The days that followed were dark ones to the Garner household, for
Jessie began to fail rapidly.
She grew so weak that the entire household began to grow terribly
alarmed over her condition. Even the doctor had grave apprehension for
his patient.
"The case of Miss Staples puzzles me completely," he said to Doctor
Crandall, when he returned to his office one afternoon. "I have never
known of symptoms like hers;" and he minutely described the strange turn
the case had taken which had baffled him completely.
"As soon as I am able to be about I will go with you and see for myself
just where the trouble is."
Meanwhile, a serious matter was agitating the brain of poor Jessie
Staples.
She realized before any of the rest did that her condition was becoming
alarming, and her wedding-day was drawing nearer and nearer.
But when that day dawned, a secret voice in her heart whispered that she
would be "the bride of death," and not Jack Garner's.
She wondered if Heaven meant it for the best, that she must give up the
life that might have held so much for her. She had longed for death many
a time; but now that it seemed imminent, her very soul grew frightened
because of one thought: she would have to leave Jack behind her. It
seemed to her that though she should be buried fathoms deep, her soul
would cling to earth--and Jack. What if, in time to come, he should
forget her! Ah! that was the bitterest stroke of all; and she realized
that, no matter how deeply a person may love, when the object of that
affection dies, time brings balm to his woe, and mellows it into
forgetfulness or to a shadowy memory.
If she were to die, would he ever love another, and stand with that
other before the altar?
In her day-dreams, in times gone by, Jessie had pictured to herself--as
girls will in those rosy moments--how she would stand at the altar, and
listen with whirling brain and beating heart to those sweet, solemn
words that would bind her forever to the man she loved with more than a
passing love. She pictured how she would walk down the aisle, leaning on
his arm--that great, strong arm that would be her support for
evermore--a great mist of happy tears in her eyes as she clung to him.
She even pictured to herself how he would help her into the coach, and
how they would drive away out into the great wide world together, to be
separated never again.
Instead of all this, now she would be lying in her grave, with blue
forget-me-nots and pale primroses on her breast.
Jack would be going through that scene with another as his bride; and as
the years rolled by he would forget her, or think of her only now and
then at times--not with keen regret, but with faint, vague indifference.
Oh, God! if it had been _he_ who was destined to die, she would have
shut herself up from the world, and would have lived only for his
memory.
Her last prayer would have been, when death's dew gathered on her brow,
to be buried beside him.
But men are more fickle than women. How few of them remain true to a
dead love!
As she tossed to and fro on her pillow, these thoughts tortured her more
than tongue could tell.
Then a strange fancy took possession of her.
The more she thought of it, the more her heart longed to accomplish it,
until she could not restrain the longing that seemed to take entire
possession of her.
And one day, when she seemed even more ill than usual, she could no
longer restrain the impulse to send for Jack.
He came quickly at her bidding, sat down by her couch, caught the
little white hand--ah! terribly thin and white now--in his, and raised
it to his lips.
"Did you wish me to sit with you, Jessie?" he said. "Or would you like
me to read to you?"
"No; I want to talk to you, Jack," she said, with a little quiver in her
voice.
"Have you ever thought how near it is to--to our wedding-day, Jack," she
whispered, faintly.
"Yes," said Jack, with never a thought of what was coming.
"What--what would you do if I were still ill when it dawned?"
"The ceremony could be performed just the same," he answered, promptly.
"There would be no wedding at the church, no invited guests; that would
be all the difference."
"Would you wish to marry me if--if you knew that I would never be well
again, and that perhaps death would be hovering very, very near to claim
me, and to part me from you?"
"I will keep to my part of the compact, Jessie," he said, huskily.
"But what if I should die before it, Jack?" she questioned, faintly.
"I do not know what you mean, Jessie," he said, gravely--"what you are
trying to get at."
"Oh, Jack! I mean this: I--I want to belong to you in life and in death.
I do not want you to have any other love but me, even if I should be
taken from you. I want you to be true to me forever. I could not rest in
my grave, though they burled me fathoms deep, if you ever called
another--wife! If I am to die, Jack, you must promise me one
thing--that you will never wed--another!"
"How can you talk of such a thing, my dear Jessie?" he said,
reproachfully. "You pain me beyond measure."
"You will give me that promise, will you not, Jack?" she pleaded. "The
pangs of death will be easier to bear if my mind is but at rest on that
subject."
"You are going to get well soon, and the ceremony will take place as we
have arranged," he said, soothingly; but she shook her head.
"If I should not, Jack," she whispered, fixing her burning eyes
wistfully on his face, "let me have the assurance from your lips that
you will never, never put another in my place."
"If it will settle any doubts in your mind, I give you the promise that
you ask," he answered, in a low, grave voice; and it was worth that
promise to see the girl's pale face light up with a swift flush of joy.
"Oh, thank you--thank you, Jack!" she sobbed.
At that moment a strange incident was taking place in Dorothy's room.
Almost thoroughly exhausted with night-watching, Dorothy had fallen
asleep in a chair, in which she had sat down for a few moments' rest.
Was it only a vision? she wondered, or did she hear some one call her
name softly: "Dorothy! Dorothy!"
She turned her head quickly, but she could see no one, although some one
was whispering:
"Why do you nurse Jessie so carefully? If it is destined that she should
die, I wonder that you grieve when you know that her death will bring
freedom to Jack Garner and love to you!"
The idea was so startling that for a time it nearly took her breath
away.
"Let her drift quietly on to the end which is near. If you do not work
too zealously to save her, your reward will be the heart of him whom you
_love at last_. Take warning, and heed my words!"
Dorothy sprang from her chair, quivering with excitement.
She had been fast asleep, and the words that still rang in her ears
shocked her yet, even though she knew it was but a dream--though such a
vivid one--and the voice that whispered those words to her seemed so
like Jack's.
Still the idea was in her head. If Jessie Staples died, her lover would
be free again, and she knew what that would mean for herself.
She tried to put the thought from her, but she could not; it haunted her
continually.
She tried to tell herself that even if Jessie were to die, she would
never make herself known to Jack.
But, even after she had said all that, she knew in her own mind that she
would be sure to let Jack know at last, for she would never realize a
moment's happiness until she was once more what she had been to Jack in
the past.
It had been such a slight affair that had parted them, and that had
drifted two hearts asunder.
Alas! how light a cause may move
Dissensions between hearts that love--
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fell off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea
When heaven was all tranquillity."