THE CRISIS.
It was the night before the one appointed for the bridal, and in the
solitude of her chamber, a young girl wept in the utter hopelessness of
despair. At the morrow’s early dawn _he_ would be there to claim her as
his bride, and though he was noble and good, there was in her heart no
answering chord of love, and she knew that without such love their union
would be unholy. Earnestly, and with many tears had she striven to
awaken again the deep affection she had felt for him in the time gone
by, but it could not be, and shudderingly she thought of the long weary
years when she should be an unloving wife, bearing a crushed and aching
heart, wherein was enshrined the memory of one, of whom it would soon be
a sin to think.
On the table at her side lay her bridal dress, the gift of Richard
Delafield, who, without a shadow on his brow, or a wavering in the tones
of his voice, had asked her to accept it as a token of the _esteem_ he
should ever feel for her! Alas, poor Rose, as your tears fell like rain
upon the orange wreath which seemed to mock your woe, how little did you
dream of the anguish it cost the donor to say to you the words he did,
or that your sorrow was naught compared to his, for _you_ could weep,
while to him this privilege was denied, and his was the hard task of
enduring in silence the burning pain which no tear-drop came to moisten.
Slowly the hours of night wore away, and as the moon rose higher and
higher in the heavens, her rays fell upon the bowed form of Rosa, who,
with clasped hands and bloodless cheeks, sat just where first we saw
her—praying—weeping—thinking, and praying again, until at last there
came over her troubled spirit, a calm, which ere long, resolved itself
into a fixed determination. “She would tell him all—how she loved
Richard Delafield, and how, though that love were hopeless, she could
not call another her husband.” And he would release her—she knew he
would. “But if he should not?” seemed whispered in her ear. For an
instant her heart stood still, and then she answered aloud, “I will not
do this great wickedness and sin against both God and man.”
It was strange how calm this resolution made her. Rising up from the
crouching posture she had assumed in the first abandonment of her grief,
she walked to the open window, where she stood gazing out upon the
starry sky, until at last, sick and faint with the sweet perfume of the
night air, she turned away, and shuddering, she knew not why, sought her
pillow. It was now the first of June, and in that southern clime the air
was already hot, sultry, and laden with disease. For two weeks a fearful
epidemic, whose nature the oldest physicians did not understand, had
been raging in the towns adjoining, and many who in the morning rose up
full of life and vigor, were in the evening no longer numbered among the
living, so rapid was the work of death. In great alarm the terrified
inhabitants had fled from place to place, but the destroyer was on their
tract and the “brain fever,” as it was termed, claimed them for its
victims.
As yet, there had been no cases in W——, but the people were in daily
dread of its arrival, and a feeling of gloom pervaded the village. Mrs.
Lansing, on the contrary, though usually alarmed, even at the mention of
a contagious disease, expressed no fear, and went on with the
preparations for the party, unconscious of the dark cloud hovering near.
But when on the morning succeeding the night of which we have spoken,
she heard, in passing Rosa’s door the sound of some one talking
incoherently, while at the same time a negro girl came rushing out,
exclaiming, “The Lord help us—young Miss has now got the brain fever,
and gone ravin’ mad,” she fled in wild alarm to the farthest extremity
of the building, and gathering her frightened children together, with
Ada, around her, she called to the terrified servants from the window,
bidding them go for her brother and tell him as he valued his life not
to venture near the infected room, but to hasten with all speed to her.
And there, trembling, weeping, and wringing her hands in fear, the
selfish, cold-hearted woman stayed, while parched with fever and thirst,
the suffering girl lay moaning in her pain; now asking for water to cool
her burning brain, and again clasping her thin, white hands convulsively
upon her brow, as if to still its agonized throbbings.
But one there was who did not forget. In her excitement Mrs. Lansing
failed to notice the absence of little Jessie, who going fearlessly to
the bedside of her beloved teacher, gently bathed the aching head, and
administered the cooling draught, while with childish love she kissed
the ashen lips, and smoothed back the long tresses which floated over
the pillow. In the hall below there was the sound of footsteps, and the
bridegroom’s voice was heard, asking for his bride, but his cheek
blanched to a marble whiteness when told that she was dying in the
chamber above. In a moment he had her in his arms—his precious
Rose—dying—dying—he believed, for he, too, had heard of the strange
disease, and he thought there was no hope. With a bitter cry, he bent
over the unconscious girl, who knew him not, for the light of reason was
obscured and darkness was upon her vision.
“_Can_ nothing be done? Is there no help?” he exclaimed wildly, and
little Jessie, awed by his grief, answered, as she laid her soft, white
hand on Rosa’s forehead, “_God can help her_, and maybe Uncle Dick can.
I mean to go for him,” and gliding noiselessly from the room, she was
soon on her way to Sunny Bank, looking, with her golden curls floating
over her bare white shoulders, as is she were indeed an angel of mercy.
* * * * *
Alone in his library sat Richard Delafield, his arms resting upon the
table, and his face buried in his hands. All the night long he had sat
there thus, musing sadly of the future when _she_ would be gone, and he
should be alone. Why had she crossed his path—that little, humble girl,
and why had he been permitted to love her so madly, or to dream of a
time when he could call her “_his own, his Rose, his wife_.” Again and
again he repeated those words to himself, and then as he thought whose
she would be when another sun should have set, he groaned aloud, and in
despairing tones cried out, “How can I give her up!”
The sun had risen, and, struggling through the richly curtained window,
fell upon his bowed head, but he did not heed it. He was sleeping at
last, and in his dreams another than Dr. Clayton had claimed Rose for
his bride, even Death, and without a tear he laid her in her coffin, and
buried her where the soft sighing cedar and the whispering pine would
overshadow her grave. From that dream he was roused by Jessie, who
shrieked in his ear, “Wake, Uncle Dick, and come. Miss Lee is dying with
the fever, and there is nobody to help her.”
For a time the selfish part of Richard Delafield’s nature gained the
ascendant, and he said aloud, “Thank God! Rather thus than the bride of
another.”
Still this feeling did not prevent him from action, and with a firm step
and composed manner he went with Jessie to Cedar Grove, going
immediately to Rosa’s chamber, where, for a moment, he stood appalled at
the scene before him. She had fearfully changed since last he saw her,
for the disease had advanced with rapid strides, and now utterly
insensible, and white as the wintry snow, she lay with her head thrown
back, and her lips apart, while her hands nervously picked at the
bed-clothes around her! Many a time had Dr. Clayton heard that this was
a sure omen of death, and though he had ever laughed at it as an old
woman’s whim, he shuddered now as he saw it in _her_, and bowing his
head upon the pillow, he wept like a child. For a moment Richard
Delafield stood gazing upon the apparently dying girl and the weeping
man, who seemed wholly incapable of action; then rousing himself, he
went in quest of the black women, commanding them in a voice they dared
not disobey to come at once to the sick-room. He had heard that nothing
but violent and continual perspiration had as yet been of any avail in
such extreme cases, and calmly giving orders to that effect, he himself
assisted while the hemlock and the bottles of hot water were applied,
then, administering a powerful tonic, he bade Jessie go for her mother,
while he took his station at the bedside to watch the result.
Quieted in a measure by the cool demeanor of his companion, Dr. Clayton,
too, arose, and after hurriedly pacing the room, resumed his post, and
there on each side of Rose they stood, those two men, the one with his
fair handsome face stained with tears, praying earnestly that she might
live; while the other, with dark, lowering countenance and wrinkled
brow, stood with folded arms, and firmly compressed lips, struggling to
subdue the evil passion which whispered, “Let her die! There will be a
comfort in weeping over her grave, and knowing that she sleeps there in
all her maiden purity.”
In the meantime Jessie had been missed, and a servant dispatched to find
her. But this the woman failed to do as she was then at Sunny Bank, and
Mrs. Lansing was about venturing to go in quest of her, when she
appeared with her uncle’s message, saying, “she knew Miss Lee was dying,
she looked so dreadfully.”
“Jessie—child,” screamed the affrighted Mrs. Lansing, shrinking from the
little girl as if she had been a loathsome thing, “_Have_ you been
there—in the room?”
Without any attempt at concealment, Jessie told what she had done, and
when her mother exclaimed, “You are a dead child,” she answered
fearlessly, “I am not afraid to die.”
Just then the negro, who had been sent to the village for the family
physician, returned, bringing the news that the fever had broken out
there the night before, and that in one family two were already dead,
while a third was thought to be dying. In the utmost dismay, Mrs.
Lansing now announced her intention of leaving the place at once and
fleeing for safety to her brother’s plantation, which was distant about
twelve miles.
“And leave Miss Lee alone? oh, mother!” said Jessie, beginning to cry,
while Halbert, frightened as he was, remonstrated against the unfeeling
desertion.
But Mrs. Lansing was determined—“she couldn’t help her at all if she
stayed,” she said. “And the colored women would do all that was
necessary; it wasn’t like leaving her alone with Dr. Clayton, for there
were a dozen able-bodied females in the house to wait upon her.”
“And if she dies?” suggested Jessie; but her mother would not hear to
reason, and urged on by Ada, who was no less frightened than herself,
she ordered out the travelling carriage, which soon stood before the
door.
She would fain have had her brother accompany her, but she knew it was
useless to propose it. Still she would see him before she went, and her
waiting-maid was sent to bring him.
“I’ll go. Let me go,” said Jessie, and ere her mother could detain her,
she was half-way there.
Entering the room on tiptoe, she gave her uncle her mother’s message,
and then stealing up to Rose, wound her arms round her neck, and laying
her soft, warm cheek caressingly against the white, thin face of her
teacher, wept her last adieu. They would never, never meet again, for
ere the summer flowers were faded, _one_ would be safely in the bosom of
the Good Shepherd, who would lead her in green pastures, and beside the
still waters of the better land.
“Bury her under the tall magnolia, a little ways from father,” was
Jessie’s last injunction to Dr. Clayton, whose tears burst forth afresh,
for not till then had he thought how he must leave her alone in that far
south land—many miles away from her native hills, and that to him would
be denied the solace of weeping over her early grave.
* * * * *
It was in vain that Mr. Delafield attempted to dissuade his sister from
going. She would not listen, for their lives, she said, were all
endangered by remaining in town, and as several other families were
going to leave, she should follow their example—then bidding him hasten
to them the moment Rose was dead, she entered her carriage and was
driven rapidly away, followed by Halbert and two or three negroes on
horseback. Unfeeling as this proceeding seemed to Richard, he still
experienced a sensation of relief at the absence of the family, and
thinking they would probably be safer at “The Pines” than at Cedar
Grove, he returned to the chamber above, where Rose still lay, in the
same deathlike unconsciousness, perfectly still save when a movement of
the head, or a faint moan, told how she suffered. Everything had been
done for her which could be done, and now there was naught for them to
do but to wait and watch, which they did in perfect silence—Dr. Clayton,
with his head bowed upon the pillow, while Mr. Delafield leaned against
the wall, with compressed lips, and eyes dark as midnight, fastened upon
the white, still face before him.
The clock in the hall struck the hour of eleven, and then, with a feeble
moan, the sick girl withdrew her hand from beneath the covering, and
when the stern man took it within his own he forced back an exclamation
of joy, for it was moist with perspiration! There was hope, and his
first impulse was to tell the good news to his companion, but the demon,
which all the morning he had hugged to his bosom, whispered, “not
now—let him suffer yet a little longer!” Soon, however, casting this
thought aside as unworthy of him, he said, “Look up, Dr. Clayton, she is
better. She may live. _See!_” and lifting the damp hair from her brow,
he pointed to the dewy drops which stood thickly upon it.
“Thank Heaven!” was Dr. Clayton’s exclamation, and bending down, he
said, “Rose, my precious Rose—she will live, and _you_ have saved her,”
he continued advancing towards the dark statue, whose hand he pressed to
his lips. “To you the credit is due, for you _worked_ when despair had
rendered me powerless to do, but now I am strong. I am myself again, and
if I have any skill it shall be exerted in her behalf.”
There was a curl on Richard Delafield’s lip—a blur before his eyes, and
an icy chill at his heart, which prevented him from answering. Bitter
were the thoughts which crowded upon him, and which he strove to put
away. If she lived, would it not be in a measure owing to the efficient
means he had employed—and why should _he_ wish to save her? Would he not
rather see her dead? It was an evil spirit which counselled with him
thus, but ere long the noble nature of Richard Delafield conquered, and
when at last her eyes unclosed, and turned towards Dr. Clayton, whose
name she breathed, asking for her bridal dress, he looked on calmly
while his rival kissed her again and again, telling her she should yet
wear it and be his bride, but when he saw how she shuddered at these
words, feebly answering, “No, no. Have they not told you that I cannot
be your bride, for another has come between us?” a thrill of joy ran
through his frame, but soon passed away as he thought it was merely the
vagary of a disordered mind.
All that day and night they stood over her, applying the remedies said
to be most efficient in cases of the kind, and when the next morning
came she was unquestionably better, though still in great danger from a
tendency of the disease to the lungs, which, however, was less to be
feared than its return to the brain. Very carefully and tenderly they
watched her, and had not Mr. Delafield been blinded by her supposed love
for another, he must have seen how much more readily she took things
from him than from Dr. Clayton, following him with her eyes whenever he
moved away, and seeming much more quiet when he was at her side. By the
close of the third day she was nearly free from the brain fever, but
much fear was felt by Dr. Clayton lest it should assume the typhoid
form, which it did ere long, and then for three weeks she raved in wild
delirium, driving Richard Delafield from her presence, shuddering when
he came near, and begging of Dr. Clayton, whom she called her brother
Charlie, “to send the black man with his ugly face away.”
This state of affairs was almost intolerable to Richard, who, if he had
loved Rose before, felt that she was tenfold dearer to him now, and so,
though he dared not come in her sight when awake, he watched by her when
she slept, standing over her hour after hour, and enduring with almost
superhuman strength the care which Dr. Clayton could hardly be said to
share, so absorbed was he in grief at the thoughts of losing her at
last. Thus the days wore on until her frenzy abated, and she sank into a
state of apathy from which nothing could rouse her, not even the sight
of Richard Delafield, from whom she no longer shrank, but for whom she
seemed to have conceived a kind of pity, asking him sometimes “if he
hated her because she did not love him, and telling him how hard she had
tried to do so, but could not, and that he must go away and leave her
alone!” And all this while it never occurred to him that she fancied
_he_ was Dr. Clayton, though he _did_ marvel at her never mentioning her
affianced husband, in whose arms she would fall asleep, and whose hand
she would kiss, calling him Charlie, and asking if he had come to carry
her home.
Matters were in this state when one day, towards the dusk of evening, he
was surprised by the appearance of Halbert, who said that the _cholera_,
had broken out at the Pines, and he must come immediately, adding
further, that his mother and Ada had both had it, that several of the
blacks were dead, and that the man, who two days before had been sent to
Cedar Grove, had died upon the road. Greatly alarmed for the safety of
his people, Mr. Delafield started at once for the Pines, whither, in
another chapter, we will follow him.