IN MEMPHIS.
"To be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain,
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, oh! to love through all things--therefore pray."
--HEMANS.
One of Grace's first acts after reaching Memphis was to inquire for
her relatives, whom she had not seen, and but seldom heard from, since
leaving Memphis, in her sixteenth year, to make her own way in the hard
world. Not that she owed them much affection, or any gratitude--only
the natural respect and remembrance of kinship induced her to seek
them out. But her efforts were not crowned with success, for she
learned that they had been among the first of the native families to
flee the city at the approach of the pestilence, and Grace was greatly
disappointed thereat.
For a few weeks her voluntarily assumed duties were arduous and
embarrassing in the extreme. Mrs. Clendenon and Willard, having had
the fever themselves, and having been witnesses of its ravages in their
own city, entered at once with confidence and experience on the task of
caring for the poor victims who filled the hospitals, and even private
houses. To Grace it was all new, and strange, and terrible, and though
her will was strong, her sensitive spirit quailed at the horrors she
daily saw, so unused was she to these scenes, and so diffident of her
own powers for service, that she half doubted her abilities, and was,
for a time, overwhelmed by the feeling which we have all experienced at
times of willingness to perform duties from which we are deterred by
ignorance, or lacking self-confidence.
But this feeling was not long suffered to deter her from usefulness.
Laborers were too sadly needed in the terrible harvest of death, and
as her increasing familiarity with the details of the awful disease
rendered her more efficient, she became an invaluable nurse to the
patients, and a reliable and prized aid to the physician of the ward
where she was placed.
The Clendenons were in the same hospital, and in the performance of
their several duties the trio often met, when a sweet sentence of
praise from the lady, and a cheerful word of encouragement from him,
went far to keep up her flagging spirits, and stimulate her to renewed
exertions.
Her strong, healthy constitution upheld her well in those days; for the
fiery scourge rolled on and on like some great prairie fire, hourly
seizing fresh victims, and erecting its everlasting monuments in the
long rows of new-made graves in the cemeteries that swelled upward,
side by side, close and many, like the green billows of old ocean, save
that they gave back no solemn, tolling dirge, to tell where youth and
love, hope and beauty, old age and infancy, joy and sorrow, went down
to the stillness of the grave.
In the universal suffering, the universal grief of those around her,
the anguish of those bereaved of whole families, of friends the young
lady put away her own griefs from her heart, and threw herself, heart,
and soul, and body, into her work; and, though her two friends were
doing precisely the same thing, they pleaded, expostulated, scolded and
warned in turn.
All in vain; for a rock would have flown from "its firm base" as soon
as Grace Winans from the position she has taken. She had, as she
pathetically protested, so little to live for, that she was all the
more willing and desirous to sacrifice herself for the sake of saving
others who had more ties in life than herself.
"That is a poor policy," Mrs. Clendenon argued, stoutly. "You have no
right to commit a moral suicide, however few your ties in life may be.
Your life is God's, and He has some plan in life for you, or He would
not have placed you on the earth."
"And this may have been His plan for me, then," persisted the candidate
for self-sacrificial honors. "He may have meant for me to take up this
very cross. I have been brought to it by many subtle windings."
"I do not know," Mrs. Clendenon answers, with sweet seriousness, "that
God gives it to us to fathom exactly what are His plans for us. I think
He means for us to take proper care of the health and strength He has
given us, and to do His will in all things as near as we can, leaving
to Him the fulfillment of the grand plan under which, by His fixed
laws, every created being is a necessary and responsible agent."
And Grace answers only by silence and sadness. For Captain Clendenon,
he has long ceased to argue the question with her willful spirit,
having very implicit confidence in the grand old adage that
"When a woman will, she will--you may depend on't!
And when she won't, she won't--and there's an end on't!"
"Oddly enough," he says, trying to change the conversation from its
theological turn, "I met with an old comrade to-day--one of the boys
from my company--a Virginian, and one of the bravest in the regiment.
He had drifted down here since the war."
"What was he doing to-day? Nursing in the hospital?" Mrs. Clendenon
asks, curiously.
"_Dying_ in the hospital," the captain answers, with a break in his
clear voice. "Down with the fever--died this evening."
"Poor boy!" his mother said, pityingly, and a tear in the younger
woman's eye echoed it.
"The worst of it is," the captain goes on, "he leaves a poor, timid
little wife, and two rosebuds of children--the mother as childish and
fragile as the rest."
"And what is to become of her?" query both ladies at once.
"I want to send her home to her relatives. She was a Richmond girl.
I remember meeting her there once when my company passed through on
its way to Manassas. Arthur, poor fellow! invited me to call on her.
She was then a charming little creature, very different from the
heart-broken little thing she is now. Mother, I would like it very
much if you would call on her to-morrow, and try to comfort her a
little--she seems so friendless and desolate. You, too, Mrs. Winans, if
you can conveniently do so."
Both ladies expressed a desire to visit the bereaved young widow and
her little ones.
"Then I will take you down there to-morrow," he said, gratefully, with
a smile in his honest gray eyes. "Ah! how it pains me to meet, as one
must frequently do here, old friends and old faces, only to close the
lids over eyes that have been so dear! Poor Arthur! poor boy! but it is
one of the sad inevitable experiences of life."
"Grace, my love," Mrs. Clendenon went on to say, "I have Doctor
Constant's authority to forbid your appearance at the hospital
to-night. He says you are so unremitting in attentions to his patients
that there is danger of your falling sick, and our losing your valuable
services altogether, if you persist in taking no rest at all."
In the quiet hotel at which all three are registered they are seated at
supper in the small private dining-room. The round, neatly appointed
table at which they sit is loaded with luxuries to which they are
doing but meager justice. It is late in October, and a small fire
burns on the hearth, tempering the slightly chilly air, and lending
cheerfulness to the room. Bright gas-light glimmers down on crimson
carpets, curtains, chairs, that throw into vivid relief the faces of
our three friends--pale all of them, and thin, earnest, and full of
thoughtful gravity. It is no child's play, this nursing the yellow
fever patients in houses and hospitals. These faces bear the impress
of sleepless nights and days, and the silver threads on the elder
lady's brow are more abundant, while in Captain Clendenon's curly brown
locks one or two snow-flakes from the winter of care, not time, are
distinctly visible. There are slight hollows in the smooth cheeks of
Grace, faint blue circles around her large eyes, and no color at all in
her face except the vivid line of her red lips. She looks like a little
Quakeress in the pale gray dress that clings closely about the slight
figure, relieved only by white frills at throat and wrists. All her
bright hair is drawn back in soft waves from her face, and confined at
the back with a silver arrow that lets it fall in a soft, bright mass
of natural curls below the waist--lovely still, though pallid, sad, and
worn; and in this quiet nun-like garb, with a beauty that grows daily
less earthly, and more heavenly.
The pensive shade of a smile dwells on her lip a moment as she looks
across on Mrs. Clendenon in mute rebellion at the physician's mandate.
"You need not look defiance," the lady returns, "for I shall add my
commands to those of Doctor Constant. This is Thursday, and you have
not slept a single night this week, while I have had two nights' rest.
My dear child, listen to reason, and remain at the hotel to-night and
get some sleep."
"I am not so very tired. I can hold out to watch to-night."
"Oh, of course! and die at your post. What can you be thinking of,
Grace? Flesh and blood cannot stand such a strain. You must take
needful rest, or you will fall a victim to the fever through sheer
exhaustion."
"I cannot rest," she answered, wearily. "It is a physical impossibility
for me to take rest and sleep when I know how many are suffering and
needing attention that I could render them."
"There are others who will supply your place," interposed the captain.
"I learned this evening that you were at two death-beds to-day. This,
I think, is too much strain on your nervous system, and did I dare I
should add my commands to the rest that you remain in your room and
take needful repose to-night. As it is, I can only offer my earnest
entreaties."
The resolute look on her face relaxes a little. She looks up to this
quiet, clear-headed captain much as Lulu does; has great respect for
his judgment; wishes sometimes that he were her brother, too--that her
tired young heart might rest against his brave and grand strength. He
sees the half-relenting in her face, and desists for fear of saying too
much.
"Two death-beds!" Mrs. Clendenon echoes. "Why, Allie Winters was only
taken ill last night, and you have been nursing her ever since. Gracie,
you don't mean to tell me that Allie Winters is dead--so soon!"
"She died this evening with her arms about my neck," Grace answers, in
low, pained tones. "She had the fever in its worst and most rapid form."
"Ah, me, that poor child! So young, so sweet, so beautiful, and
scarcely sixteen, I think. Was it not hard to be taken away from this
bright world so young?" sighed Mrs. Clendenon.
"Well, opinions may differ as to that," Mrs. Winans answers, half
bitterly. "The most fervent prayer I breathed over her still form was
one of thankfulness that she was taken perhaps from 'evil to come.' She
was the last of the family. They have all died with the fever. She was
poor, and almost friendless--beautiful--and beauty is often the cause
of poverty. Had she lived her life must inevitably have been a sad one.
Better, perhaps, that she is at rest."
She pushes back her chair, folds her napkin, and makes a motion to
rise. Mrs. Clendenon remonstrates.
"Gracie, you have not taken a mouthful, child."
"No, but I have taken my cocoa. Andrew," sinking listlessly back into
her chair, and speaking to the white-aproned waiter, "you may give me
another cup."
"There seems to be no abatement of the fever?" she says,
interrogatively, to the captain, as she balances her spoon on the edge
of her cup.
"On the contrary," his grave face growing graver, "the number of
victims is daily augmented."
Her grieved sigh is echoed by Mrs. Clendenon's as they rise from the
table. The next moment a sharp rap sounds at the door. Andrew opens it,
admitting Doctor Constant himself--fine-looking, noble, with the snows
of sixty earnest winters on his head and on the beautiful beard flowing
over his breast--genial, cheerful, gentle, as a physician should always
be--he makes a bow to our three friends, but declines to be seated at
all.
"I have but a moment. I came out of my rounds to make sure that Mrs.
Winans does not go out to-night," and as an eager remonstrance formed
itself on her lip, he said, resolutely: "It is no use; you must not
think of going. It is imperative that you should sleep. You are not
more than half alive now."
"But, doctor, there are so many who need me," she says, with a last
endeavor to go.
"Others can take your place. We had new and fresh nurses to come
in to-day. Pardon me if I appear persistent, madam, but I was your
mother's family physician, and thoroughly understood her condition.
Your own resembles it in a high degree, and I warn you that you have
stood as much as you can without rest. You are your own mistress, of
course, and can do as you please; but if you go to-night you are very
apt to fall from exhaustion."
"Very well," she answers, wearily, as if not caring to contest the
point longer. "Since I do not wish to commit suicide, I will stay at
home and rest to-night."
"That is right. Your nervous system is disordered, and needs
recuperation. You will feel better to-morrow, and may come back to the
hospital. As for Mrs. Clendenon and the captain, they may come back
to-night."
She does not really know how tired she is until she goes up to her room
and throws herself on the lounge, face downward, like a weary child,
to rest. But, exhausted as she is, it is hours before she sleeps.
Nervous temperaments like hers are not heavy sleepers. After long
seasons of wakefulness she finds it almost impossible to regain the
habit of natural repose. Now she lies quite still, every tense nerve
quivering with weariness, but with eyelids that seem forced open by
some intangible power, and busy, active brain that repeats all the
exciting scenes of the past week. When twelve o'clock sounds sharply on
the still of the night she rises, chilled and unrefreshed, and crouches
over the dying fire that has smoldered into ashes on the hearth long
since. She looks down at it vacantly, with a passing thought that it
is like her life, from which the sunshine and brightness have faded
long since, leaving only the chill whiteness of despair. Often in still
moments like these her young heart rises in half angry bitterness, and
beats against the bars of life, longing to be free. "Only half alive,"
Dr. Constant had said to her, and patient and long-suffering as she
was, I fear it had sent a half-thrill of joy to her bosom. Life held
so little for her, was so full of repressed agony and pathos, pressed
down its heavy crosses so reluctantly on her fair young shoulders,
and sometimes even the love of God failed to fill up that empty heart
that hungered, as every human soul must, while bounded in human frame,
for human, mortal, tangible love. Resignation to her fate she tried
sedulously to cultivate, and succeeded generally. Only in hours like
this, when oppressed with a sense of her great loneliness, the past
rushed over her, with all its sweet and bitter memories, and was put
away from her thoughts with uncontrollable rebellion against--_what_
she scarcely dared speak, since a higher power than mortal ruled the
affairs of her destiny.
"God help me!" she murmured, as, pushing up a window-sash, she leaned
out and looked at the quiet city of Memphis lying under the starry
midnight sky, silent save for the occasional rumble of wheels in the
distance telling the watcher that the work of death still went grimly
on--the dead being hustled out of the way to make room for the sick and
dying.
The chilly night air, the cold white glimmer of the moon and stars,
cooled the feverish blood that throbbed in her temples, a soft awe
crept into her heart--the deep, all-pervading presence of God's
infinity; and as she shut down the window and went back to the lounge,
her pained, half-bitter retrospections were overflowed by something of
that "peace which passeth all understanding."
Sleep fell on her very softly--a deep, refreshing slumber--from which
only the morning sunshine aroused her. She rose with renewed energy for
her labor of love, and kept at her post for weeks afterward, with only
occasional seasons of rest and sleep. Her superb organism kept her up
through it all, aided and abetted by her unfaltering will. Through it
all there came no tidings of her husband or child. Letters came often
from the absentees in Europe, but without mention of either, and Grace
began to feel herself a widow indeed.
The Clendenons, too, were indefatigable in their exertions for the
victims of the fever. They were always devoted and earnest in their
efforts, and kept a watchful care, too, over Grace, whose zeal and
willingness often outran her strength and power of endurance.
Mrs. Clendenon's gentle, placid old face began to look many months
older, but it was in Willard that the greatest change was perceptible.
His cheerful spirit never flagged, but gradually the two women who
loved him each in her own way, began to see that the tall, fine form
grew thinner and slighter, the face paler, and a trifle more serious,
while silver threads began to sprinkle themselves thickly in his dark
hair. He was wearing out his strong young manhood in hard, unremitting
toil, and leaving his constitution enfeebled and open to the attacks of
disease. The idolizing heart of his mother noted all this with secret
alarm, and she would fain have persuaded him to retire from his arduous
duties and return to Norfolk. His gentle but firm refusal checked all
allusion to the matter, and, as the weeks wore away, and the fever
began to lose its hold and abate its virulence, she hoped that they
would soon be released from their wearing tasks, and allowed time for
recuperation.
The contents of a letter received more than two months previous from
Lulu weighed also on Mrs. Clendenon's mind, and she could not, as she
often did in other matters, seek the sympathy of Grace, as Lulu had
desired she should not know anything of it. So Mrs. Clendenon bore her
burden of anxiety all alone, save for Him who carries the half of all
our burdens.