FANNY’S ILLNESS LEADS TO HER FATHER’S REPENTANCE
From the grassy hillside and bright green plains of Kentucky the frosts of
winter were gone. By the dancing brook and in the shady nooks of the quiet
valleys, the warm spring sun had sought out and brought to life thousands
of sweet wild blossoms, which in turn had faded away, giving place to
other flowers of a brighter and gayer hue.
Each night from the upper balcony of her father’s handsome dwelling Fanny
watched in vain for the coming of Dr. Lacey, whose promised return had
long been delayed by the dangerous illness of his father. Over the wooded
hills the breath of summer was floating, hot, arid and laden with disease.
Death was abroad in the land, and as each day exaggerated rumors of the
havoc made by cholera in the sultry climate of Louisiana reached Fanny,
fearful misgivings filled her mind lest Dr. Lacey, too, should fall a
victim to the plague.
For herself she had no fears, though slowly but surely through her veins
the fever flame was creeping, scorching her blood, poisoning her breath
and burning her cheek, until her father, alarmed at her altered and
languid appearance, inquired for the cause of the change. "Nothing but a
slight headache," was the reply.
Next to the cholera, Mr. Middleton most feared the typhoid fever, several
cases of which had recently occurred in the neighborhood, and fearing lest
the disease might be stealing upon his darling, he proposed calling the
physician. But this Fanny would not suffer, and persisted in saying that
she was well, until at last she lay all day upon the sofa, and Aunt Katy,
when her favorite herb teas failed of effecting their wonted cure, shook
her head, saying, "I knew ’twould be so. I always telled you we couldn’t
keep her long."
Dr. Gordon was finally called and pronounced her disease to be typhoid in
its worst form. Days went by, and so rapid was the progress of the fever
that Mr. Middleton trembled lest of him it had been decreed: "He shall be
childless." To Fanny the thought of death was familiar. For her it had no
terrors, and as her outward strength decayed, her faith in the Eternal
grew stronger and brighter, yet she could not die without an assurance
that again in the better world she would meet the father she so much
loved. For her mother she had no fears, for during many years she had been
a patient, self-denying Christian.
At first Mr. Middleton listened in silence to Fanny’s gentle words of
entreaty, but when she spoke to him of her own death, and the love which
alone could sustain him then, he clasped her tightly to his heart, as if
his arm alone could keep her there forever, saying, "Oh, no, you must not
tell me that; you will not die. Even now you are better." And the anxious
father did try to deceive himself into the belief that Fanny was better,
but when each morning’s light revealed some fresh ravage the disease had
made—when the flush on her cheek grew deeper and the light of her eye
wilder and more startling, an agonized fear held the old man’s heart in
thrall. Many and many a weary night found him sleepless, as he wet his
pillow with tears. Not such tears as he wept when Richard Wilmot died, nor
such as fell upon the grave of his first-born, for oh, his grief then was
naught compared with what he now felt for his Sunshine, his idol, his
precious Fanny. "I cannot, cannot let her die," was the cry which hourly
welled up from the depths of that fond father’s aching heart. "Take all,
take everything I own, but leave me Sunshine; she mustn’t, mustn’t die."
Earnestly did Fanny pray that her father might be enabled better to bear
his affliction. But he turned a deaf ear alike to her and his gentle,
enduring wife, who, bowed with sorrow, yet sought to soothe her
grief-stricken husband. Sadly he would turn away saying, "It’s no use
talking. I can’t be pious if they take Fanny away. I can see why t’other
one died. ’Twas to bring me to my senses, and show me how bad I used her;
but Fanny, my Sunshine, what has Josh done that she should leave him too?
Oh, it’s more than I can bar."
At Dr. Gordon’s request a council of physicians in Frankfort was called.
As the one who came last was about to enter her room, Mr. Middleton
detained him while he said, "Save her, doctor, save her, and you shall
have all I’m worth." Impatiently he awaited the decision. It came, but
alas, it brought no hope.
Mr. William Middleton, who had recently come from New Orleans, broke the
news to his unhappy brother. Terrible was the anguish of Uncle Joshua,
when he became convinced that he must lose her. Nothing could induce him
to leave her room; and as if endowed with superhuman strength, he watched
by her constantly, only leaving her once each day to visit the quiet
grave, the bed of his other daughter, where now the long green grass was
waving, and the summer flowers were blooming, flowers which Fanny’s hand
had planted and the father’s tears had watered.
One night they were alone, the old man and his child.
For several hours Fanny had turned uneasily upon her pillow, but she at
last fell into a deep sleep. For a time her father sat quietly listening
to the sound of her breathing, then arising, he softly drew aside the
curtains and looked long and anxiously at her as she slept.
Suddenly lifting his hands he exclaimed, "Oh, God, save her, or help me to
bear it if she dies." It was the first prayer which for long, long years
had passed his lips, but it had a power to bring back the olden feeling,
when a happy boy, he had knelt at his mother’s side, and was not ashamed
to pray. Falling on his knees, he tried to recall the words of prayer his
mother had taught him, but one petition alone came from his heart in that
dark, midnight hour. "Oh, don’t let Fanny die, don’t let her die, for who
will comfort old Joshua when she is gone."
"The Saviour; He who once wept at the grave of Lazarus will be more to you
than I ever was, or ever can be," said Fanny.
In her sleep she dreamed that her father prayed. She awoke and found it
true. "Come nearer to me, father," said she. He did so, and then among his
thick gray locks she laid her thin white hand and prayed.
It was a beautiful sight, and methinks the angels hovered round as that
young disciple, apparently so near the portals of heaven, sought to lead
her weeping father to the same glad world. Her words were soothing, and
o’er his darkened mind a ray of light seemed feebly, faintly shining.
Before the morning dawned he had resolved that if there still was hope for
him he would find it. Many a time during the succeeding days he prayed in
secret, not that Fanny might be spared, but that he might be reconciled to
God. His prayer at length was answered, and Uncle Joshua was a changed
man. He showed it in everything, in the expression of his face and in the
words he uttered. For his Sunshine he still wept, but with a chastened
grief, for now he knew that if she died he would see her in heaven.
Where now was Dr. Lacey? Knew he not of the threatened danger? At his
father’s bedside, where for many days his place had been, he had received
from Mr. William Middleton a letter announcing Fanny’s illness, which,
however, was not then considered dangerous. On learning the contents of
the letter, the elder Mr. Lacey said, turning to his son, "Go, George, go;
I would not keep you from her a moment." The doctor needed no second
bidding, and the first steamer which left New Orleans bore him upon its
deck, anxious and impatient.
Fast the days rolled on, and they who watched Fanny alternately hoped and
feared, as she one day seemed better and the next worst. Of those days we
will not speak. We hasten to a night three weeks from the commencement of
her illness, when gathered in her room were anxious friends, who feared
the next day’s sun would see her dead. Florence, Kate and Mrs. Miller were
there, with tearful eyes and saddened faces. Frank Cameron, too, was
there. Business, either real or fancied, had again taken him to Kentucky,
and hearing of Fanny’s illness, he had hastened to her.
She had requested to be raised up, and now, leaning against her Uncle
William, she lay in a deep slumber. In a corner of the room sat Uncle
Joshua, his head bowed down, his face covered by his hands, while the
large tears fell upon the carpeting, as he sadly whispered, "It’ll be
lonesome at night; it’ll be lonesome in the morning; it’ll be lonesome
everywhar."
Florence stood by him, and tried by gently smoothing his tangled hair to
express the sympathy she could not speak. Suddenly there was the sound of
fast-coming wheels, and Kate, thinking it must be Dr. Gordon, whom they
were each moment expecting, ran out to meet him. Nearer and nearer came
the carriage, and as Kate was peering through the darkness to see if it
were the expected physician, Dr. Lacey sprang quickly to her side.
In Frankfort he had heard that Fanny could not live, and now he eagerly
asked, "Tell me, Mrs. Miller, is she yet alive?"
Kate replied by leading him directly toward the sick chamber. As he
entered the room Uncle Joshua burst into a fresh flood of tears, saying as
he took the doctor’s offered hand, "Poor boy! Poor George. You’re losing a
great deal, but not as much as I, for you can find another Fanny, but for
me thar’s no more Sunshine, when they carry her away."
Dr. Gordon now came and after feeling her pulse and listening to the sound
of her breathing, he said, "When she wakes from this sleep, I think the
matter will be decided. She will be better or worse."
And he was right, although the old clock in the hall told the hour of
midnight ere she roused from the deep slumber which had seemed so much
like the long last sleep of death. Her first words were for "water,
water," and as she put up her hand to take the offered glass, Dr. Gordon
whispered to Dr. Lacey: "She is better, but must not see you tonight."
In a twinkling Mr. Middleton’s large hand was laid on Dr. Lacey’s
shoulder, and hurrying him into the adjoining room, he said, "Stay here
till mornin’, and neither breathe nor stir!"
Dr. Lacey complied with the request as far as it was possible, though
never seemed a night so long, and never dawned a morning so bright as did
the succeeding one, when through the house the joyous tidings ran that the
crisis was past, and Fanny would live.
In the course of the morning, Fanny asked Kate, who alone was attending
her, if Dr. Lacey were not there?
"What makes you think so?" asked Kate.
"Because," answered Fanny, "I either heard him or dreamed that I did."
"And if he is here, could you bear to see him now?"
"Oh, yes, yes," was the eager answer, and the next moment Dr. Lacey was by
her side.
Intuitively Kate left the room, consequently we have no means of knowing
what occurred during that interview, when Dr. Lacey, as it were, received
back from the arms of death his Fanny, whose recovery from that time was
sure though slow. Mr. Middleton, in the exuberance of his joy at having
his Sunshine restored, seemed hardly sane, but frequently kept muttering
to himself, "Yes, yes, I remember—I’ll do it, only give me a little time";
at the same time his elbow moved impatiently, as if nudging off some
unseen visitor. What it was that he remembered and would do, was not known
for several days and then he informed his wife that when at first he
feared that Fanny should not live, he had racked his brain to know why
this fresh evil was brought upon him, and had concluded that it was partly
to punish him for his ill-treatment of Julia when living, and partly
because that now she was dead he had neglected to purchase for her any
gravestones. "And I promised," said he, "that if she was spar’d, I’d buy
as nice a gravestun as I would if ’twas Sunshine." Three weeks from that
time there stood by the mound in the little graveyard a plain, handsome
monument, on which was simply inscribed, "Julia, aged twenty."
One after another those who had been with Fanny during her illness
departed to their homes. Frank Cameron lingered several weeks in
Frankfort. Florence, too, was there with some relatives. Now, reader, if
you value our friendship, you will not accuse him of being fickle. He had
loved Fanny long and faithfully, but he knew the time was coming when he
would see her the wife of another. What wonder was it, then, if he
suffered his eye occasionally to rest admiringly upon Florence Woodburn’s
happy face, or that he frequently found himself trying to trace some
resemblance between the dark hazel of Florence’s eyes and the deep blue of
Fanny’s?
With woman’s quick perception, Florence divined Frank’s thoughts, and
although she professed herself to be "terribly afraid of his Presbyterian
smile and deaconish ways," she took good care not to discourage him. But
she teased him unmercifully, and played him many sorry tricks. He bore it
all good-humoredly, and when he started for New York he had with him a
tiny casing, from which peeped the merry face of Florence, looking as if
just meditating some fresh mischief.
And what of Florence? Why, safely stowed away at the bottom of her bureau
drawer, under a promiscuous pile of gloves, ribbons, laces and
handkerchiefs, was a big daguerreotype; but as Florence guarded that
drawer most carefully, always keeping the key in her pocket, we are unable
to say anything certain upon the subject. Up to this day we don’t know
exactly whose face it was that led Florence to the drawer so many times a
day, but we are safe in saying that it looked frank enough to be Frank
himself!
Here for a time we leave her, and return to Mr. Middleton’s where Fanny
was improving each day. Dr. Lacey watched her recovery anxiously, fearing
continually lest some new calamity should happen to take his treasure from
him. Owing to the protracted illness of his father, it became necessary
that he should go back to New Orleans; but as soon as possible he would
return, and then—Fanny could have told you what then, and so, too, could
we, but we prefer keeping you in suspense.