THE VICTORY OVER DEATH.
"Glory to God! to God!" he saith,
"Knowledge by suffering entereth,
And life is perfected in death."
--E. B. Browning.
One morning, in the gladness of his heart, Doctor Day mounted his horse
and rode down to Staunton, gayly refusing to impart the object of his
ride to any one, and bidding Traverse stay with the women until he
should return.
As soon as the doctor was gone, Traverse went into the library to
arrange his patron's books and papers.
Mrs. Rocke and Clara hurried away to attend to some little mystery of
their own invention for the surprise and delight of the doctor and
Traverse. For the more secret accomplishment of their purpose, they had
dismissed all attendance, and were at work alone in Mrs. Rocke's room.
And here Clara's sweet, frank and humble disposition was again manifest,
for when Marah would arise from her seat to get anything, Clara would
forestall her purpose and say:
"Tell me--tell me to get what you want--just as if I were your child,
and you will make me feel so well--do, now!"
"You are very good, dear Miss Clara, but--I would rather not presume to
ask you to wait on me," said Marah, gravely.
"Presume! What a word from you to me! Please don't use it ever again,
nor call me Miss Clara. Call me 'Clara' or 'child'--do, mamma," said the
doctor's daughter, then suddenly pausing, she blushed and was silent.
Marah gently took her hand and drew her into a warm embrace.
It was while the friends were conversing so kindly in Marah's room, and
while Traverse was still engaged in arranging the doctor's books and
papers that one of the men-servants rapped at the library door, and
without waiting permission to come in, entered the room with every mark
of terror in his look and manner.
"What is the matter?" inquired Traverse, anxiously rising.
"Oh, Mr. Traverse, sir, the doctor's horse has just rushed home to the
stables all in foam, without his rider!"
"Good heaven!" exclaimed Traverse, starting up and seizing his hat.
"Follow me immediately! Hurry to the stables and saddle my horse and
bring him up instantly! We must follow on the road the doctor took to
see what has happened! Stay! On your life, breathe not a word of what
has occurred! I would not have Miss Day alarmed for the world!" he
concluded, hastening down-stairs attended by the servant.
In five minutes from the time he left the library Traverse was in the
saddle, galloping toward Staunton, and looking attentively along the
road as he went. Alas! he had not gone far, when, in descending the
wooded hill, he saw lying doubled up helplessly on the right side of the
path, the body of the good doctor!
With an exclamation between a groan and a cry of anguish, Traverse threw
himself from his saddle and kneeled beside the fallen figure, gazing in
an agony of anxiety upon the closed eyes, pale features and contracted
form and crying:
"Oh, heaven have mercy! Doctor Day, oh, Doctor Day! Can you speak to
me?"
The white and quivering eyelids opened and the faltering tongue spoke:
"Traverse--get me home--that I may see--Clara before I die!"
"Oh, must this be so! Must this be so! Oh, that I could die for you, my
friend! My dear, dear friend!" cried Traverse, wringing his hands in
such anguish as he had never known before.
Then feeling the need of self-control and the absolute necessity of
removing the sufferer, Traverse repressed the swelling flood of sorrow
in his bosom and cast about for the means of conveying the doctor to his
house. He dreaded to leave him for an instant, and yet it was necessary
to do so, as the servant whom he had ordered to follow him had not yet
come up.
While he was bathing the doctor's face with water from a little stream
beside the path, John, the groom, came riding along, and seeing his
fallen master, with an exclamation of horror, sprang from his saddle and
ran to the spot.
"John," said Traverse, in a heart-broken tone, "mount again and ride for
your life to the house! Have--a cart--yes--that will be the easiest
conveyance--have a cart got ready instantly with a feather bed placed in
it, and the gentlest horse harnessed to it, and drive it here to the
roadside at the head of this path! Hasten for your life! Say not a word
of what has happened lest it should terrify the ladies! Quick! quick! on
your life!"
Again, as the man was hurrying away, the doctor spoke, faintly
murmuring:
"For heaven's sake, do not let poor Clara be shocked!"
"No--no--she shall not be! I warned him, dear friend! How do you feel?
Can you tell where you are hurt?"
The doctor feebly moved one hand to his chest and whispered:
"There, and in my back."
Traverse, controlling his own great mental agony, did all that he could
to soothe and alleviate the sufferings of the doctor, until the arrival
of the cart, that stopped on the road at the head of the little bridle
path, where the accident happened. Then John jumped from the driver's
seat and came to the spot, where he tenderly assisted the young man in
raising the doctor and conveying him to the cart and laying him upon the
bed. Notwithstanding all their tender care in lifting and carrying him,
it was but too evident that he suffered greatly in being moved. Slowly
as they proceeded, at every jolt of the cart, his corrugated brows and
blanched and quivering lips told how much agony he silently endured.
Thus at last they reached home. He was carefully raised by the bed and
borne into the house and up-stairs to his own chamber, where, being
undressed, he was laid upon his own easy couch. Traverse sent off for
other medical aid, administered a restorative and proceeded to examine
his injuries.
"It is useless, dear boy--useless all! You have medical knowledge enough
to be as sure of that as I am. Cover me up and let me compose myself
before seeing Clara, and while I do so, go you and break this news
gently to the poor child!" said the doctor, who, being under the
influence of the restorative, spoke more steadily than at any time since
the fall Traverse, almost broken-hearted, obeyed his benefactor and went
to seek his betrothed, praying the Lord to teach him how to tell her
this dreadful calamity and to support her under its crushing weight.
As he went slowly, wringing his hands, he suddenly met Clara with her
dress in disorder and her hair flying, just as she had run from her room
while dressing for dinner. Hurrying toward him, she exclaimed:
"Traverse, what has happened? For the good Lord's sake, tell me
quickly--the house is all in confusion. Every one is pale with affright!
No one will answer me! Your mother just now ran past me out of the store
room, with her face as white as death! Oh, what does it all mean?"
"Clara, love, come and sit down; you are almost fainting--(oh, heaven,
support her!)" murmured Traverse, as he led the poor girl to the hall
sofa.
"Tell me! Tell me!" she said.
"Clara--your father----"
"My father! No, no--no--do not say any harm has happened to my
father--do not, Traverse!--do not!"
"Oh, Clara, try to be firm, dear one!"
"My father! Oh, my father!--he is dead!" shrieked Clara, starting up
wildly to run, she knew not whither.
Traverse sprang up and caught her arm and drawing her gently back to her
seat, said:
"No, dear Clara--no, not so bad as that--he is living!"
"Oh, thank heaven for so much! What is it, then, Traverse? He is ill!
Oh, let me go to him!"
"Stay, dear Clara--compose yourself first! You would not go and disturb
him with this frightened and distressed face of yours--let me get you a
glass of water," said Traverse, starting up and bringing the needed
sedative from an adjoining room.
"There, Clara, drink that and offer a silent prayer to heaven to give
you self-control."
"I will--oh, I must for his sake! But tell me, Traverse, is it--is it as
I fear--as he expected--apoplexy?"
"No, dear love--no. He rode out this morning and his horse got
frightened by the van of a circus company that was going into the town,
and----"
"And ran away with him and threw him! Oh, heaven! Oh, my dear father!"
exclaimed Clara, once more clasping her hands wildly, and starting up.
Again Traverse promptly but gently detained her, saying:
"You promised me to be calm, dear Clara, and you must be so, before I
can suffer you to see your father."
Clara sank into her seat and covered her face with her hands, murmuring,
in a broken voice:
"How can I be? Oh, how can I be, when my heart is with grief and fright?
Traverse! Was he--was he--oh, dread to ask you! Oh, was he much hurt?"
"Clara, love, his injuries are internal! Neither he nor I yet know their
full extent. I have sent off for two old and experienced practitioners
from Staunton. I expect them every moment. In the mean time, I have done
all that is possible for his relief."
"Traverse," said Clara, very calmly, controlling herself by an almost
superhuman effort, "Traverse, I will be composed; you shall see that I
will; take me to my dear father's bedside; it is there that I ought to
be!"
"That is my dear, brave, dutiful girl! Come, Clara!" replied the young
man, taking her hand and leading her up to the bed-chamber of the
doctor. They met Mrs. Rocke at the door, who tearfully signed them to go
in as she left it.
When they entered and approached the bedside, Traverse saw that the
suffering but heroic father must have made some superlative effort
before he could have reduced his haggard face and writhing form to its
present state of placid repose, to meet his daughter's eyes and spare
her feelings.
She, on her part, was no less firm. Kneeling beside his couch, she took
his hand and met his eye composedly as she asked:
"Dear father, how do you feel now?"
"Not just so easy, love, as if I had laid me down here for an
afternoon's nap, yet in no more pain than I can very well bear."
"Dear father, what can I do for you?"
"You may bathe my forehead and lips with cologne, my dear," said the
doctor, not so much for the sake of the reviving perfume, as because he
knew it would comfort Clara to feel that she was doing something,
however slight, for him.
Traverse stood upon the opposite side of the bed fanning him.
In a few moments Mrs. Rocke re-entered the room, announcing that the two
old physicians from Staunton, Doctor Dawson and Doctor Williams, had
arrived.
"Show them up, Mrs. Rocke. Clara, love, retire while the physicians
remain with me," said Doctor Day.
Mrs. Rocke left the room to do his bidding. And Clara followed and
sought the privacy of her own apartment to give way to the overwhelming
grief which she could no longer resist.
As soon as she was gone the doctor also yielded to the force of the
suffering that he had been able to endure silently in her presence, and
writhed and groaned with agony--that wrung the heart of Traverse to
behold.
Presently the two physicians entered the room and approached the bed,
with expressions of sincere grief at beholding their old friend in such
a condition and a hope that they might speedily be able to relieve him.
To all of which the doctor, repressing all exhibitions of pain and
holding out his hand in a cheerful manner, replied:
"I am happy to see you in a friendly way, old friends! I am willing also
that you should try what you--what you can do for me--but I warn you
that it will be useless! A few hours or days of inflammation, fever and
agony, then the ease of mortification, then dissolution!"
"Tut--tut," said Doctor Williams, cheerfully. "We never permit a patient
to pronounce a prognosis upon his own case!"
"Friend, my horse ran away, stumbled and fell upon me, and rolled over
me in getting up. The viscera is crushed within me; breathing is
difficult; speech painful; motion agonizing; but you may examine and
satisfy yourselves," said Doctor Day, still speaking cheerfully, though
with great suffering.
His old friends proceeded gently to the examination, which resulted in
their silently and perfectly coinciding in opinion with the patient
himself.
Then, with Doctor Day and Traverse, they entered into a consultation and
agreed upon the best palliatives that could be administered, and begging
that if in any manner, professionally or otherwise, they could serve
their suffering friend, at any hour of the day or night, they might be
summoned, they took leave.
As soon as they had gone, Clara, who had given way to a flood of tears,
and regained her composure, rapped for admittance.
"Presently, dear daughter--presently," said the doctor, who then,
beckoning Traverse to stoop low, said:
"Do not let Clara sit up with me to-night. I foresee a night of great
anguish which I may not be able to repress, and which I would not have
her witness! Promise you will keep her away."
"I promise," faltered the almost broken-hearted youth. "You may admit
her now," said the doctor, composing his convulsed countenance as best
he could, lest the sight of his sufferings should distress his
daughter.
Clara entered, and resumed her post at the side of the bed.
Traverse left the room to prepare the palliatives for his patient.
The afternoon waned. As evening approached the fever, inflammation and
pain arose to such a degree that the doctor could no longer forbear
betraying his excessive suffering, which was, besides, momentarily
increasing, so he said to Clara:
"My child, you must now leave me and retire to bed. I must be watched by
Traverse alone to-night."
And Traverse, seeing her painful hesitation, between her extreme
reluctance to leave him and her wish to obey him, approached and
murmured:
"Dear Clara, it would distress him to have you stay; he will be much
better attended by me alone."
Clara still hesitated; and Traverse, beckoning his mother to come and
speak to her, left her side.
Mrs. Rocke approached her and said: "It must be so, dear girl, for you
know that there are some cases in which sick men should be watched by
men only, and this is one of them. I myself shall sit up to-night in the
next room, within call."
"And may I not sit there beside you?" pleaded Clara.
"No, my dear love; as you can do your father no good, he desires that
you should go to bed and rest. Do not distress him by refusing."
"Oh, and am I to go to bed and sleep while my dear father lies here
suffering? I cannot; oh, I cannot."
"My dear, yes, you must; and if you cannot sleep you can lie awake and
pray for him."
Here the doctor, whose agony was growing unendurable, called out:
"Go, Clara, go at once, my dear."
She went back to the bedside and pressed her lips to his forehead, and
put her arms around him and prayed:
"Oh, my dear father, may the blessed Saviour take you in his pitying
embrace and give you ease to-night. Your poor Clara will pray for you as
she never prayed for herself."
"May the Lord bless you, my sweet child," said the doctor, lifting one
hand painfully and laying it in benediction on her fair and graceful
head.
Then she arose and left the room, saying to Mrs. Rocke as she went:
"Oh, Mrs. Rocke, only last evening we were so happy--'But if we have
received good things at the hand of God, why should we not receive
evil?'"
"Yes, my child; but remember nothing is really evil that comes from His
good hand," said Mrs. Rocke, as she attended Clara to the door.
His daughter had no sooner gone out of hearing than the doctor gave way
to his irrepressible groans.
At a sign from Traverse Mrs. Rocke went and took up her position in the
adjoining room.
Then Traverse subdued the light in the sick chamber, arranged the
pillows of the couch, administered a sedative and took up his post
beside the bed, where he continued to watch and nurse the patient with
unwearied devotion.
At the dawn of day, when Clara rapped at the door, he was in no
condition to be seen by his daughter.
Clara was put off with some plausible excuse.
After breakfast his friends the physicians called and spent several
hours in his room. Clara was told that she must not come in while they
were there. And so, by one means and another, the poor girl was spared
from witnessing those dreadful agonies which, had she seen them, must
have so bitterly increased her distress.
In the afternoon, during a temporary mitigation of pain, Clara was
admitted to see her father. But in the evening, as his sufferings
augmented, she was again, upon the same excuse that had been used the
preceding evening, dismissed to her chamber.
Then passed another night of suffering, during which Traverse never left
him for an instant.
Toward morning the fever and pain abated, and he fell into a sweet
sleep. About sunrise he awoke quite free from suffering. Alas! it was
the ease that he had predicted--the ease preceding dissolution.
"It is gone forever now, Traverse, my boy; thank God my last hours will
be sufficiently free from pain to enable me to set my house in order.
Before calling Clara in I would talk to you alone. You will remain here
until all is over?"
"Oh, yes, sir, yes; I would do anything on earth--anything for you! I
would lay down my life this hour if I could do so to save you from this
bed of death."
"Nay, do not talk so; your young life belongs to others--to Clara and
your mother. 'God doeth all things well.' Better the ripened ear should
fall than the budding germ. I do not feel it hard to die, dear Traverse.
Though the journey has been very pleasant the goal is not unwelcome.
Earth has been very sweet to me, but heaven is sweeter."
"Oh, but we love you so! we love you so! you have so much to live for!"
exclaimed Traverse, with an irrepressible burst of grief.
"Poor boy, life is too hopeful before you to make you a comforter by a
death-bed. Yes, Traverse, I have much to live for but more to die for.
Yet not voluntarily would I have left you, though I know that I leave
you in the hands of the Lord, and with every blessing and promise of His
bountiful providence. Your love will console my child. My confidence in
you makes me easy in committing her to your charge."
"Oh, Doctor Day, may the Lord so deal with my soul eternally as I shall
discharge this trust," said Traverse, earnestly.
"I know that you will be true; I wish you to remain here with Clara and
your mother for a few weeks, until the child's first violence of grief
shall be over. Then you had best pursue the plan we laid out. Leave your
good mother here to take care of Clara, and you go to the West, get into
practice there, and, at the end of a few years, return and marry Clara.
Traverse, there is one promise I would have of you."
"I give it before it is named, dear friend," said Traverse, fervently.
"My child is but seventeen; she is so gentle that her will is subject to
that of all she loves, especially to yours. She will do anything in
conscience that you ask her to do. Traverse, I wish you to promise me
that you will not press her to marriage until she shall be at least
twenty years old. And----"
"Oh, sir, I promise! Oh, believe me, my affection for Clara is so pure
and so constant, as well as so confiding in her faith and so solicitous
for her good, that, with the assurance of her love and the privilege of
visiting her and writing to her, I could wait many years if needful."
"I believe you, my dear boy. And the very promise I have asked of you is
as much for your sake as for hers. No girl can marry before she is
twenty without serious risk of life, and almost certain loss of health
and beauty; that so many do so is one reason why there are such numbers
of sickly and faded young wives. If Clara's constitution should be
broken down by prematurely assuming the cares and burdens of matrimony,
you would be as unfortunate in having a sickly wife as she would be in
losing her health."
"Oh, sir, I promise you that, no matter how much I may wish to do so, I
will not be tempted to make a wife of Clara until she has attained the
age you have prescribed. But at the same time I must assure you that
such is my love for her that, if accident should now make her an invalid
for life, she would be as dear--as dear--yes, much dearer to me, if
possible, on that very account; and if I could not marry her for a wife,
I should marry her only for the dear privilege of waiting on her night
and day. Oh, believe this of me, and leave your dear daughter with an
easy mind to my faithful care," said Traverse, with a boyish blush
suffusing his cheeks and tears filling his eyes.
"I do, Traverse, I do; and now to other things."
"Are you not talking too much, dear friend?"
"No, no; I must talk while I have time. I was about to say that long ago
my will was made. Clara, you know, is the heiress of all I possess. You,
as soon as you become her husband, will receive her fortune with her. I
have made no reservation in her favor against you; for he to whom I can
entrust the higher charge of my daughter's person, happiness and honor I
can also intrust her fortune."
"Dear sir, I am glad for Clara's sake that she has a fortune; as for me,
I hope you will believe me that I would have gladly dispensed with it
and worked for dear Clara all the days of my life."
"I do believe it; but this will was made, Traverse, three years ago,
before any of us anticipated the present relations between you and my
daughter, and while you were both still children. Therefore, I appointed
my wife's half-brother, Clara's only male relative, Colonel Le Noir, as
her guardian. It is true we have never been very intimate, for our paths
in life widely diverged; nor has my Clara seen him within her
recollection; for, since her mother's death, which took place in her
infancy, he has never been at our house, but he is a man of high
reputation and excellent character. I have already requested Doctor
Williams to write for him, so that I expect he will be here in a very
few days. When he comes Traverse, you will tell him that it is my desire
that my daughter shall continue to reside in her present home, retaining
Mrs. Rocke as her matronly companion. I have also requested Doctor
Williams to tell him the same thing, so that in the mouths of two
witnesses my words may be established."
Now, Traverse had never in his life before heard the name of Colonel Le
Noir; and, therefore, was in no position to warn the dying father who
placed so much confidence in the high reputation of his brother-in-law
that his trust was miserably misplaced; that he was leaving his fair
daughter and her large fortune to the tender mercies of an unscrupulous
villain and a consummate hypocrite. So he merely promised to deliver the
message with which he was charged by the dying father for his daughter's
guardian, and added that he had no doubt but Clara's uncle would
consider that message a sacred command and obey it to the letter.
As the sun was now well up, the doctor consented that Mrs. Rocke and his
daughter should be admitted.
Marah brought with her some wine-whey that her patient drank, and from
which he received temporary strength.
Clara was pale but calm; one could see at a glance that the poor girl
was prepared for the worst, and had nerved her gentle heart to bear it
with patience.
"Come hither, my little Clara," said the doctor, as soon as he had been
revived by the whey.
Clara came and kissed his brow and sat beside him with her hands clasped
in his.
"My little girl, what did our Saviour die for? First to redeem us, and
also to teach us by His burial and resurrection that death is but a
falling asleep in this world and an awakening in the next. Clara, after
this, when you think of your father, do not think of him as lying in the
grave, for he will not be there in his vacated body, no more than he
will be in the trunk with his cast-off entries. As the coat is the
body's covering, so the body is the soul's garment, and it is the soul
that is the innermost and real man; it is my soul that is me; and that
will not be in the earth, but in heaven; therefore, do not think of me
gloomily as lying in the grave, but cheerfully as living in heaven--as
living there with God and Christ and His saints, and with your mother,
Clara, the dear wife of my youth, who has been waiting for me these many
years. Think of me as being happy in that blessed society. Do not fancy
that it is your duty to grieve, but, on the contrary, know that it is
your duty to be as cheerful and happy as possible. Do you heed me, my
daughter?"
"Oh, yes, yes, dear father!" said Clara, heroically repressing her
grief.
"Seek for yourself, dear child, a nearer union with Christ and God. Seek
it, Clara, until the spirit of God shall bear witness with your spirit
that you are as a child of God; so shall you, as you come to lie where I
do now, be able to say of your life and death, as I say with truth of
mine: The journey has been pleasant, but the goal is blessed."
The doctor pressed his daughter's hand and dropped suddenly into an easy
sleep.
Mrs. Rocke drew Clara away, and the room was very still.
Sweet, beautiful and lovely as is the death-bed of a Christian, we will
not linger too long beside it.
All day the good man's bodily life ebbed gently away. He spoke at
intervals, as he had strength given him, words of affection, comfort and
counsel to those around him.
Just as the setting sun was pouring his last rays into the chamber
Doctor Day laid his hand upon his child's head and blessed her. Then,
closing his eyes, he murmured softly: "'Lord Jesus, into thy hands I
resign my spirit:'" and with that sweet, deep, intense smile that had
been so lovely in life--now so much lovelier in death--his pure spirit
winged its flight to the realms of eternal bliss.