The day before Dawn left New York the city papers officially announced
that the cholera had reached the city. Their columns were filled with
admonitions, and the symptoms of the disease from start to finish were
plainly told. Everybody was ordered to clean up and keep clean.
There seemed to be nothing but cholera news in the paper. A full report
was given of every case, and two long columns reported the progress of
the disease in other States and cities.
As Dawn passed wearily away from an office where she had spent the
entire day waiting for a man who she hoped might use his influence to
get her a chance to teach a small school in a country district, but who
did not come, she caught the cry of the newsboys.
"_New York Commercial-Advertiser_! All 'bout the cholera!"
It was not often she spent her hoarded pennies for a paper, but a sudden
desire to know the truth about the fearful epidemic seized her. She
bought a paper, and turned to the general report column. Almost at once
her eye caught the name of a town not far from where her father lived,
with a report of three cases of cholera. She read on down the column,
and suddenly her heart stood still with horror.
"SLOANSVILLE [she read]. A man who gave his name as Harrington Winthrop
died here last week of cholera. He was in an advanced stage of the
disease when he arrived in a hired carriage, and died a few hours later.
His father and brother were sent for and arrived before his death. This
case has caused a panic among the negroes in the vicinity, and there
have been a few suspicious cases of illness which are being carefully
watched. Everything is being done to prevent a further spread of the
disease.
Dawn felt a sudden weakness, and hurried back to her wretched boarding
place to lie down. She did not feel like eating any supper, though the
old woman prepared some tea and toast and brought it up to her.
Dawn lay panting on her hard little bed, and the hot breath of the night
came in at her window, redolent of all the departed dinners of the
neighborhood. A stench of garbage sometimes varied the atmosphere as
the faint breeze died away, and the noises of a careless, happy-go-lucky
community jangled all about her. She thought of the rules of
cleanliness that had been laid down in the papers, and of the
probability that they would not be carried out in this street. She
pictured herself sick with cholera, with no one but the poor old woman
to wait upon her, and no doctor. The smells, the awful smells, would be
going on and on, and she would be unable to get up and get away from
them. She thought of the hot, hot sun that would stream in at her
curtainless window when the day broke again, and wondered why she had
come to this terrible city, where there was no work, and no place in the
world for a lonely pilgrim whom nobody wanted.
Then over her rolled a deep relief at the thought that Harrington
Winthrop would trouble her no more, though it seemed awful to rejoice in
what must have been a terrible death. Yet it could not but make life
freer for her, for she would have one thing less to fear.
Gradually, as she thought about it, another fear seized her. Charles,
his brother, her husband, had been with him when he died. Perhaps he
too would take it and die, and she would never know, never see him again
in this life. She would be left alone--alone in this awful world where
she had no friends, and none to love her, save a poor boy to whose kind
heart she had brought only pain.
Why not go back to the neighborhood where Charles was? She need not let
herself be known. She could surely find some secluded place where she
could earn enough to keep her, yet where she might find out how he was,
and maybe catch a glimpse of him now and then!
It was strange this idea had not entered her mind before. It had never
seemed to her possible that she could go back. But now the spectre of
death had made her see things in a different light. She wanted to get
back to the greenness and the coolness of the country, and, most of all,
she wanted to know if Charles was living and was well. After that, it
did not matter what became of her; but now she knew she was going back,
and she was going at once--in the morning.
She went down to tell the old lady her purpose, and after that she
slept. The next morning she gathered up her few belongings and took the
boat for Albany.
She had no settled purpose of where she would go after reaching her
objective point. She did not know the name of the town where Charles
lived. Strangely enough, it had never been mentioned in her hearing,
and she had not thought to ask. She was beginning to feel as if she
must have been half asleep when a good many important events in her life
happened. Was she half asleep now also, she wondered idly?
As they passed the old school of Friend Ruth, Dawn looked out hungrily
and longed inexpressibly to be a girl again, studying her lessons and
knowing little of the hardness of life.
When the boat reached Albany she took the first stagecoach that
appeared, without asking where it went. Her money was almost gone, but
she paid the fare without a pang. What did anything matter, now that
she was out of New York?
Everywhere the talk was of the cholera, and her heart grew sick as she
heard the details of the dread disease, and long, minute descriptions of
how best to nurse it.
The stage-coach reached a pretty village late in the afternoon, and Dawn
left it, to take a walk and rest herself from the long sitting.
She had but a few dollars left. Perhaps she ought not to use any more
for fare, but stay where she was if she liked it, or walk farther.
She did not feel like eating anything, so she grasped her little bundle
of well-worn garments, and walked down the village street.
There was a white church with a wide porch, and stairs in front, leading
to the gallery. At the side was the graveyard, its wicket gate shaded
by a great weeping willow. Just inside was a seat under the tree. Dawn
tried the gate and found it unlatched, and she went in and wandered
about among the graves, reading here and there a name idly, and
wondering how it would seem to lie down and sleep in that quiet resting
place.
Deep in the centre, so far from the street that she could not be seen,
she sank in the grass at the foot of a green mound, and laid her face
down upon the blossoming myrtle. How nice it would be if this were a
great, free inn where strangers might come and lie down, and the
servants would bring each one a green blanket for covering, and a white
stone at the head of his pillow, and let him sleep in peace and
quietness forever. She was so weary, so weary, body and soul.
At last she roused herself, and, looking up at the stone above her,
traced the name with startled senses:
MARY MONTGOMERY,
Born 1798, Died 1825.
_Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God._
Now, indeed, Dawn was wide awake! This, then, was her mother's grave.
She verified the dates with her own memory. She traced the letters
tenderly with her fingers, she took in the significance of the
quotation, and read her mother's story as she had never been told it by
any one. Her mind, made keen by suffering, could understand and
sympathize. Her young heart ached with longing for the mother who was
gone from her. How might they have comforted each other if they could
only have been permitted to stay together!
A little later she moved her position and saw that there was a smaller
mound beyond her mother's grave, and that the white stone read:
CARROLL MONTGOMERY VAN RENSSELAER,
Aged 2 years and 9 months.
_He shall gather the lambs in His arms._
Before this stone Dawn knelt in wonder. Had she, then, had a brother?
And how much more of the story was there? Oh, if she had only asked her
father more questions! Perhaps some day she would dare to go to him and
find out many things. Not now--not till she was older and had forgotten
some of the troubles she had borne. Poor child! She knew not that his
body had been resting beneath a stately monument these ten days past!
Beyond her was her grandfather's stone, and beside it her grandmother's,
much older and moss-covered. In the same enclosure were many other
Montgomerys who had lived and died. Some of their names she thought she
remembered. She sighed wearily, and, going back to her mother's grave,
touched the letters of her name gently, as if she would bid them
farewell, picked a spray of the blossoming myrtle, and went sadly out
into a lonely world again. She could not stay here; it was too
sorrowful.
She walked to the next village that afternoon, and took another coach,
the first that came along, going she knew not where. When she reached
the end of the route the next morning, she took up her walk again,
resolving to spend no more money for riding. She did not realize how
long she had walked, but some time in the afternoon she came into a
familiar region. She could not tell where she was at first, but as she
drew near to the village she recognized it as her native town.
At first she was frightened, and stopped by the roadside to think what
to do. Then a great longing to see the garden once more, and creep into
the old summer-house, came over her. Skirting the woods on the outside
of the village, and going around by the saw-mill, she at last came to
the hedge at the lower end of her father's garden, and slipped through
to the summer-house, as she had wished.
The mansion looked quiet. No one seemed moving about. But, then, it
had always seemed that way. She had no fear that any one would discover
her, for the hedge was thick and tall, and had not been cut lately. She
crept into her old corner in the greenness and quiet. The cushions were
there as they used to be, but they looked weather-beaten, as if no one
had been there in a long time. She brushed them off, spread her mantle
upon them, and lay down. It was very still all about, and she soon
slept. Some time in the night she awoke with a feeling of chill and
loneliness. It was night, she knew by the darkness, and a sense of
something strange and sad brooded in the air. But she was very weary,
and soon slept again.
When she awoke again it was late morning. She knew by the sun that the
day was well begun, and she was impressed almost immediately by the
quietness of her surroundings. There seemed to be no one about. Not a
sound came from the house. The bees and the cicadas droned and whetted
their hot scythes in the burning day, but otherwise there was a torrid
silence.
The little hedged summer-house was not far from the street. It seemed
strange to the girl that she heard no one passing. She got up and made
herself as tidy as the circumstances allowed, and then stole toward the
house, keeping within hiding of the hedges. She had no mind to let any
one see her, but a strange fascination led her to look again upon her
old home.
The shutters were all staring wide, as if forgotten, and the front door
stood open, but no one was about. Dawn wondered if the old servants
were still there, but no sound came from the direction of the kitchen.
She stole nearer, though her judgment warned her to go away if she did
not wish to be seen and recognized. A power stronger than she realized
seemed drawing her on.
With sudden impulse, she stepped softly up to the front door and peeped
in. She had no deep love for this old house, for the memories of her
mother there had been dimmed and marred by later happenings; but Dawn
had been a wanderer so many months now, that even to look upon a place
where she had once had a right to be, was good.
The hall looked much as ever, though there was no hat lying on the
polished mahogany table, and a coating of dust showed clearly in the
stream of sunshine from the front door. Her father's walking-sticks
were not in their accustomed place either. She wondered a little, and
then was impressed again by the deep stillness that lay over everything.
What could it mean? Was no one about? Surely they had not gone off and
left the house alone and the front door wide open!
The curious longing for a sight of something familiar which had brought
her thus far drew her on. Cautiously she stepped into the hall and
peered into this room and that--the parlor, the library, the
dining-room, and back through the servants' quarters into the kitchen.
All were empty!
The fire was out, and a heap of ashes lay on the hearth, as if no one
had made an attempt to put things to rights for hours. There were
unwashed dishes on the kitchen table, and on the bread board, beside the
knife, lay half a loaf of bread which had moulded in the warm, moist
atmosphere. It was all very strange. What could have happened?
With a growing sense that the house was empty now, Dawn went upstairs,
looking first into her own old room and the guest rooms, and coming at
last to the door of that which had been her step-mother's. It was
closed, and she hesitated to open it. What need had she to go in there,
any way? It could profit her nothing. If her step-mother was there,
Dawn did not wish to see her. The girl paused an instant, then her soft
tread turned back again to go downstairs, but a low sound, like a moan,
caught her ear, and something made her turn again and open the door,
though cold chills were creeping down her spine, and a frenzy of fear
had seized upon her.
There upon the high four-poster bed lay her step-mother, her eyes sunken
into deep sockets, her cheeks hollow, her nose thin and pointed, her
whole face pinched and blue, with lines of agony in her expression.
Dawn felt her heart leap in fear, but she went forward. There seemed
nothing else to do.
The sunken eyes turned toward her dully, and the blue lips uttered a low
moan, then, suddenly, the sick woman fixed her gaze upon the girl's face
in growing horror, and a livid look came into her face.
"Is that you at last?" she asked in a deep, hoarse voice that sounded
strange and unnatural. "Are we both dead?"
A cold perspiration had come out upon the girl, and the awfulness of the
situation seemed to be taking her senses away, but she tried to speak
coolly, and still the wild beating of her heart.
"Yes, I've come," said Dawn; "but we're not dead. What is the matter?
Are you sick? I found the front door open, and no one around."
"They've all gone and left me," moaned the woman, beginning to turn her
head with a strange, restless movement from side to side. "They rushed
off like frightened cattle. You'll go, too, I suppose, when you know
I've got the cholera. Yes, go quick. I don't want to do you any more
harm than I have already. Oh!"
The sentence broke in a cry of agony, and the sick woman writhed in
terrible contortions, which, passing, left her weak and almost lifeless.
The girl's heart was filled with horror, but she took off her bonnet and
cape and laid down her bundle.
"No, I'm not going to leave you," she said sadly, almost dully. "I'm
not afraid, and, besides, it doesn't matter about me, any way. Have you
had the doctor?"
The woman shook her head. The agony was not all passed.
"There wasn't any one to go for him," she murmured weakly, tossing
restlessly again. "Oh, I'm so thirsty! Can you get me some water?"
"Where is Father?" asked Dawn, wondering if he too had deserted her.
"Didn't you know he was dead?" asked the sick woman, in that strangely
hoarse voice.
"No," said Dawn, shuddering. Everybody seemed to be dying. Would she
die, too?
She hurried to the old medicine closet and in a moment returned with the
camphor bottle and some lumps of sugar, and administered several drops
of camphor. The patient's hands were cold and blue. Dawn tucked her up
with blankets warmly.
"You lie still," she said in a business-like tone. "I'll get some hot
water bottles for your hands and feet, and then I'll call the doctor."
"It isn't worth while for you to stay here and get the cholera," said
the woman plaintively. "I'm not going to get over it. I've known it
all night. It was coming on yesterday. I tried to straighten up the
house, but I was too dizzy and weak. The servants all went away when
they heard me say I didn't feel well. There have been several other
cases----"
But Dawn did not hear all her step-mother said, for she had hurried down
to get a fire started. It was no easy task for her unaccustomed hands
to strike the fire from the tinder-box, and after one or two fruitless
efforts she decided to waste no more time, but to run to the neighbor's
and borrow a kettle of water, at the same time sending a message for the
doctor. She was terribly frightened by her step-mother's appearance,
and knew she must be very ill indeed. It seemed as if all possible
haste was necessary if she would help to save her life.
Upstairs, the sick woman was tossing and moaning. The sudden appearance
of the girl who had been the occasion of so much trouble in her life
seemed to make the agony all the greater. She knew that she was face to
face with death, and now to have the girl she had injured meet her
almost on the threshold of the other world, and minister to her, was
double torment. If only she could do something to make amends for the
wrong she had done, before she left the world and went to meet her just
retribution! Her fevered brain tried to think. What was there she
could do?
The girl had come, and would probably take the disease and die. Her
husband might never know she was here. No one would find it out until
she was dead. If only she--Mrs. Van Rensselaer--had some way of letting
Charles Winthrop know that his wife had come home. If she could get up
and go out into the street and beg some one to take him a message! But
her strength was gone, and the agony might come upon her at any moment.
She would have to do it at once, or the girl would return and stop her.
Could she try?
All her life she had been a woman of iron will. She had made herself
and every one except her husband bend to it. She summoned it now. She
would try. She would make one supreme effort to right the great wrong
of her life. If in the other world to which she knew she was going in a
few short hours there was opportunity to meet the husband she had loved
as she had loved nothing else on earth besides herself, she would like
to tell him that she had tried--that at the last hour she had tried to
make some amends.
With the extraordinary strength which mind sometimes gives to body at
times of great necessity, as in cases of soldiers mortally wounded
fighting to the end, the woman crawled out of the bed and dragged
herself over to the desk. Her eyes were bright with her great purpose
and blazed like sunken fires. Her gray, thin hair straggled down upon
the collar of the old dressing-gown she had put on when first taken
sick. She seized her quill pen and a sheet of paper that lay there, and
with cramped, shaking hand wrote, "Dawn is here," and signed her name,
"Maria Van Rensselaer." The scrawl was almost unreadable, but she dared
not try to write it over. She dared not add another word. Her time was
short. Her strength already was failing. She had yet to get the
message into some one's hands. Perhaps even now she would fail. She
crushed the folds together with her cold fingers, wrote "Charles
Winthrop" and the address, and then tottered across the room to the
door. She almost fell as she reached the stair-landing. The dizzy,
blinding blackness that seemed pressing upon her almost overwhelmed her.
She felt the pain and torment surging back, but she fought it off and
would not yield. This was her last chance to make amends--her last
chance. She said it over to herself as she clung to the banisters and
got down the stairs clumsily. If Dawn had been in the house, she must
have heard her.
It looked like miles to the front gate as the sick woman came out on the
piazza, but somehow she got there--a queer, ghastly figure of death,
clinging to the gate-post, with a letter and a purse in her hand.
In the distance she saw a negro approaching. He was scuttling along
with a frightened gait, as if he wished to hurry through the street.
She felt her strength going. If she could only stand up till he reached
her! It seemed to her hours before he came to the gate. She had kept
back out of sight, instinctively feeling he would be scared away if he
saw her.
"Take that to the post office or God will punish you!" she said, in the
deep, hoarse voice the disease had given her, and thrust the letter and
the purse upon him.
The negro stopped with a yell of fright, but her words had the desired
effect. She had worked upon the superstition of his race. He dared not
disobey her command. Taking the letter and the purse in his thumb and
finger, that he might not come in contact with them more than was
necessary--for a glance at the face of the woman had warned him of her
malady--he ran at top speed to the post-office. His eyes rolled with
horror as he told of the old woman who had accosted him. He felt as if
his days were numbered and he fled the village immediately, not caring
where he went so he got away from the haunting memory of the living dead
who had given him the letter.
With almost superhuman effort Mrs. Van Rensselaer turned to go back to
the house, but the iron will could carry her no further. Her strength
was gone. She had accomplished her errand, and had come to the end.
She had done her best to make amends for her sin. She sank unconscious
by the gateway.
Meantime, Dawn had hurried through the hedge by a short cut to the
nearest neighbor's, but failed to get any response to her urgent knock.
She went around the house and perceived that it was closed. The family
must be away. She flew to the neighbor just below with the same result,
and going on farther down the street to four other houses, found no one
in sight. At the fifth, some distance from her home, a woman stepped
fearfully out of the kitchen door, and agreed to send word to the
doctor, but shook her head at the demand for hot water. She could not
spare her kettle. She had sickness in the house herself. No, she
didn't think Dawn could get any at the next house either. Everybody
that could get away had gone since the cholera struck the town. Then
the woman went in and shut the door and with new horror Dawn sped back
to try her hand again at making the fire.
The necessity was so strongly upon her now that she fairly _made_ that
fire burn, and at last had a kettle of hot water to carry upstairs.
Dawn was so intent upon carrying her great steaming kettle up the front
stairs without spilling the contents that she failed to hear the wheels
of a carriage upon the gravel drive outside. It was not until she had
carried the kettle into the bedroom and put it on the hearth and then
turned toward the bed that she discovered the bed was empty!
A great horror filled her. Trembling, she knew not why, she quickly
glanced into the other rooms on that floor. It seemed almost as if the
pestilence had become a living being that could snatch people bodily
away from the earth.
She seemed to have no voice with which to call, yet she felt upon her a
necessity of great haste. Perhaps her step-mother had gone downstairs
in search of her. She hurried down a few steps, then stopped, startled.
Someone was coming into the front door, staggering under the heavy
burden of an inert, human form. It looked a vivid blot of darkness
against the background of the hot summer sunshine outside.
Dawn hurried down, with white face and horrified eyes, and saw that it
was the old family doctor, and that he held her step-mother in his arms.
A sudden pang of remorse went through her heart that she had been away
from the sick one so long, yet how could she have helped it? Was Mrs.
Van Rensselaer perhaps trying to find her, or was she seeking aid, and
had fallen by the way?
"Oh, why did she get up!" she exclaimed regretfully. "I came just as
soon as I could get the water hot!" Then she caught hold of the heavy
form of the unconscious woman and helped with all her young strength to
lift and drag her up to her room again.
"She might have been out of her head, child," said the doctor kindly, as
if in answer to her exclamation. He was searching in his medicine case
for a certain bottle as he spoke. His breath was coming in short, quick
gasps from the exertion of carrying the sick woman upstairs, and the
perspiration stood in great beads on his forehead. His face looked old
and haggard, and his voice was that of one who had seen much recent
sorrow. He walked rapidly asking a few keen questions and giving brief
directions. He nodded approvingly at the kettle of hot water, sent Dawn
for one or two articles he needed, then when he had done all he could,
and the sick woman was breathing more naturally, he turned and looked at
Dawn.
She had told him in a few words how she had found the house when she
arrived, and the little she had done. He looked her through with his
kind tired eyes, noted the sweet, sad face, the dark circles under her
eyes, the pallor of the thin cheeks, and shook his head doubtfully.
"You're young for this sort of thing," he said gruffly. "It's a hard
case, and her only hope is good nursing. I'm afraid you're not equal to
it. You'll break down yourself."
"Oh, no, I'm quite strong," said Dawn, bravely trying to smile.
"Well, I don't know how it can be helped," he mused. "I don't know of a
single person I can get to help you. It may be Patience Howe could come
if she can get away from the Pettibones. I'll see what I can do. I'll
stop and send a line to Mrs. Van Rensselaer's sister. She'll likely
come down by to-morrow. You know she was here when your father died.
Do you think you could get along to-night alone in case I can't get any
one? I'll try to get back here before dark if I can and bring some one
to stay with you. I haven't had a wink of sleep for forty-eight hours
except what I caught on the road. I'll get back as soon as I can."
Dawn assured him she would do her best, though her heart quaked within
her at thought of staying alone with the death-like sleeper upon the
bed. The doctor gave a few directions and cautions, and hurried away.
The house settled into quiet, and the hours stretched into torturing
length. Dawn slipped downstairs to find some food, for she was growing
faint with long fasting. But there was nothing in the house fit to eat.
The bread was moist and sticky with the damp, warm atmosphere, and she
had no heart to cook anything. She had arranged the fire to keep the
kettle boiling, for hot water was an essential in the sick-room. Now
she caught sight of a basket of eggs and dropped several into the
boiling water. These would keep her alive and be easy to eat.
The afternoon was a long agony. She spent most of the time applying hot
cloths, and chafing the skin of her step-mother. From time to time the
woman would almost waken or moan and toss in her sleep. As the hot, red
sun slipped down in the west and the oppressive darkness settled upon
the house, Dawn felt more alone than she had ever been in all of her
short, troublous life. She lighted a candle and set it on the floor in
the hall, as in the room it seemed to trouble the patient. The long,
flickering shadows wavered over the floor in ghostly march, and the
nurse sat and watched them till it seemed that they were the shadows of
all the troubles that had taken their way through her young life.
It was late in the evening when the doctor finally returned, and he was
alone. But Dawn was glad to see his kindly face, for she had almost
given up hoping for him that night, and it seemed terrible to her to sit
there and feel that the death angel was standing at the other side of
the bed, perhaps.
But the doctor's eyes brightened a little as he looked at the patient.
"She's holding her own," he murmured. "You've done pretty well, little
girl. Just as well as an experienced nurse. If you can keep it up
during the night you may save her life. I'm sorry I couldn't get any
one to stay with you to-night, but there wasn't a soul who was not
already taking care of two or more cases. I'd stay myself, but there
are three cases I must save to-night if possible. Keep up the treatment
as before, and if she rouses again try this new medicine."
He was gone as quickly as he had come, and she was alone with her charge
once more, but a new spark of interest was in her work. He had said she
might save her step-mother's life. She wondered dully why she should
care when the woman had done her so much harm, but she did care, and the
fact gave her peace.
While she thus thought she was aware that the sick woman's eyes had
opened and were gazing at her with a strange, deep wonder, as if they
would ask: "Are you here yet? Have you stayed alone to nurse me, when I
have always hated you, and done you harm?"
Dawn came quickly over to the bed and stood in the path of light that
the candle shed from the hall doorway. She took the patient's hands in
her own and noticed that they were not so cold as they had been, and she
asked gently: "Do you want anything?"
For a moment her step-mother only looked at her, and then her lips
stirred as if in an effort to speak, but she uttered only one word,
"Forgive?"
Dawn's heart bounded with a sudden, unexpected pleasure, and the tears
sprang to her eyes.
"Of course!" she said briskly, "it's all right, but you must lie still
and help get well."
A gentler light came into Mrs. Van Rensselaer's anxious eyes. Once
more, as if to make sure that she had heard aright, she murmured her
question, "Forgive?"
Dawn stooped impulsively and kissed her. Then an actual smile of peace
settled into the hard face of die woman on the bed, changing it utterly.
"It's all right," said Dawn again eagerly. "And now, you must take your
medicine and not talk any more. You are going to get well. The doctor
says so, and you must go to sleep at once."
She administered the new medicine, and with another smile like a tired
child the sick woman sank away into a gentle, restful sleep.
It was late in the afternoon of the following day that the doctor
returned with Mrs. Van Rensselaer's sister, who established herself by
the bedside with energy and competence. The doctor, noticing Dawn's wan
look and sleep-heavy eyes, ordered her to go to bed at once or there
would be two patients instead of one to look after. Mrs. Van Rensselaer
he pronounced decidedly better.
Dawn, as she slipped away from the sick room, felt dizzy and faint with
weariness. She reflected that she would probably contract the disease
herself, and it might come upon her suddenly. She had read of many
cases that died almost at once. The thought gave her no alarm. It
would be good to go quickly. She went to her own room feeling that she
had come almost to the end of things.
Her dress was torn and wet from much working with the hot water and
flannels. Her face and hands were blackened with soot from the fire.
Tired as she was she must freshen herself a little before going to
sleep.
She bathed and dressed in fresh garments that she found hanging in her
closet, and put on the little white frock she had worn the day before
her marriage, smoothed her hair, and then, taking a pillow and some
comfortables from the bed, she went downstairs. The thought had come to
her that it would be good to get out to the arbor again. If she were to
die, it would be as well there as anywhere.
As she passed down the garden walk, a rose thorn caught her white gown,
and in freeing herself she noticed a spray of roses like those Charles
had picked for her a year ago. Their fragrance seemed to touch her
tired senses like healing balm.
After she had spread her comfortables on the floor of the little
summer-house, she stepped back and broke off the spray of roses, and lay
down with their cool leaves against her hot cheek. Breathing in their
odor, she fell into a deep sleep, in which no dreams came to ruffle her
peace.
She had not noticed when she lay down that the long, red rays of the sun
were very low. The excitement through which she had lived, the lack of
food, the unusual exertion and the sudden release from the necessity of
doing anything, made her stupid with weariness. The sun slipped quickly
down, and the cool darkness of the garden soothed her. A tiny breeze
gave her new life, and she slept as sweetly as the sleeping birds in the
trees over her head, while the kind stars looked down and kept watch,
and the roses nestled close and spoke of him she loved.
In the village, pestilence stalked abroad and the shadow of death
hovered, but in the garden there were quiet and peace and rest. And if
the languid winds played a solemn dirge among the pines near the old
house, they disturbed her not, safe sheltered among God's flowers with
others of his beautiful, dependent creatures.