THE DEATH WATCH.
He came, with that disheartening fear,
Which all who love beneath the sky
Feel when they gaze on what is dear—
The dreadful thought that it must die!
That desolating thought which comes
Into men’s happiest hours and homes,
Whose melancholy boding flings
Death’s shadow o’er the brightest things,
Sicklies the maiden’s bloom, and spreads
The grave beneath young lovers’ heads!—MOORE.
By the agency of the powerful medicines administered, Erminie’s high
excitement was calmed. The beautiful, tossing arms were stilled, and lay
lightly resting on the coverlet. The fiery flush died out of her cheeks,
the terrible light softened in her eyes, and her lovely face, now-white
and motionless as marble, lay reposing in perfect peace upon her pillow.
Elfie watched on one side of her bed, and Catherine on the other.
Major Fielding and Captain Ethel forbore to go out, even for a walk. In
their keen anxiety for the patient, and their earnest desire to render
assistance should their services be required, they remained in the
library, reading or pretending to read, but really listening and
watching for every sound and sight that could suggest anything relative
to the condition of Erminie.
Dr. Burney came three times in the course of that day.
Major Fielding and his daughter asked the physician many questions
concerning the nature of the sufferer’s illness, and the chances of her
recovery, and they received answers from him which were intended to be
encouraging, but which were really depressing.
Miss Rosenthal’s brain and nervous system were very much affected, he
said. The disease was paroxysmal in its tendency. She was now composed,
and if a reaction into fever and delirium could be prevented, she would
do well.
This was all the satisfaction they could get from her medical attendant.
Ah, “if.”
Every means, short of drugging her into the sleep of death with
sedatives and opiates, were taken to prevent a relapse into her fearful
frenzy.
Elfie sat by the bed all night, and administered all the medicines with
her own hands, and kept ice to the head and mustard to the feet and
wrists of her patient.
But all this was in vain, or attended with only a partial success.
Towards midnight Erminie’s cheeks and lips began to flush; she moved
restlessly, and muttered in her sleep.
Elfie renewed the medicine, the ice and the mustard, but with little
effect.
The evil symptoms increased rapidly, and before morning Erminie was
again, with blazing eyes and burning cheeks, raving and tossing in an
agony of fever and frenzy.
In the extremity of terror Elfie dispatched first her father and then
Captain Ethel, who were both watching the night out in the library, to
fetch the physician.
But Dr. Burney happened to be with a lady patient whom he could not
leave abruptly, and so it followed that the sun rose before he made his
appearance by Erminie’s bedside.
A fearful, a terrible vision, met him there. The beautiful and angelic
girl seemed to be turned into a raging and foaming demoniac; and it
required the united efforts of Elfie and Catherine to hold her down on
her bed.
Violent remedies had to be resorted to now to allay the frightful
cerebral excitement—cupping, leeching and bleeding were tried in turn;
and in reducing the sufferer to calmness, they almost reduced her to
death.
And her medical attendant knew, and her anxious friend feared, that as
the second attack of frenzy had been more violent than the first, so the
third attack must be the most violent, and would probably end in death.
Thus the approaching night was anticipated in horrible dread.
Meanwhile Erminie lay in the collapse of exhaustion—pale and faded as a
broken lily—without motion, speech, or color, almost without blood,
breath, or life.
From time to time Elfie, weeping and watching, moistened the poor girl’s
lips with a little melted ice.
Towards evening there seemed to be a change. Erminie moved and sighed.
And then opened her eyes and breathed.
Elfie bent over her.
“Why——” began Erminie, and then she ceased.
Elfie bent lower, and softly inquired:
“What is that you say, dear?”
“Why—am I—” again commenced Erminie, with an effort; but again her voice
failed for weakness.
“Why are you here in bed, do you mean to ask, dear?” suggested Elfie.
Erminie nodded.
“You over-exerted yourself and have had an attack of illness; but you
are better now—much better, thank Heaven,” answered Elfie, cheerfully.
“How—bloodless—they—” panted Erminie, looking with surprise at her pale
fingers, and speaking in the feeble and pointless way common with
persons affected as she was, and breaking down before she finished her
sentence.
“They were always very white, you know, dear, those fair fingers,” said
Elfie, encouragingly.
“No—rosy—rosy-tipped—” murmured Erminie, who, when she had been well in
mind and body, had been without the least vanity.
“So they will be again, dear. Never mind your fingers. Will you try to
swallow a teaspoonful of this arrow-root?” coaxed Elfie.
Erminie, apparently only to please her nurse, nodded assent and opened
her mouth like a bird to receive the atom of nourishment. But the effort
was too much for her weakness, and when she had swallowed it she gulped,
shuddered and shook her head in refusal of anything more.
After a little while she raised her eyes so wistfully to her nurse that
Elfie bent down over her to hear what she might have to say.
“How—long—have——” breathed Erminie, faintly, breaking off.
“How long have you been ill, do you mean, dear? Only since the day
before yesterday,” replied Elfie.
“What makes—so weak?” panted Erminie.
“Only your illness; but you are better now, and you will soon be strong
again.”
“You—think—so?”
“I know so, dearest. But you must not fatigue yourself by talking so
much. Try to sleep.”
And before Elfie had well spoken this advice, Erminie had dropped as
suddenly into sleep as a stone falls into a well.
But this sleep was not quiet like the preceding one.
As evening approached the sleeper became restless: tossing her limbs
about, rolling her head, and rolling her eyes, and muttering in
approaching delirium.
But why should I repeat the horrors of that second night? It was but a
reproduction of those of the first one.
Again desperate remedies were applied to meet violent symptoms. And
again the frenzy was subdued to quietness, but the sufferer meanwhile
brought nearly to dissolution. And her medical attendant might well have
said, with the conqueror of old:
“Another such a victory and I am ruined.”
By noon next day Erminie lay in sleep or stupor, with scarcely a sign of
life in her aspect, with scarcely a hope of life in prospect.
Elfie was forced to leave her for a few hours, that she—Elfie—might
recruit herself with a bath and a nap.
But early in the afternoon the faithful girl was again by the bedside of
her friend.
To her surprise she thought she saw symptoms of a favorable change.
Erminie was breathing softly. She opened her eyes, and seeing Elfie,
tried to put out her hand.
Elfie took that pale hand and kissed it, and then stooped and kissed the
still paler brow.
“Elfie!” breathed the sick girl.
“What is it, dearest?”
“Must I——_die_?”
“Nonsense, no, my dear, you are in no sort of danger.”
Erminie smiled sadly and turned away her eyes. Presently her lips moved
as if she would have spoken, and Elfie stooped to hear.
“I want——”
“What, dear Erminie?”
“—My pastor—please.”
“I will send for him, dear Erminie.”
“Soon——now!” panted the sinking girl.
“Yes, now, dearest, you shall have him,” said Elfie, who beckoned to
Catherine to take her place at the bedside; and then left the room to
have the wish of her friend gratified.
Dr. Sales, the beloved and venerated pastor of the Rosenthal family had,
since her father’s death, stood in a father’s position towards Erminie.
With the deepest distress he had heard of that good girl’s illness. He
had called every day to see her or to ask after her.
He had not yet been permitted to make his presence known to her. But
once or twice, while she lay in stupor, he had stood over her
unconscious form, gazing anxiously down on her death-like face; or he
had knelt beside her bed, praying silently for her recovery.
It was, therefore, without surprise that Elfie, when she went down
stairs, found the pastor waiting in the hall.
“Oh, Dr. Sales, I am so glad to see you! I had just come down to send
for you,” she eagerly exclaimed.
“How is our dear child this morning?” anxiously inquired the pastor.
Elfie burst into tears.
“Worse?” breathlessly demanded the old man.
“Oh, how can I tell you? Heaven only knows! Her last paroxysm of fever
and delirium was less violent; but then such powerful depletives have
been used; and it has left her weak almost unto death. But she is
conscious now, and has asked for you.”
“Can you show me at once into her room?”
“Oh yes, come,” said Elfie, softly leading the way upstairs and into
Erminie’s chamber.
Catherine still sat beside the bed fanning the sinking girl, who had
again suddenly dropped into sleep or stupor;—it was impossible to say
which.
“You will not disturb her?” whispered Elfie, anxiously.
“Certainly not. I will sit here quietly until she awakens or returns to
consciousness,” replied the pastor, in a low tone.
At a sign from Elfie the girl Catherine arose and left the room. And the
pastor seated himself in the vacant chair, and took the palm leaf and
fanned Erminie, while he watched for her awakening.
And the room was very cool, shady, and quiet, and so the sleeper lay
calmly reposing for nearly an hour, and then she softly opened her eyes
and looked with a gentle, bewildered gaze upon the figure of the
preacher seated by her bed.
“Do you know me, my child?” whispered the pastor.
She feebly moved her hand and smiled.
“You sent for me, dear child,” went on Dr. Sales.
She nodded, and then turned her eyes anxiously towards Elfie, who came
and bent down to hear what Erminie should have to say.
“Something to give me—” Erminie panted and stopped.
—“Strength, do you mean, my dear?” inquired Elfie.
Erminie nodded.
Elfie poured out some liquid from a vial into a spoon and put it to her
lips.
Erminie swallowed with difficulty, but seemed to be revived by the dose.
“Now, dear, go—and leave me—with my pastor—please,” she murmured.
And Elfie gave the purport of these words to the pastor, and then left
the room.
Erminie turned her fading eyes upon the anxious face of her old friend.
He stooped over her to hear what she might wish to say.
“Dear friend, must I die?” she whispered.
“I pray not—I earnestly pray not, my child,” answered the pastor, with
ill-suppressed emotion.
“But you believe that I must.”
“No, no—”
“Don’t try to deceive yourself or me, dear friend. You believe that I
must die. All the others seem to know that I must. I see it in every
face.”
“My child, my child, the Lord of Heaven and earth is also the Lord of
life and death. He is able to save to the uttermost the body as well as
the soul. Pray and believe and live,” said the pastor, trying to control
his agitation.
“I would rather submit myself to His will. I do not fear death. But——”
Erminie paused, her strength failed, her senses wandered for a moment,
her eyes filmed over, and her chin dropped.
Was it a swoon? Or was it death?
In great disturbance Dr. Sales poured some Cologne water upon a fresh
handkerchief, and bathed her head and face, and held it to her nose,
that she might inhale the reviving essence.
And in a few moments he had the comfort of seeing her draw a deep breath
and open her eyes. She did not know that she had fainted, for she took
up the sentence just where she had left it off.
“For the sake of others, I ought to know my condition, so as to arrange
my affairs.”
“My child, you are fatiguing yourself too much. Let me entreat you to be
quiet.”
“No; I must speak—while I can. I feel I have no strength to make any but
a verbal will. And Justin is not here. And so—you will listen to me.”
“Speak on, then, dear child, but take your time—do not weary yourself.”
And with many pauses and rests between her words, Erminie spoke.
“You know, dear friend, the large property left me by my uncles?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if I die without a will, Justin, as my heir-at-law, will come
into possession of the whole.”
“Certainly.”
“And I cannot make a will, but I know that I can trust my dear brother
to execute my wishes as conscientiously as if they were expressed in the
most legally drawn up testament that ever was framed.”
“Indeed you may, my dear,” replied the pastor, as he once more bathed
her face and head in the reviving Cologne water.
“Well, please tell Justin, then, my last dying wishes.”
The doctor took out his note-book and pencil to assist his memory, if
future need should be.
“I wish Justin to take one third of the whole of my property for
himself, and to give a second third to Britomarte Conyers, whom I feel
sure that he will eventually marry, and to give the remaining third—”
Dr. Sales wrote all this down in his note-book, and then looked up to
see why Erminie did not continue. And he saw that she had again grown
deadly faint.
“Oh, Father in Heaven! she is hastening her own death by all this
effort,” cried the pastor, in deep distress, as he threw down his
note-book and caught up a bottle of Cologne water and freely bathed her
face, head and hands.
Again she rallied, smiled, and pointed to the note-book, mutely begging
him to take it up and proceed with his work.
“My child, my child, you are too feeble for all this exertion. I must
insist upon your resting for awhile,” said Dr. Sales.
“Rest—long rest—will come very soon. But now—I must go on,” persisted
the sinking girl, pointing to the note-book.
Dr. Sales shook his head. Erminie turned on him an imploring look, and
her eyes filled with tears.
“You cannot resist the prayer of the dying, and the most important part
of my bequest is behind. The remaining third—”
Here, with a sigh, Dr. Sales took up his note-book.
—“The remaining third of my property I wish Justin to devote to the
relief of the aged and indigent mothers left destitute by the death of
their soldier sons.”
The pastor wrote this down and then looked up for further instructions.
“That is all,” said Erminie, simply.
Dr. Sales would willingly have inquired her reasons for making this
bequest to the mothers rather than to the widows and orphans of the war;
but he refrained from taxing her strength with an explanation.
She, however, saw the question in his face, and freely answered it.
“Every one thinks of the widows and orphans of the war. All the concerts
and fairs got up for the sufferers by the war are for the widows and
orphans. And this is right so far as it goes, for the widows and orphans
must be cared for. But no one thinks of the aged and indigent mothers
whose sons have fallen in battle. And this is all wrong; for these old
mothers are perhaps the greatest sufferers of all. The widow may find
another husband, and the orphan another father, but the desolate mother
who has lost her son in battle finds never another to fill his place in
the ‘aching void’ of her heart. Therefore will I try to relieve the
wants, if I cannot comfort the hearts, of the mothers.”
These last words were almost inaudible, and before they were well
uttered, the fair young saint had fainted quite away.
In the utmost distress Dr. Sales rang the bell, which brought Catherine
and Elfie to the room.
All the three used their best efforts to restore the swooning girl.
And after some time these efforts were rewarded with success.
The excitement of her interview with Dr. Sales had been far too great
for the strength of the sinking girl.
She recovered from her swoon of exhaustion, but it was only to pass into
a state of nervous restlessness, that speedily progressed into feverish
delirium and arose to raging frenzy.
Another awful night with the sufferer tried all the endurance of her
attendants.
It was late in the morning before the raving madness subsided and the
patient sank into a fatal coma.
The visit of the physician in the forenoon left not a hope in the world
for her life.
The minister came and prayed by her bedside, but she heard him not.
She lay in a stupor that every one felt must end in death.
“And her brother has not arrived!” exclaimed Elfie, wringing her hands.
“But she has left her last words for him with me,” said Dr. Sales.
The physician went away, feeling certain that at his next visit he
should see the white crape badge upon the door that should warn him a
bright young life had left the earth.
The minister remained in the room, watching with Elfie beside the
death-bed, and praying God for strength for all to bear the approaching,
overwhelming bereavement.
The house was kept very quiet—very unreasonably so, since nothing on
earth could now disturb the calm dreamer on the bed. But nevertheless it
_was_ kept so very quiet. Straw was laid before the line of garden wall
fencing the road, to deaden even at that distance the sound of passing
vehicles. The door-knocker was muffled and the wires of the bells were
cut. Locks and hinges were oiled. And every man and woman in the place
wore list slippers, and moved in silence and murmured in whispers.
Very, very still was the place. So that there was no warning of the
approaching traveller, until the door of the sick room softly opened and
Catherine crept in and whispered to Elfie:
“Mr. Justin has come.”
With the old familiar household servants Colonel Rosenthal was still Mr.
Justin.
Elfie started up, and signing to Catherine to take her place, slipped
out of the room and down stairs and passed into the library, where she
naturally expected to find Justin.
He was pacing silently up and down the floor. On her entrance he turned
quickly and demanded eagerly:
“How is she? How is she?”
“Oh, Justin!” exclaimed Elfie, dropping into a chair and bursting into
tears.
“Dead? dead?” cried Justin, breathlessly, starting towards her and
seizing her hand.
“Not yet! not yet! Oh, Justin!”
“But—dying?”
Elfie nodded her head and burst into heavier sobs.
Justin threw himself into a chair, covered his face with his hands and
groaned in anguish.
And so they remained a few moments—Elfie sobbing heavily, Justin
struggling for composure.
At length Elfie arose and with a still heaving bosom went to her
companion and said:
“You had better see her now—while—while she—while she still lives.”
“Is she conscious?” groaned Justin.
Elfie shook her head.
“Oh, how—_how_ did she take this fatal fever?” inquired Justin, as he
arose to follow his conductor.
“How? Can you doubt? By her unremitted devotion to the soldiers in the
hospitals. Oh, Justin, Justin! If ever yet a young saint won a crown of
martyrdom, your sister will. She visited the fever wards that every one
else except surgeons and nurses avoided. She ministered to scores of the
fever-stricken, and comforted and saved many. But now, you will see the
end.”
As Elfie murmured these last words they reached the door of Erminie’s
chamber, which had been left standing open for the freer ventilation of
the room.
“Come in,” said Elfie, leading the way.
Justin, with a depressed and reverend bearing, followed Elfie up to the
bedside of his sister.
Dr. Sales and Catherine were in attendance, but both silently made way
for the afflicted brother, who now stood gazing upon the wreck of his
beautiful only sister.
There she lay, still, white, cold and almost lifeless as marble.
Justin’s great frame shook with the terrible storm of sorrow that he
could not wholly repress.
For a few moments the venerable pastor held back in respect to the
sacredness of the brother’s grief. Then he went slowly to the side of
Justin, took his hand, and said:
“You know how much I feel with you. My grief and sense of loss is
scarcely less than your own. But we know also where to look for strength
to endure.”
Justin wrung the pastor’s hand in silence, and then sunk down in the
chair that some friendly hand had placed for him.
Leaving the three faithful guardians by the bedside of the sinking girl,
Elfie went down to have all manner of comforts and refreshments prepared
for the newly arrived brother. And then, when she had made everything
ready, she returned to the chamber of Erminie, and whispered to Justin
that his dressing-room was prepared, and that his luncheon would be put
upon the table as soon as he should be ready to eat it.
More for the purpose of getting away to indulge his sorrow in solitude
than for any other reason, Justin arose and left the chamber.