A SERIOUS ACCIDENT.
About this time an event took place which caused a total change in
the lives of all at Pomeroy Court. One day, when out hunting, General
Pomeroy met with an accident of a very serious nature. While leaping
over a hedge the horse slipped and threw his rider, falling heavily
on him at the same time. He was picked up bleeding and senseless, and
in that condition carried home. On seeing her father thus brought
back, Zillah gave way to a perfect frenzy of grief. She threw herself
upon his unconscious form, uttering wild ejaculations, and it was
with extreme difficulty that she could be taken away long enough to
allow the General to be undressed and laid on his bed. She then took
her place by her father's bedside, where she remained without food or
sleep for two or three days, refusing all entreaties to leave him. A
doctor had been sent for with all speed, and on his arrival did what
he could for the senseless sufferer. It was a very serious case, and
it was not till the third day that the General opened his eyes. The
first sight that he saw was the pale and haggard face of his
daughter.
"What is this?" he murmured, confusedly, and in a faint voice. "What
are you doing here, my darling?"
At the sight of this recognition, and the sound of his voice, Zillah
uttered a loud cry of joy, and twined her arms about him in an eager
hunger of affection.
"Oh, papa! papa!" she moaned, "you are getting better! You will not
leave me--you will not--you will not!"
All that day the doctor had been in the house, and at this moment had
been waiting in an adjoining apartment. The cry of Zillah startled
him, and he hurried into the room. He saw her prostrate on the bed,
with her arms around her father, uttering low, half-hysterical words
of fondness, intermingled with laughter and weeping.
"Miss Pomeroy," he said, with some sternness, "are you mad? Did I not
warn you above all things to restrain your feelings?"
Instantly Zillah started up. The reproof of the doctor had so stung
her that for a moment she forgot her father, and regarded her
reprover with a face full of astonishment and anger.
"How dare you speak so to me?" she cried, savagely.
The doctor looked fixedly at her for a few moments, and then
answered, quietly:
"This is no place for discussion. I will explain afterward." He then
went to the General's bedside, and surveyed his patient in thoughtful
silence. Already the feeble beginnings of returning consciousness had
faded away, and the sick man's eyes were closed wearily. The doctor
administered some medicine, and after waiting for nearly an hour in
silence, he saw the General sink off into a peaceful sleep.
"Now," said he, in a low voice, "Miss Pomeroy, I wish to say
something to you. Come with me." He led the way to the room where he
had been waiting, while Zillah, for the first time in her life,
obeyed an order. She followed in silence. "Miss Pomeroy," said the
doctor, very gravely, "your father's case is very serious indeed,
and I want to have a perfect understanding with you. If you have not
thorough confidence in me, you have only to say so, and I will give
you a list of physicians of good standing, into whose hands you may
safely confide the General. But if, on the contrary, you wish me to
continue my charge. I will only do so on the condition that I am to
be the sole master in that room, and that my injunctions are to be
implicitly attended to. Now, choose for yourself."
This grave, stern address, and the idea that he might leave her,
frightened Zillah altogether out of her passion. She looked piteously
at him, and grasped his hand as if in fear that he would instantly
carry out his threat.
"Oh, doctor!" she cried, "pray forgive me; do not leave me when dear
papa is so ill! It shall be all as you say, only you will not send me
away from him, will you? Oh, say that you will not!"
The doctor retained her hand, and answered very kindly: "My dear
child, I should be most sorry to do so. Now that your father has come
back to consciousness, you may be the greatest possible comfort to
him if you will. But, to do this, you really must try to control
yourself. The excitement which you have just caused him has overcome
him, and if I had not been here I do not know what might have
happened. Remember, my child, that love is shown not by words but by
deeds; and it would be but a poor return for all your father's
affection to give way selfishly to your own grief."
"Oh, what have I done?" cried Zillah, in terror.
"I do not suppose that you have done him very serious injury," said
the doctor, reassuringly; "but you ought to take warning by this. You
will promise now, won't you, that there shall be no repetition of
this conduct?"
"Oh, I will! I will!"
"I will trust you, then," said the doctor, looking with pity upon her
sad face. "You are his best nurse, if you only keep your promise. So
now, my dear, go back to your place by his side." And Zillah, with a
faint murmur of thanks, went back again.
On the following day General Pomeroy seemed to have regained his full
consciousness. Zillah exercised a strong control over herself, and
was true to her promise. When the doctor called he seemed pleased at
the favorable change. But there was evidently something on the
General's mind. Finally, he made the doctor understand that he wished
to see him alone. The doctor whispered a few words to Zillah, who
instantly left the room.
"Doctor," said the General, in a feeble voice, as soon as they were
alone, "I must know the whole truth. Will you tell it to me frankly?"
"I never deceive my patients," was the answer.
"Am I dangerously ill?"
"You are."
"How long have I to live?"
"My dear Sir, God alone can answer that question. You have a chance
for life yet. Your sickness may take a favorable turn, and we may be
able to bring you round again."
"But the chances are against me, you think?"
"We must be prepared for the worst," said the doctor, solemnly. "At
the same time, there is a chance."
"Well, suppose that the turn should be unfavorable, how long would it
be, do you think, before the end? I have much to attend to, and it is
of the greatest important that I should know this."
"Probably a month--possibly less," answered the doctor, gravely,
after a moment's thought; "that is, if the worst should take place.
But it is impossible to speak with certainty until, your symptoms are
more fully developed."
"Thank you, doctor, for your frankness; and now, will you kindly send
my daughter to me?"
"Remember," said the doctor, doubtfully, "that it is of the greatest
possible moment that you be kept free from all excitement. Any
agitation of your mind will surely destroy your last chance."
"But I must see her!" answered the General, excitedly. "I have to
attend to something which concerns her. It is her future. I could not
die easily, or rest in my grave, if this were neglected."
Thus far the General had been calm, but the thought of Zillah had
roused him into dangerous agitation. The doctor saw that discussion
would only aggravate this, and that his only chance was to humor his
fancies. So he went out, and found Zillah pacing the passage in a
state of uncontrollable agitation. He reminded her of her promise,
impressed on her the necessity of caution, and sent her to him. She
crept softly to the bedside, and, taking her accustomed seat, covered
his hand with kisses.
"Sit a little lower, my darling," said the General, "where I may see
your face." She obeyed, still holding his hand, which returned with
warmth her caressing pressure.
The agitation which the General had felt at the doctor's information
had now grown visibly stronger. There was a kind of feverish
excitement in his manner which seemed to indicate that his brain was
affected. One idea only filled that half-delirious brain, and this,
without the slightest warning, he abruptly began to communicate to
his daughter.
"You know, Zillah," said he, in a rapid, eager tone which alarmed
her, "the dearest wish of my heart is to see you the wife of Guy
Molyneux, the son of my old friend. I betrothed you to him five years
ago. You remember all about it, of course. He visited us at London.
The time for the accomplishment of my desire has now arrived. I
received a letter from Lord Chetwynde on the day of my accident,
telling me that his son's regiment was shortly to sail for India. I
intended writing to ask him to pay us a visit before he left; but
now," he added, in a dreamy voice, "of course he must come, and--he
must marry you before he goes."
Any thing more horrible, more abhorrent, to Zillah than such
language, at such a time, could not be conceived. She thought he was
raving.
A wild exclamation of fear and remonstrance started to her lips; but
she remembered the doctor's warning, and by a mighty effort repressed
it. It then seemed to her that this raving delirium, if resisted,
might turn to madness and endanger his last chance. In her despair
she found only one answer, and that was something which might soothe
him.
"Yes, dear papa," she said, quietly; "yes, we will ask him to come
and see us."
"No, no," cried the General, with feverish impatience. "That will not
do. You must marry him at once--to-day--to-morrow--do you hear? There
is no time to lose."
"But I must stay with you, dearest papa, you know," said Zillah,
still striving to soothe him. "What would you do without your little
girl? I am sure you can not want me to leave you."
"Ah, my child!" said the General, mournfully, "I am going to leave
_you_. The doctor tells me that I have but a short time to live; and
I feel that what he says is true. If I must leave you, my darling, I
can not leave you without a protector."
At this Zillah's unaccustomed self-control gave way utterly. Overcome
by the horror of that revelation and the anguish of that discovery,
she flung her arms around him and clung to him passionately.
"You shall not go!" she moaned. "You shall not go; or if you do you
must take me with you. I can not live without you. You know that I
can not. Oh, papa! papa!"
The tones of her voice, which were wailed out in a wild, despairing
cry, reached the ears of the doctor, who at once hurried in.
"What is this?" he said, sharply and sternly, to Zillah. "Is this
keeping your promise?"
"Oh, doctor!" said Zillah, imploringly, "I did not mean to--I could
not help it--but tell me--it is not true, is it? Tell me that my
father is not going to leave me!"
"I will tell you this," said he, gravely. "You are destroying every
chance of his recovery by your vehemence."
Zillah looked up at him with an expression of agony on her face such
as, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, he had but seldom
encountered.
"I've killed him, then!" she faltered.
The doctor put his hand kindly on her shoulder. "I trust not, my poor
child," said he; "but it is my duty to warn you of the consequences
of giving way to excessive grief."
"Oh, doctor! you are quite right, and I will try very hard not to
give way again."
During this conversation, which was low and hurried, General Pomeroy
lay without hearing any thing of what they were saying. His lips
moved, and his hands picked at the bed-clothes convulsively. Only one
idea was in his mind--the accomplishment of his wishes. His
daughter's grief seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Indeed, he
did not appear to notice it.
"Speak to her, doctor," said he, feebly, as he heard their voices.
"Tell her I can not die happy unless she is married--I can not leave
her alone in the world."
The doctor looked surprised. "What does he mean?" he said, taking
Zillah aside. "What is this fancy? Is there any thing in it?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Zillah. "It is certainly on his mind,
and he can't be argued or humored out of it. It is an arrangement
made some years ago between him and Lord Chetwynde that when I grew
up I should marry his son, and he has just been telling me that he
wishes it carried out now. Oh! what--what _shall_ I do?" she added,
despairingly. "Can't you do something, doctor?"
"I will speak to him," said the latter; and, approaching the bed, he
bent over the General, and said, in a low voice:
"General Pomeroy, you know that the family physician is often a kind
of father-confessor as well. Now I do not wish to intrude upon your
private affairs; but from what you have said I perceive that there is
something on your mind, and if I can be of any assistance to you I
shall be only too happy. Have you any objection to tell me what it is
that is troubling you?"
While the doctor spoke the General's eyes were fixed upon Zillah with
feverish anxiety. "Tell her," he murmured, "that she must consent at
once--at once," he repeated, in a more excited tone.
"Consent to what?"
"To this marriage that I have planned for her. She knows. It is with
the son of my old friend, Lord Chetwynde. He is a fine lad, and comes
of a good stock. I knew his father before him. I have watched him
closely for the last five years. He will take care of her. He will
make her a good husband. And I--shall be able to die--in peace. But
it must be done--immediately--for he is going--to India."
The General spoke in a very feeble tone, and with frequent pauses.
"And do you wish your daughter to go with him? She is too young to be
exposed to the dangers of Indian life."
This idea seemed to strike the General very forcibly. For some
minutes he did not answer, and it was with difficulty that he could
collect his thoughts. At last he answered, slowly:
"That is true--but she need not accompany him. Let her stay with
me--till all is over--then she can go--to Chetwynde. It will be her
natural home. She will find in my old friend a second father. She can
remain with him--till her husband returns."
A long pause followed. "Besides," he resumed, in a fainter voice,
"there are other things. I can not explain--they are private--they
concern the affairs of others. But if Zillah were to refuse to marry
him--she would lose one-half of her fortune. So you can understand my
anxiety. She has not a relative in the world--to whom I could leave
her."
Here the General stopped, utterly exhausted by the fatigue of
speaking so much. As for the doctor, he sat for a time involved in
deep thought. Zillah stood there pale and agitated, looking now
at her father and now at the doctor, while a new and deeper anguish
came over her heart. After a while he rose and quietly motioned to
Zillah to follow him to the adjoining room.
"My dear child," said he, kindly, when they had arrived there, "your
father is excited, but yet is quite sane. His plan seems to be one
which he has been cherishing for years; and he has so thoroughly set
his heart upon it that it now is evidently his sole idea. I do not
see what else can be done than to comply with his wishes."
"What!" cried Zillah, aghast.
"To refuse," said the doctor, "might be fatal. It would throw him
into a paroxysm."
"Oh, doctor!" moaned Zillah. "What do you mean? You can not be in
earnest. What--to do such a thing when darling papa is--is dying!"
Sobs choked her utterance. She buried her face in her hands and sank
into a chair.
"He is not yet so bad," said the doctor, earnestly, "but he is
certainly in a critical state; and unless it is absolutely
impossible--unless it is too abhorrent to think of--unless any
calamity is better than this--I would advise you to try and think if
you can not bring yourself to--to indulge his wish, wild as it may
seem to you. There, my dear, I am deeply sorry for you; but I am
honest, and say what I think."
For a long time Zillah sat in silence, struggling with her emotions.
The doctor's words impressed her deeply; but the thing which he
advised was horrible to her--abhorrent beyond words. But then there
was her father lying so near to death--whom, perhaps, her
self-sacrifice might save, and whom certainly her selfishness would
destroy. She could not hesitate. It was a bitter decision, but she
made it. She rose to her feet paler than ever, but quite calm.
"Doctor," said she, "I have decided. It is horrible beyond words;
but I will do it, or any thing, for his sake. I would die to save
him; and this is something worse than death."
She was calm and cold; her voice seemed unnatural; her eyes were
tearless.
"It seems very hard," she murmured, after a pause; "I never saw
Captain Molyneux but once, and I was only ten years old."
"How old are you now?" asked the doctor, who knew not what to say to
this poor stricken heart.
"Fifteen."
"Poor child!" said he, compassionately; "the trials of life are
coming upon you early; but," he added, with a desperate effort at
condolence, "do not be so despairing; whatever may be the result, you
are, after all, in the path of duty; and that is the safest and the
best for us all in the end, however hard it may seem to be in the
present."
Just then the General's voice interrupted his little homily, sounding
querulously and impatiently: "Zillah! Zillah!"
She sprang to his bedside: "Here I am, dear papa."
"Will you do as I wish?" he asked, abruptly.
"Yes," said Zillah, with an effort at firmness which cost her dear.
Saying this, she kissed him; and the beam of pleasure which at this
word lighted up the wan face of the sick man touched Zillah to the
heart. She felt that, come what might, she had received her reward.
"My sweetest, dutiful child," said the General, tenderly; "you have
made me happy, my darling. Now get your desk and write for him at
once. You must not lose time, my child."
This unremitting pressure upon her gave Zillah a new struggle, but
the General exhibited such feverish impatience that she dared not
resist. So she went to a Davenport which stood in the corner of the
room, and saying, quietly, "I will write here, papa," she seated
herself, with her back toward him.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"Yes, papa."
The General then began to dictate to her what she was to write. It
was as follows:
"MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,--I think it will cause you some grief to hear
that our long friendship is about to be broken up. My days, I fear,
are numbered."
Zillah stifled the sobs that choked her, and wrote bravely on:
"You know the sorrow which has blighted my life; and I feel that I
could go joyfully to my beloved, my deeply mourned wife, if I could
feel that I was leaving my child--her child and mine--happily
provided for. For this purpose I should like Guy, before he leaves
for India, to fulfill his promise, and, by marrying my daughter, give
me the comfort of knowing that I leave her in the hands of a husband
upon whom I can confidently rely."
But at this point Zillah's self-control gave way. She broke down
utterly, and, bowing her head in her hands on the desk, burst forth
into a passion of sobs.
The poor child could surely not be blamed. Her nature was impassioned
and undisciplined; from her birth every whim had been humored, and
her wildest fancies indulged to the utmost; and now suddenly upon
this petted idol, who had been always guarded so carefully from the
slightest disappointment, there descended the storm-cloud of sorrow,
and that too not gradually, but almost in one moment. Her love for
her father was a passion; and he was to be taken from her, and she
was to be given into the hands of entire strangers. The apparent
calmness, almost indifference, with which her father made these
arrangements, cut her to the quick. She was too young to know how
much of this eagerness was attributable entirely to disease. He
appeared to her as thinking of only his own wishes, and showing no
consideration whatever for her own crushing grief, and no
appreciation of the strength of her affection for him. The
self-sacrificing father had changed into the most selfish of men, who
had not one thought for her feelings.
"Oh, Zillah!" cried her father, reproachfully, in answer to her last
outburst of grief. She rose and went to his bedside, struggling
violently with her emotion.
"I can not write this, dearest papa," she said, in a tremulous voice;
"I have promised to do just as you wish, and I will keep my word; but
indeed, indeed, I can not write this letter. Will it not do as well
if Hilda writes it?"
"To be sure, to be sure," said the General, who took no notice of her
distress. "Hilda will do it, and then my little girl can come and sit
beside her father."
Hilda was accordingly sent for. She glided noiselessly in and took
her place at the Davenport; while Zillah, sitting by her father,
buried her head in the bed-clothes, his feeble hands the while
playing nervously with the long, straggling locks of her hair which
scattered themselves over the bed. The letter was soon finished, for
it contained little more than what has already been given, except the
reiterated injunction that Guy should make all haste to reach Pomeroy
Court. It was then sent off to the post, to the great delight of the
General, whose mind became more wandering, now that the strain which
had been placed upon it was removed.
"Now," said he, in a flighty way, and with an eager impetuosity which
showed that his delirium had increased, "we must think of the
wedding--my darling must have a grand wedding," he murmured to
himself in a low whisper.
A shudder ran through Zillah as she sat by his side, but not a sound
escaped her. She looked up in terror. Had every ray of reason left
her father? Was she to sacrifice herself on so hideous an altar
without even the satisfaction of knowing that she had given him
pleasure? Then she thought that perhaps her father was living again
in the past, and confounding this fearful thing which he was planning
for her with his own joyous wedding. Tears flowed afresh, but
silently, at the thought of the contrast. Often had her ayah
delighted her childish imagination by her glowing descriptions of the
magnificence of that wedding, where the festivities had lasted for a
week, and the arrangements were all made on a scale of Oriental
splendor. She loved to descant upon the beauty of the bride, the
richness of her attire, the magnificence of her jewels, the grandeur
of the guests, the splendor of the whole display--until Zillah had
insensibly learned to think all this the necessary adjuncts of a
wedding, and had built many a day-dream about the pomp which should
surround hers, when the glorious knight whom the fairy tales had led
her to expect should come to claim her hand. But at this time it was
not the sacrifice of all this that was wringing her heart. She gave
it not even a sigh. It was rather the thought that this marriage,
which now seemed inevitable, was to take place here, while her heart
was wrung with anxiety on his account--here in this room--by that
bedside, which her fears told her might be a bed of death. There lay
her father, her only friend--the one for whom she would lay down her
life, and to soothe whose delirium she had consented to this
abhorrent sacrifice of herself. The marriage thus planned was to take
place thus; it was to be a hideous, a ghastly mockery--a frightful
violence to the solemnity of sorrow. She was not to be married--she
was to be sold. The circumstances of that old betrothal had never
been explained to her; but she knew that money was in some way
connected with it, and that she was virtually bought and sold like a
slave, without any will of her own. Such bitter thoughts as these
filled her mind as she sat there by her father's side.
Presently her father spoke again. "Have you any dresses, Zillah?"
"Plenty, papa."
"Oh, but I mean a wedding-dress--a fine new dress; white satin my
darling wore; how beautiful she looked! and a veil you must have, and
plenty of jewels--pearls and diamonds. My pet will be a lovely
bride."
Every one of these words was a stab, and Zillah was dumb; but her
father noticed nothing, of this. It was madness, but, like many cases
of madness, it was very coherent.
"Send for your ayah, dear," he continued; "I must talk to her--about
your wedding-dress."
Zillah rang the bell. As soon as the woman appeared the General
turned to her with his usual feverish manner.
"Nurse," said he, "Miss Pomeroy is to be married at once. You must
see--that she has every thing prepared--suitably--and of the very
best."
The ayah stood speechless with amazement. This feeling was increased
when Zillah said, in a cold monotone:
"Don't look surprised, nurse. It's quite true. I am to be married
within a day or two."
Her master's absurdities the ayah could account for on the ground of
delirium; but was "Little Missy" mad too? Perhaps sorrow had turned
her brain, she thought. At any rate, it would be best to humor them.
"Missy had a white silk down from London last week, Sir."
"Not satin? A wedding-dress should be of satin," said the General.
"It does not matter, so that it is all white," said the nurse, with
decision.
"Doesn't it? Very well," said the General. "But she must have a veil,
nurse, and plenty of jewels. She must look like my darling. You
remember, nurse, how she looked."
"Indeed I do, sahib, and you may leave all to me. I will see that
Missy is as fine and grand as any of them."
The ayah began already to feel excited, and to fall in with this wild
proposal. The very mention of dress had excited her Indian love of
finery.
"That is right," said the General; "attend to it all. Spare no
expense. Don't you go, my child," he continued, as Zillah rose and
walked shudderingly to the window. "I think I can sleep, now that my
mind is at ease. Stay by me, my darling child."
"Oh, papa, do you think I would leave you?" said Zillah, and she came
back to the bed.
The doctor, who had been waiting until the General should become a
little calmer, now administered an anodyne, and he fell asleep, his
hand clasped in Zillah's, while she, fearful of making the slightest
movement, sat motionless and despairing far into the night.