"And there we shall have our feasts of tears,
And many a cup in silence pour;
Our guests, the shades of former years,
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more."
Tom Moore.
Weeks passed away, and Guly, in spite of all his earnest endeavors,
heard nothing more of Blanche. A strange mystery seemed, as it were,
suddenly to have swallowed her up, and left no trace. Summer came again,
and brought with it one of those fearful epidemics so frequent in that
ill-fated city. Cholera was spreading itself broad-cast among rich and
poor, the humble and the high alike. Hundreds were weekly being swept
into their yawning tombs, and it seemed as if the city most surely must
be devastated. Nurses could not be procured to care for the sick; and
the dead-carts went gloomily through the silent streets, groaning
beneath their fearful load of death, all the day long, while the
grave-yards yawned constantly, as though their hunger never could be
appeased.
Several of Mr. Delancey's clerks had died, and others had fled the
pestilence, but Arthur and Guly still remained; the one, in order to
gain enough to carry on his career of dissipation, the other, from a
high sense of duty, which, though in the midst of danger, kept him
faithful to his post. Mr. Delancey had been more lenient with Arthur
than with any other clerk of like character he had ever had. Although he
could not but note in his countenance the course he was pursuing, he
forbore to dismiss him, and the brothers still lived, side by side,
beneath the same roof.
Though his receipts were spent in debauchery, Arthur managed, as a
general thing, to fill his place through the day faithfully; and since
the sudden demise of clerks in the establishment, it had become
absolutely necessary.
But one morning, Guly noticed that Arthur looked pale, and suffering,
though resolutely remaining on duty. Alarmed lest he should be taken
with the prevalent disease, to which his habits rendered him peculiarly
liable, Guly questioned him, and finding that he was really unwell,
turned to his employer, and said:--
"Mr. Delancey, Arthur is too ill to remain longer in his place; he must
give up until he can get better. He has remained here too long this
morning already, with the symptoms of cholera about him."
"Well, he's a fool for that," muttered the merchant, in reply, with much
of his old manner; "I should suppose he was old enough to know that he
must give up when he's sick. I'd whip a negro of mine that worked round,
and didn't tell when he was sick. Let him lie down here in your room."
It was the old room which Wilkins used to occupy; and Arthur, every
moment growing worse, hastened thither, and threw himself upon the bed.
Guly immediately sent for a physician, and put aside all his business,
to attend upon his sick brother. Slowly the hours went by. Everything
that could be done was done, and, in fearful anxiety, Guly hung over the
form of that brother--now, in this dark moment, forgiving him all his
sins and unkindness, and loving him, oh! how tenderly!
The sun went down, and Guly had no brother! In fearful agony he had
yielded up his strong spirit, and now lay pale and still in the fond
arms which encircled him. The dead-cart stood waiting at the door, and
with tears, which he did not struggle to repress, Guly saw the corpse
robed in the habiliments of death, and placed within the coffin. Those
were times which permitted of but little delay, and bodies were often
beneath the turf before they were fairly cold, and even while Guly bent
to take a last adieu of the still form before him, the cartman, a burly
negro, was loudly vociferating for "the body," declaring it would be
dark before ever he could get his "load dumped." The coffin was placed
upon the top of a number of others, and Guly, too overcome by the grief
and anxiety he had experienced, to be able to follow it to the cemetery,
stood in the door-way, watching the dismal cart, as it rattled along,
bearing to its last resting-place, all that remained of the once proud
and happy Arthur.
The negro sat upon his pile of corpses, and jogged along over the uneven
streets, whistling as he went! It was late when he reached the
graveyard, and the stars were beginning to peep out in the sky. It so
happened that his was the only cart at that time depositing in the
cemetery, and, accustomed as he was to such things, the man's hand
trembled nervously as he moved about among the tall monuments, and at
last stopped in an open space to deposit his load. He ceased whistling
as he drew the bolt from his cart box and slid the contents out upon the
ground. As they struck, there came a crash; a sound which fell fearfully
upon the ear in that silent place, and the cartman righted the box
hurriedly, and hastened round to see what was the matter. While peering
into the dusky light, he felt a cold hand grasp him about the waist, and
suddenly turning his head, saw that the last coffin he had taken, from
being placed high, had split in its fall and burst open; and, oh,
horror! its occupant was _creeping forth_ with its ghastly face peering
up into his! With a mad yell the negro bounded to his cart. He leaped
wildly in, but the cold hand clung close, and the sheeted figure
sustained itself behind him. With shrieks of terror, which echoed
fearfully in and out among the tombs, the man plied the lash to his
affrighted horse, and they dashed away through the dim streets at a mad
pace, the negro, with eyes starting from their sockets, and mouth wide
open from fear, ever and anon turning his head, but always meeting that
ghastly face close to his, and seeing the grave-clothes floating
backward in the wind! Then the whip fell more heavily on the poor horse,
and the screams of mortal fear rang out more startlingly clear; but the
fearful scourge had rendered the streets almost deserted, and the
ghostly form still clung to the affrighted negro, sometimes sinking as
if from exhaustion, upon its knees, sometimes again drawing itself upon
its feet; but holding ever on with the pale shroud floating backward in
the wind.[B]
[Footnote B: A well authenticated fact.]
Suddenly, in turning a corner at a slightly relaxed speed, the cartman
felt the hold upon his waist loosed, and turning, he found that his
frightful passenger had vanished, when or how he knew not, but then and
there he drew up his horse, and vowed never to take another cholera
subject to the grave-yard, and so run the risk of having the ghost ride
home with him; and he kept his vow.
Guly lay upon the bed in the gloomy room up stairs, himself suddenly
smitten with the fearful disease. He was alone, his only attendant
having gone out to procure medicine. His thoughts were dwelling upon the
sad events of the day, when suddenly the door opening into the alley was
swept back with a hasty hand, and the pale figure of Arthur, robed in a
dampened shroud, sank down at Guly's bedside. The boy started wildly up
in bed, with a natural pang of terror darting through his heart. But the
next instant, the panting voice of Arthur, faint, but in its old
accustomed tones, fell upon his ear, and Guly listened in mute wonder.
"Oh, Guly, oh, my brother, behold me thus strangely cast back from the
grave which was yawning to receive me. I thank God I was spared the
fearful doom of being buried alive! The coffin burst, the shock, the
sudden rush of air restored me, and I found myself awakened from a
fearful trance, sent back to life and earth. The lesson has been
fearful. But my close approach to death may yet prove my salvation. Give
me my clothes to robe myself while I talk to you."
Guly pointed silently to the clothes which hung upon a chair, where they
had been placed never to be worn more. He also extended a bottle of
cordial to Arthur, bidding him drink and be strengthened.
"Now, Guly," said the elder brother, as, once more robed, he bent above
him, "Let me remain as one dead to you, I am going far from you; but I
am a changed being; fear not for me, I shall commence a new life, and
when I return, I shall not cause you to blush for me. Guly, farewell!"
Guly threw himself into the extended arms, completely overcome with his
emotions.
"Oh! Arthur, I can scarcely realize this strange and sudden restoration;
but now that God has given you back to me, do not leave me, do not
desert me, stay with me; let us learn to be happy in our old love and
our old ways."
"Nay, Guly, it may not be, I might but fall again. Let my former
self--what I have been to you for the past few months--be remembered
only as the dead; think of me but in the light of our early days, and in
that light I will once more come back to you."
"And, Arthur, you will remember me with love and kindness, letting all
the bitterness of the past drop into oblivion?"
"I will, I will--and you?"
"With love, always, with love, dear Arthur, shall this heart remember,
shall this spirit enshrine you."
"God bless you! God keep you till we meet!"
There came one long, tender, tearful embrace, and once again the
brothers parted; Arthur's footsteps falling gently on his ear, as he
stole out through the arched alley way below. Thus they met, and thus
they parted, in the same gloomy old room where they had experienced so
much joy and so much sorrow at their first outset on life's troubled
ocean.