marry a man of forty. Why, I think it would be rather jolly, for I could do just as I pleased with him. Yes, I blame Dora some—”
“I won’t have Aunt Dora blamed,” Johnnie roared, a reaction taking place the moment any one presumed to censure her. “No, I won’t have her blamed, so you just hush up. If she don’t want father she shan’t have him, and I’ll lick the first one who says she shall.”
Here Johnnie broke down entirely, and with a howling cry fled away into the garden, leaving Jessie perfectlyamazed as she thought “how very unsatisfactory it was to meddle with a love-affair.”
Meanwhile Johnnie had seated himself beneath a tree in a sunny, quiet spot, where he was crying bitterly, and feeling almost as much grieved as when his mother died. Indeed, he fancied that he felt worse, for then there was hope in the future, and now there was none. Hearing the sound of the gate, and thinking his father had returned, he rose at last, and drying his eyes, repaired to the house, finding his conjecture true, for Squire Russell had come, and was reading his paper in the library. With his face all flushed with excitement, and his eyes red with weeping, Johnnie went to him at once, and bolting the door, began impetuously, “I would not mind it a bit, father. I’d keep a stiff upper lip, just as if I did not care.”
“What do you mean?” the Squire asked, in surprise, and Johnnie continued: “I mean that you and Aunt Dora haveplayed out, and you may as well hang up your fiddle, for she don’t want you, and she does want Dr. West, and that’s why she has grown poor as a shark and white as chalk. I just found it out, standing by the door and hearing the greatest lot of stuff,—how he asked her to marry him once, and she got into a tantrum and wouldn’t say yes, though she wanted to all the time. What makes girls act so, I wonder?”
Squire Russell was too deeply interested to offer anyexplanation with regard to girls’ actions, and Johnnie went on:
“Then he went off to California, and didn’t write, as she hoped he would, and you and I asked her to have you, and she did not want to, but thought it was her duty, and wrote to ask the doctor, and he didn’t get the letter for weeks and weeks, and when he did he was most distracted, and cut stick for home; and Aunt Dora didn’t know it, and went off to the Lake, and sat with both feet in the water, and Mr. Robert West found her there and told her, and got her home, and she most had a fit, and, O thunder! what a muss they have kicked up!”
Here Johnnie stopped for breath, while his father grasped the table with both hands, as if he thus would steady himself, while he said slowly, with long breaths between the words, “How—was it—my son? Tell me—again. I—I do not—think—I understand.”
Briefly then Johnnie recapitulated, telling how he happened to find it out, and adding, “Such kissing I never heard!Fourteensmashers, for I counted; and don’t you know, father, how, if you even touched her hand or her hair, she would wiggle and squirm as if it hurt her? Well, I peeked through the crack of the door, and instead of wigglin’ she snugged up to him as if she liked it, and I know she did, for her eyes fairly shone, they were so bright, when she looked at him. But, father, she talked real good about you, and said that if you insisted sheshould marry you just the same; but you won’t father, will you?”
“No, my son, no. O Dora!”
The words were a groan, while the Squire laid his face upon the table. Instantly Johnnie was at his side comforting him as well as he was able, and trying manfully to keep down his own choking sorrow.
“Never mind, father, never mind; we will get along, you and I. And I’ll tell you now what folks say, and that is, that no chap has a right to marry his wife’s sister, which I guess is so. Don’t cry, father, don’t. Somebody will have you, if Aunt Dora won’t. There,—there,” and Johnnie tried in vain to hush the grief becoming rather demonstrative as the Squire began to realize what he had lost.
Noisy grief is never so deep as the calm, quiet sorrow which can find no outlet for its tears, and so Squire Russell was the more sure to outlive this bitter trial; but that did not help him now, or make the future seem one whit less desolate. It was an hour before Johnnie left him, and went into the hall, where he encountered Jessie, to whom he said, “I’ve told him and he’ll do the handsome thing, but it almost kills him. Maybe you, being a girl, can talk to him better than I,” and Johnnie went on up to Dora’s chamber, while Jessie, after hesitating a moment, glided quietly into the library, where Squire Russell still sat with his head upon the table.
Jessie was a nice little comforter, and so the Squire found her as she stood over him, just as she did when Margaret died, smoothing his hair, her favorite method of expressing sympathy, and saying to him so softly, “I pity you, and I think you so good to give her up.”
He could talk to Jessie; and bidding her to sit down, he asked what she knew of Dora’s love-affair with the doctor, thereby learning some things which Johnnie had not told him.
“It is well,” he said at last; “I see that Dora is not for me; I give her to Dr. West; and, Miss Verner,—Jessie,—I thank, you for your sympathy with both of us. I am glad you are here.”
Jessie was glad, too, for if there was anything she especially enjoyed, it was the whirl and the excitement going on around her. Bowing, she too quitted the library, and went up to corroborate what Johnnie had already told to Dora.
After that Squire Russell sat no more in the upper hall watching Dora’s door, but stayed downstairs with his little children, to whom he attached himself continually, as if he felt that he must be to them father and mother both. Now that the crisis was past, the doctor thought it advisable to go back to Mrs. Markham’s, his boarding-place, but he met Squire Russell first, and heard from his own lips a confirmation of what Johnnie had said. There was no malice in John Russell’s nature, and he treatedthe doctor as cordially and kindly as if he had not been his rival.
“God bless you both,” he said; “I blame no one,—harbor no ill-feeling towards any one. If Dora had told me frankly at first it might have saved some pain, some mortification, but I do not lay it up against her. She meant for the best. It is natural she should love you more than me. God bless her; and doctor, if you like, marry her at once, but don’t take her away from here yet; wait a little till I am more settled,—for the children’s sake, you know.”
Dr. West could not understand the feeling which prompted Squire Russell to want Dora to stay there, but he recognized the great unselfishness of the man whose sunshine he had darkened, and with a trembling lip he, too, said, “God bless you,” as he grasped the hand most cordially offered, and then hurried away. It was a week before the Squire could command sufficient courage to have an interview with Dora, as she had repeatedly asked that he might do. With a faltering step he approached her door, hesitating upon the threshold, until Jessie, coming suddenly upon him, said to him, cheerily, “It will soon be over, never mind it; go in.”
So he went in, and stayed a long, long time, but as they were alone, no one ever knew all that had passed between them. The Squire was very white when he came out, but his face shone with a look of one who felt thathe had done right, and after that the expression did not change except that it gradually deepened into one of content and even cheerfulness, as the days went by, and people not only came to know that the wedding between himself and Dora would never be, but also to approve the arrangement, and to treat him as a hero who had achieved a famous victory. As for Dora, Jessie and Bell found her after the interview weeping bitterly over what she called her own wicked selfishness and John’s great generous goodness in giving her up so kindly, and making her feel while he was talking to her that it really was no matter about him. He was not injured so very much, although he had loved her dearly. He still had his children, and with them he should be happy.
“Oh, he is the best man!” Dora said; “the very best man that ever lived, and I wish he might find some suitable wife, whom he could love better than he did me, and who would make him happy.”
“So do I! I guess I do!” retorted Jessie, industriously cutting a sheet of note-paper in little slips and scattering them on the floor. “I’ve thought of everybody that would be at all suitable, for I suppose he must be married on account of the children; but there is nobody good enough except—” and Jessie held the scissors and paper still a moment, while she added, “except Bell. I think she would answer nicely. She is twenty-nine,—almost that awful thirty,—which no unmarried woman everreaches, they say; and I’d like to be aunt to six children right well, only I believe I should thrash Jim and Letitia—who, by the way, is not very bright. Did you ever discover it, Dora?”
Dora had sometimes thought Letitia a little dull, she said, and then she turned to Bell to see how she fancied the idea of being step-mother to all those dreadful children; but Bell did not fancy it at all, as was plainly indicated by the haughty toss of her head as she replied that:
“Thirty had no terrors for her, but was infinitely preferable to a widower with six children.”
Jessie whistled, while Dora smiled softly as she caught the sound of a well-known step upon the stairs, and knew her physician was coming.
Bell and Jessie always left her alone with him, and when they were gone he kissed her pale cheek, which flushed with happiness, while her sunny eyes looked volumes of love into the eyes meeting them so fondly.
“My darling has been crying,” the doctor said. “Will she tell me why?”
And then came the story of her interview with John, who had proved himself so noble and good.
“Yes, I know; he came from you to me!” the doctor replied, and into Dora’s eyes there crept a bashful, frightened look, as she wondered if John had said to Richard what he did to her.
He had in part, viz., that he wished matters to proceed just as if he had never thought of marrying Dora; that as soon as she was able he would like to see her the doctor’s wife, and then if there were no objections on the part of either, he would like to have her remain at Beechwood awhile, at least until he could make some other arrangement for his children.
“I told him you might,” Richard said, as he imprisoned the hand which was raised to remonstrate. “I said I knew you would be willing to stay, and that I should like my new boarding-place very much; and now nothing remains but for you to get well as fast as possible, for the moment the doctor pronounces you convalescent you are to be his wife. Do you understand?”
He did not tell her then of the plan which was maturing, and for the furtherance of which Robert was sent away, viz., the purchase of the homestead whose loss Dora had so much deplored.
There was an opening in the town for a new physician, the doctor had ascertained; and though he would dislike to leave his many friends in Beechwood, still, for Dora’s sake, he could do so, and he had sent Robert to open negotiations with the present proprietor of the place once owned by Colonel Freeman, and for which there was ample means to pay in the sum brought by the prodigal from the mines of California.
But this was a secret until something definite wasknown, and Richard willingly acceded to the Squire’s proposition that he and Dora should remain there until something was devised for the children.
Of this Dora was not much inclined to talk, and as she was tired and excited, the doctor left her at last, stopping on his way from the house to look at little Daisy, whom Jessie held in her lap, and who seemed feverish and sick. The doctor did not then say what he feared, but when later in the day he came again, the child’s symptoms had developed so rapidly, that he had no hesitancy in pronouncing it the scarlet fever, then prevailing to an alarming extent in an adjoining town.
Squire Russell had thought his cup full to overflowing, but in his anxiety for Daisy, he forgot his recent disappointment, and, as a father and mother both, nursed his suffering child, assisted by Jessie, whose services there, as elsewhere, were invaluable. It was indeed a house of mourning, and for weeks a dark cloud brooded over it as one after another, Ben and Burt, Letitia and Jim, were prostrate with the disease which Daisy had been the first to take, and from which she slowly recovered. When Letitia was smitten down Jessie was filled with remorse, for she remembered what she had said of the quiet child, and with a sister’s tenderness she nursed the little girl, who would take her medicine from no one else. From the first Ben and Burt were not very ill, but for a time it seemed doubtful which would gain the mastery,life or death, in the cases of Letitia and Jim. With regard to Letitia that question was soon settled, and one October morning Jessie put gently back upon the pillow the child who had died in her lap, kissing her the last of all ere she went the dark road already trodden by the mother, who in life would have chosen anybody else than Jessie Verner to have soothed the last moments of her little girl.
But Jessie’s work was not yet done, and while the sad procession went on its way to the village graveyard, where Margaret was lying, she sat by Jimmie’s side fanning his feverish cheeks, and carefully administering the medicines which were no longer of avail.
Two days after Jimmie, too, died in Jessie’s lap, and as she gave him into his father’s arms the weeping man blessed her silently for all she had been to him and his, and felt how doubly desolate he should be without her.