ELFIE’S VISION.
Say from whence
You owe this strange intelligence
Speak, I charge ye!—SHAKSPEARE.
“Elfie! why, Elfie, wake up.”
It was the voice of Britomarte, speaking in a low but eager tone as she
gently shook the girl to rouse her.
Elfie yawned, stretched her arms, and gazed around in perplexity.
“Elfie! what, Elfie! asleep on your post! In the army we—I mean
they—shoot sentinels for such dereliction from duty,” said Miss Conyers.
“Ow—ow—ow!” gaped Elfie, “is he gone?”
“Gone! Who gone?”
“General Eastworth, or his fetch!”
“General Eastworth! You are dreaming, Elfie. Wake up! I wonder that you
should have allowed yourself to go to sleep.”
“I have not been asleep for one minute—not for one minute during my
whole six hours’ watch, though I have been near dropping off several
times; but I managed to keep wide awake,” said Elfie, with the usual
self-delusion of such drowsy delinquents.
“Why, Elfie, I found you sleeping so soundly that I could scarcely wake
you.”
“Ow—ow—ow!” yawned the culprit. “I tell you I have not been asleep one
instant. I have been chlo—ro—formed by General Eastworth. That’s what’s
the matter.”
“‘Chloroformed by General Eastworth!’ Why, Elfie, you are not even yet
awake. You are still dreaming and talking in your sleep. Rouse yourself,
girl!”
“Rouse myself, indeed. I never was so broad awake in the whole course of
my life as I have been within the last hour. My eyes have been stretched
so wide open with astonishment that I don’t believe I shall ever be able
to close them again. General Eastworth, or his fetch, has been here, and
Erminie has spoken with him. There—what do you think of that?”
“I think you are talking at random. I think you are still under the
influence of your dream. You must have been very far gone in the ‘land
of Nod’ to be so long in getting back again. It is well that your
patient has lain so quietly all this while as not to need your
attentions,” said Miss Conyers, in a rebuking manner. “I wonder how long
you slept. Can you remember what hour the clock struck last?” she
inquired.
“I should think I could,” replied Elfie, crossly, for she was irritated
at the incredulity of her friend—“I should just think I could! I was
broad awake, repeating a passage of Shakspeare to myself, suitable to
the time and circumstances, when I heard the clock strike ‘one,’ and at
the same time I saw standing by me—a man.”
“Nonsense, Elfie!”
“No, it was a man. First I thought it was Justin come in to ask after
his sister. And I looked up to speak to him, and then I
recognized——General Eastworth. The sight of him here, and at this hour,
took away my breath, and before I could recover it he chloroformed
me—not at first to insensibility, but to powerlessness. I could neither
move nor speak, but I saw and heard all that went on. The Rebel General
Eastworth has been here in this room within the last hour. And Erminie
has spoken with him.”
“Elfie, this is moonstruck madness.”
“No, it isn’t; it is truth and soberness. He bent over her, wept over
her, knelt by her bed and apostrophized her as one does the dead. And
she rose up and laid her hands upon his head, and blessed him and
forgave him. And then the whole scene passed from my senses to the
ringing of silvery bells and the flashing of Drummond lights. I suppose
the chloroform he had pinned under my nose produced its full effect, and
threw me into unconsciousness. But I have a very clear recollection of
what happened before. And I am willing to make an affidavit that General
Eastworth has been here, and that Erminie has spoken to him.”
“Good Heavens, Elfie, how can you be so utterly irrational? General
Eastworth is in the besieged city of Charleston, helping to defend it,
if he is not in his grave, as is reported. So it is clearly impossible
he could be here. And, Erminie, see for yourself. She is prostrate, as
she has been for many hours, without sense or motion.”
“So I hear you say. But I must believe the evidence of my own eyes and
ears for all that,” pouted Elfie.
“I think I can explain this, my dear. You say you heard the clock strike
‘one,’ and immediately saw the man at your side, and the strange play
began. Now I will tell you what probably happened. As the clock struck
‘one,’ you fell asleep. In the meantime, our doctor, returning from some
late professional visit, and knowing that old Bob was sleeping at the
hall door, called to see our patient. He was admitted, and came up into
the room, and you, half awakened by his entrance, and oppressed with
indigestion and nightmare—you would eat new cheese for supper, Elfie,
though I warned you not to do it—you imagined the harmless medical
attendant to be the Rebel General, and you dreamed the rest.”
“Well, if I did——! But what is the use of talking to you matter-of-fact
folks? You believe nothing that isn’t evident to your own senses. I
wonder you believe in the Christian Revelation!” angrily exclaimed
Elfie.
“Go to bed, my dear, and when you have had a good wholesome sleep, you
will rise in a better and more reasonable mood. And to-morrow we can
easily find out from old Bob if the doctor or any one else called during
the night. Come, Elfie, take my advice and retire,” recommended Miss
Conyers.
“‘Retire’ indeed! Do you think, after the supernatural horrors of this
night, I can retire and compose myself to sleep? No indeed!”
“Then if you remain here you must compose yourself to silence, my love.
I think I see a change coming over our patient and our talk may disturb
her.”
“Pray Heaven she may not be rising into another paroxysm of fever and
delirium. She could not outlive another attack,” said Elfie, quick to
take alarm.
“Be quiet, please,” whispered Miss Conyers.
And Elfie sat down on a low stool at the foot of the bed and said not
another word.
Miss Conyers took her place in the large easy chair beside the head of
the bed, from which position she could easily watch the countenance of
Erminie.
The clock struck three and the morning was coming on apace.
All was cool and quiet in the room; and another hour passed slowly by;
and in the sweet light of the early dawn the night taper on the hearth
burned dimly.
Miss Conyers arose and put it out. And then she went to the windows and
opened them all to let in the light and air of the lovely summer
morning.
Then she went to the bedside to examine the condition of her charge. And
she saw a change that caused her heart to leap for joy! a change for the
better, slight, but so decided that she knew the crisis had passed
favorably—that physicians and friends had all really been mistaken—that
youth and constitution had conquered, and that she, whom they had all
called the “dying girl,” was about to recover.
True, Erminie lay as still as she had lain for twenty-four hours; but
not as cold or death-like. Her face was calm; her flesh was soft, warm
and moist; and her breathing was low, gentle and regular.
“Thank God, thank God!” breathed Britomarte, sinking on her knees to
offer up this ovation of gratitude.
“What is it?” murmured Elfie.
“SHE WILL LIVE!” joyfully exclaimed Britomarte, rising from her knees.
“Oh, thank Heaven! Oh, what a happiness for Justin and for us all!”
exclaimed Elfie, in full sympathy.
“But now, my dear,” said Miss Conyers, “I must retire a little from the
bedside. Her coma has passed into healthful sleep, from which she will
presently awake. And when she does awake, she must not, just at first,
see me, whom she is not prepared to see by her bedside. The surprise
might hurt her.”
“Certainly, I will take your place here,” answered Elfie.
And they were about to effect the change, when a sweet, low voice stole
on their ears:
“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, is that you, love? When did you arrive?”
And calmly, sweetly, naturally, Erminie turned her gentle eyes and held
out her thin hand to welcome her friend.
“My own best loved, my darling, my angel, I am so happy to see you
better,” murmured Miss Conyers, with tremulous tones and tearful eyes.
“And I—I am so very glad to see you, too. Have the servants attended to
your wants and made you comfortable? Is your room arranged to your
liking?” affectionately inquired Erminie, whose first thoughts on
recovering her consciousness were for the welfare of others. Her voice
was faint, but clear and calm and well sustained as she spoke.
“They have made me very comfortable, dear girl. Don’t disquiet
yourself,” replied Miss Conyers, tenderly stroking Erminie’s hair.
“I know the best regulated households will get out of order when the
mistress is ill. And I have been very ill; but, thank Heaven, I am
better now.”
“Yes, thank Heaven, you are better now, sweet friend.”
“And you are sure you have not been neglected?”
“Quite sure, dear. You know that Elfie has been ‘acting’ mistress during
your illness.”
“Yes, but I know that dear Elfie has been with me all the time in this
room. Whenever I have had a glimpse of consciousness I have seen her by
my bed. Dear Elfie!” continued Erminie, turning to her nurse—“dear, dear
Elfie, how shall I ever be grateful enough to you?”
“There shall be no such word as ‘grateful’ between you and me, Erminie.
Or, if there must be, it is I who must be grateful—first to the Lord for
giving me so dear a friend and continuing her to me; and next to you for
your love since childhood, and your protection since the war.”
“Don’t say that, Elfie,” said Erminie.
“Oh, my darling, I am so rejoiced that you are better!” exclaimed Elfie.
“So am I,” said Erminie, frankly. “I have something to live for now. And
I had rather live, if it please the Lord. _My father is living._”
As Erminie spoke these last four inexplicable words, Elfie started
violently, and even Britomarte changed countenance. They were both
alarmed. They both thought that Erminie had been talking too much and
had become dangerously excited, and that another paroxysm of fever and
delirium was imminent.
But this was not so. With Erminie convalescence had set in strongly and
decidedly, supported by her young and vigorous constitution. And when
the two girls looked again at Erminie they were reassured by her perfect
ease and quietness.
“Did you hear me say, girls, that my dear father is living?” she calmly
inquired.
“Yes,” said Miss Conyers, speaking with an apparent composure that was
very far from her real condition—“yes; but why do you think so?—I mean,
how do you know it?”
“I will tell you, dear, some other time. Now I do not feel equal to the
theme. And besides—Elfie, dear,” she said, turning to her nurse, “I am
so hungry.”
It was a “word and a blow,” for before Erminie had finished speaking
Elfie had whisked from the room.
And in ten minutes she returned with a little tray covered with a white
napkin, and a cup of weak green tea, and a round of delicate brown
toast.
Erminie drank the tea with a great enjoyment, and even ate a morsel of
the toast.
“I could drink another, only I do not think it would be prudent, and so
I will refrain,” she said, as she gently pushed away the tray.
“No, it would not be prudent, dear. When the doctor comes, we will ask
what you may take, and how much of it. And I only hope he may say you
may eat and drink as much as ever you like of whatever you fancy,” said
Elfie, as she removed the little service.
“Elfie, darling, did I dream I saw, or did I really see my dear brother
Justin by my bed?” inquired Erminie, with an effort at recollection.
“You really saw him, love. He is in the house,” replied Elfie, very much
relieved to find the way opened so easily for introducing Justin,
without too greatly surprising Erminie in her weak condition.
“I thought so. I had glimpses of consciousness when I saw you by my bed,
and that did not perplex me, because I knew, of course, that you were
always here. But sometimes, in those same glimpses, I seemed to see
Justin, and before I could confirm the impression, I was snatched away
again from all knowledge of surrounding things. When did he come?”
“Yesterday, a few hours before Britomarte’s arrival,” said Elfie.
“It is very early in the morning now?” inquired Erminie.
“The sun is just rising.”
“And Justin is not up yet. When he rises, let him know that I want to
see him. And now I must rest, please,” said Erminie.
Britomarte and Elfie between them raised her up. Britomarte supported
her, while Elfie turned and beat up the pillows, and straightened the
sheet. And then they laid her comfortably down, and made all tidy around
her while she fell asleep.
Then Catherine was called to watch the sleeper, while Britomarte and
Elfie went to make their morning toilets, and to take the early
breakfast of which they stood so much in need.
Meanwhile the news of Erminie’s convalescence spread through the house,
filling every heart with surprise and joy, for every member of the
household dearly loved the amiable young mistress.
Old Bob, taking up “Mr. Justin’s” hot water, gladdened the brother’s
heart with the intelligence of his sister’s rescue from the grave.
And Colonel Rosenthal hastened through his morning exercises, and
hurried down into the library, where he found Britomarte and Elfie at
breakfast.
“Is it true?” he eagerly inquired, as he joined them, and before even
tendering the conventional “Good morning.”
“Thank Heaven, yes. All danger is past,” replied Britomarte.
“Has the doctor said so?”
“The doctor has not been here this morning. But it needs no doctor to
tell that Erminie is raised from death,” said Elfie.
“Can I see her now?” inquired Justin.
“She knows you are here. She has asked to see you as soon as you should
be up and dressed. But she is sleeping now, and so you must wait until
she wakes. Meanwhile, you had better draw up your chair and take
breakfast with us.”
Justin followed this advice and seated himself at the table.
Domestic affairs were administered in a very easy, not to say loose
manner, since the illness of Erminie.
The members of the family and the guests came down to breakfast when
they were ready, and ate it when it was prepared, without waiting for
others.
Thus it happened that our family party were half through with the
morning meal before Major Fielding and Captain Ethel made their
appearance.
Hot coffee and hot chops were ordered for the new comers, who, after the
morning greetings, took their places at the table, and the meal
progressed.
Major Fielding and Captain Ethel were then made happy with the news of
Erminie’s convalescence.
“And the doctor is sure that all danger is past?” inquired Major
Fielding.
“We are sure that all danger is past, but the doctor has not seen her
this morning,” said Miss Conyers.
“I humbly beg your pardon, Miss,” said old Bob, who was waiting on the
table. “I humbly beg your pardon, Miss, but the doctor _have_ seen her
this morning. He have been here airly, very airly indeed, Miss—in fact,
before day.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Conyers, whose memory immediately reverted to
Elfie’s dream, or vision, and her own—Britomarte’s—version of it.
“Yes, indeed, Miss. He rousened me up outen my sleep to let him in.”
Miss Conyers here looked archly at Elfie, whose face exhibited a
curiously blended expression of mirth, relief and mortification; for she
was struck with the ludicrous aspect the affair now assumed, and she was
glad to have a supernatural mystery cleared up; but she was also ashamed
of the part she had played in the farce.
“Do you know at what precise hour the doctor came?” inquired Miss
Conyers.
“Yes, Miss. It must abeen ’bout ’tween one and two o’clock. Way I know
it is this: Just arter he came down stairs, and I let him out ag’in, I
heerd the hall clock strike two.”
“How long do you suppose he was up stairs?” inquired Miss Conyers.
“Well, nigh upon an hour I should say, Miss. You see I kept awake to let
him out.”
Britomarte looked at Elfie and burst into an irrepressible fit of
laughter.
Elfie pouted, sulked, and finally caught the infection and laughed
heartily for company.
“There seems to be some joke here that we of the masculine persuasion
are shut out from enjoying. Pray, may I, without indiscretion, inquire
into its nature?” asked Major Fielding.
And Justin and Ethel, by their looks at least, seconded the motion.
“It is Elfie’s secret,” laughed Miss Conyers.
“Well, you may tell it, Britomarte,” laughed also Elfie.
“It seems, then,” said Miss Conyers, “that this young lady had the
watch; that, wearied out with many days of lost rest, she fell asleep at
her post; and, having indulged in new cheese for supper, she had the
nightmare; and so, when the doctor paid his nocturnal visit, she took
him for the Rebel General Eastworth, and because she couldn’t wake,
imagined that he had chloroformed her to prevent her giving the alarm.”
And here Major Fielding burst into a laugh, in which he was joined by
Justin, Ethel, Britomarte and even Elfie.
But then their hearts were lightened of so great a load that it was easy
to rouse them to laughter.
After breakfast, Major Fielding and Captain Ethel, knowing that they, in
any case, would not be permitted to see Miss Rosenthal that day, and
feeling relieved of all anxiety on her account, went out to take a walk,
and transact some business that had been neglected during Erminie’s
illness.
As soon as Erminie was awake, and had been refreshed by ablutions and a
change of dress, Justin was summoned to her room.
He found her lying on her bed, with her head raised by many pillows,
looking wan, fair and transparent, and yet so much better than she had
seemed the day before.
Repressing his strong feelings he advanced to her bedside, stooped over
her and kissed her gently, saying softly:
“My dear Erminie! my dear, dear sister! how thankful to Heaven I am to
find you so much improved.”
She put her arms around his neck, and drew him closer to her heart, and
returned his fond kiss; but all in silence.
Very quiet was the interview between this devoted brother and sister.
“I am so happy having you here, sitting by me and holding my hand,”
whispered Erminie, with her fingers clasped in his.
“And I am so happy to be here, and to see you so much better,” murmured
Justin.
“When you left us you wore a captain’s straps; now you wear the
colonel’s eagle,” said Erminie, proudly.
“Yes, dear sister; and my greatest pride in wearing them is that they
give you pleasure.”
“You will have a general’s star before long.”
“I will try to earn them for your sake, sweet sister.”
“Have you seen much of Britomarte?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Do you know where she lives, what she does?”
“She has told me nothing, dear, of her residence or occupation. She
keeps her secret,” answered Justin, rather evasively.
But Erminie was not extreme to mark the flaws in his reply. She started
another subject.
“Justin,” she said, “I am sure our dear father lives.”
“Heaven grant that he may, my dear,” said Justin, humoring what he
supposed to be the fancy of a weak invalid, but recollecting with a pang
the body removed from its humble grave on the battle-field of Bull Run,
and interred in the family burial lot in the cemetery at Washington.
“I am not strong enough now to tell you how I know this; but I will
explain it in a day or two.”
“You shall take your own time, love,” said Justin.
So quietly they conversed together until the entrance of the doctor.
He had been received by poor, old, stupid Frederica, who had omitted to
tell him the good news about his patient, probably under the impression
that he was fully aware of Erminie’s condition. And he had not made the
usual inquiry of “How is Miss Rosenthal this morning?” because he shrunk
from asking the question until he should reach the sick room. He had not
seen the other members of the family, and so he came into Erminie’s
presence all unenlightened as to the favorable change in her condition.
And the first thing he saw was Erminie, propped up on pillows,
conversing cheerfully with her brother.
“Bless us! here is a change!” he exclaimed, with a smile, as he walked
up to the bedside. “How are we this morning?” he asked, taking the chair
vacated for him by Justin, and feeling the pulse of his patient.
“Getting well as fast as possible, Doctor,” smiled Erminie.
“Yes, yes, we are getting well fast! We can relish a little chicken
broth this morning, can we not?”
“I think we can,” she answered.
“And a half a glass of port wine. And to-morrow it may be a whole
glass.”
Erminie nodded.
“She will require no more medicine, only careful nursing and dieting,”
said the doctor, turning to Justin.
“I am very glad to hear you say so, Doctor Burney. Did you see
indications of this favorable change when you visited her early this
morning?”
“Early this morning? I have not been here before this morning,” said the
doctor, in some surprise.
“Well, then, in the night, perhaps, I should rather say; as it was but a
little past one o’clock when you called,” said Justin, correcting
himself.
“I called!” repeated the doctor.
“Between one and two in the night,” explained Justin.
“My dear sir, you are mistaken! I have not been here since six last
evening,” said the doctor.
“Indeed! Then who——” began Justin; but he immediately caught up his
words. Here was a mystery; but it would never do to worry Erminie’s mind
with it. So he paused.
“Whatever could have made you think I was here in the night?” inquired
the doctor.
“It was a mistake, either of mine or somebody else’s,” evasively replied
Justin.
“But who said I was here?” persisted the doctor.
“One of the servants, I believe, fancied that you had called.”
“Which one?”
“Old Bob.”
“Oh, ah, he dreamed it! I was six miles from here between one and two
o’clock. I was out at a diabolical old place called Witch Elms,
attending the death-bed of an antediluvian old woman, named Miss Pole.”
While Colonel Rosenthal and Doctor Burney conversed together, Erminie
listened attentively, turning towards each as he spoke. Occasionally an
arch smile played over her expressive features, as though she thought
she could, if she pleased, explain the mystery that so puzzled her
physician and her brother. But when she heard the name of the old lady
at Witch Elms, she said:
“I knew Miss Pole slightly. She was the great grand-aunt of my dear
friend, Miss Conyers. I called at Witch Elms once. The reminiscence is
not a pleasant one. Still I hope the old lady was well prepared for the
last great change.”
“I doubt it,” said the doctor. “She died very much as I imagine she had
lived. And she left me two very strange commissions. The first was to
deliver into the hands of Britomarte Conyers a certain packet not to be
opened until after her funeral. The second was to forbid Miss Conyers
from attending that funeral. I shall discharge both, before leaving the
house this morning.”
“Strange commissions, indeed. But then Miss Pole was a very strange
woman.”
“Yes. And now, my dear Miss Rosenthal, I think you have talked long
enough. A new convalescent, like a newborn babe, has but two great
duties to perform—to eat and sleep alternately. Here comes our good
Catherine with your chicken broth. So we will now leave you to discuss
_that_, the most wholesome subject that can occupy your thoughts just
now.
And so saying, the doctor smiled and bowed and walked out of the room,
accompanied by Justin.