THE DARK HOUR.
Dr. Kennedy had been to Buffalo, and taken the smallpox, so his
attending physician said, and the news spread rapidly, frightening
nervous people as they never were frightened before. Nellie had been
home for a week or two, but at the first alarm she fled, rushing
headlong through the hall and down the stairs, unmindful of the
tremulous voice, which cried imploringly, "Don't leave me, daughter,
to die alone!"
Hannah followed next, holding the camphor bottle to her nose, and
saying to John when he expostulated with her, "I reckon I's not
gwine to spile what little beauty I've got with that fetched
complaint."
"But, mother," persisted John, "may be it's nothin' but vary-o-lord
after all, and that don't mark folks, you know."
"You needn't talk to me about your very-o-lord," returned Hannah. "I
know it's the very-o-devil himself, and I won't have them pock-ed
marks on me for all the niggers in Virginny."
"Then go," said John, "hold tight to the camphire, and run for your
life, or it may cotch you before you git out of the house."
Hannah needed no second bidding to run, and half an hour later she
was domesticated with a colored family who lived not far from the
Hill. Thus left to themselves, Louis and John, together with the
physician, did what they could for the sick man, who at last
proposed sending for Maude, feeling intuitively that she would not
desert him as his own child had done. Silent, desolate, and forsaken
the old house looked as Maude approached it, and she involuntarily
held her breath as she stepped into the hall, whose close air seemed
laden with infection. She experienced no difficulty in finding the
sick-room, where Louis' cry of delight, John's expression of joy,
and the sick man's whispered words, "God bless you, Maude," more
than recompensed her for the risk she had incurred. Gradually her
fear subsided, particularly when she learned that it was in fact the
varioloid. Had it been possible to remove her brother from danger
she would have done so, but it was too late now, and she suffered
him to share her vigils, watching carefully for the first symptoms
of the disease in him.
In this manner nearly two weeks passed away, and the panic-stricken
villagers were beginning to breathe more freely, when it was told
them one day that Maude and Louis were both smitten with the
disease. Then indeed the more humane said to themselves, "Shall they
be left to suffer alone?" and still no one was found who dared to
breathe the air of the sick-room. Dr. Kennedy was by this time so
much better that Louis was taken to his apartment, where he
ministered to him himself, while the heroic Maude was left to the
care of John. Everything he could do for her he did, but his heart
sunk within him when he saw how fast her fever came on, and heard
her, in her sleep, mourn for her mother, to hold her aching head.
"She mustn't die," he said, and over his dark skin the tears rolled
like rain, as raising his eyes to the ceiling he cried imploringly,
"Will the good Father send someone to help?"
The prayer of the weak African was heard, and ere the sun went down
a man of noble mien and noble heart stood at the maiden's bedside,
bathing her swollen face, pushing back her silken curls, counting
her rapid pulses, and once, when she slept, kissing her parched
lips, e'en though he knew that with that kiss he inhaled, perhaps,
his death! James De Vere had never for a day lost sight of Maude.
Immediately after her return he had written to the physician
requesting a daily report, and when, at last he learned that she was
ill, and all alone, he came unhesitatingly, presenting a striking
contrast to the timid J.C., who had heard of her illness, and at
first, dared not open the letter which his cousin wrote, apprising
him of Maude's affliction. But when he reflected that he could be
re-vaccinated, and thus avert the dreaded evil, he broke the seal
and read, commenting as follows: "Jim is a splendid fellow, though I
can't see why he takes so much interest in her. Don't I have
confounded luck, though? That will first, the five thousand dollars
next, and now the smallpox, too. Of course she'll be marked, and
look like a fright. Poor girl! I'd help her if I could," and, as the
better nature of J.C. came over him, he added mournfully: "What if
she should die?"
But Maude did not die; and at the expiration of ten days she was so
far out of danger that James De Vere yielded to the importunity of
his mother, who, in an agony of terror, besought him to return. When
first he came to her bedside Maude had begged of him to leave her
and not risk his life in her behalf; but he silenced her objections
then, and now when he bade her adieu he would not listen to her
protestations of gratitude.
"I would do even more for you if I could," he said. "I am not afraid
of the varioloid, and henceforth I shall think gratefully of it for
having dealt so lightly with you."
So saying, he turned away, feeling happier than he could well
express, that Maude had not only escaped from death, but that there
would be no marks left to tell how near the ravager had been.
Scarcely had the door closed on him when, emboldened by his last
words to ask a question she greatly wished, yet dreaded to ask,
Maude turned to John and said, "Am I much pitted?"
Rolling up his eyes and wholly mistaking her meaning, John replied,
"I aint no great of a physiognomer, but when a thing is as plain as
day I can discern it as well as the next one, and if that ar' chap
haint pitied you, and done a heap more'n that, I'm mistaken."
"But," continued Maude, smiling at his simplicity, "I mean shall I
probably be scarred?"
"Oh, bless you, not a scar," answered John, "for don't you mind how
he kep' the iled silk and wet rags on yer face, and how that night
when you was sickest he held yer hands so you couldn't tache that
little feller between yer eyes. That was the spunkiest varmint of
'em all, and may leave a mark like the one under yer ear, but it
won't spile yer looks an atom."
"And Louis?" said Maude, "is he disfigured?"
"Not a disfigurement," returned John, "but the ole governor, he's a
right smart sprinklin' of 'em, one squar' on the tip of his nose,
and five or six more on his face."
Thus relieved of her immediate fears Maude asked many questions
concerning Louis, who she learned had not been very sick.
"You can see him afore long, I reckon," said John, and in a few days
she was able to join him in the sitting room below.
After a while Hannah returned to her post of duty, her beauty
unimpaired, and herself thoroughly ashamed of having thus
heartlessly deserted her master's family in their affliction. As if
to make amends for this she exerted herself to cleanse the house
from everything which could possibly inspire fear on the villagers,
and by the last of August there was scarce a trace left of the
recent scourge, save the deep scar on the end of the doctor's nose,
one or two marks on Louis' face, and a weakness of Maude's eyes,
which became at last a cause of serious alarm.
It was in vain that Louis implored his father to seek medical aid in
Rochester, where the physicians were supposed to have more
experience in such matters. The doctor refused, saying, "'twas a
maxim of his not to counsel with anyone, and he guessed he knew how
to manage sore eyes."
But Maude's eyes were not sore--they were merely weak, while the
pain in the eyeball was sometimes so intense as to wring from her a
cry, of suffering. Gradually there crept into her heart a horrid
fear that her sight was growing dim, and often in the darkness of
the night she wept most bitterly, praying that she might not be
blind.
"Oh, Louis," she said to her brother one day, "I would so much
rather die than to be blind, and never see you any more--never see
the beautiful world I love so much. Oh, must it be? Is there no
help?"
"James De Vere could help us if he were here," answered Louis, his
own tears mingling with his sister's.
But James De Vere had left Hampton for New Orleans, where he would
probably remain until the winter, and there could be no aid expected
from him. The doctor, too, was wholly absorbed in thoughts of his
approaching nuptials, for Maude Glendower, failing to secure the
wealthy bachelor, and overhearing several times the remark that she
was really getting old, had consented to name the 20th of October
for their marriage. And so the other Maude was left to battle with
the terrible fear which was strengthened every day.
At length J.C., roused not so much by the touching letter which she
wrote him as by the uncertain handwriting, came himself, bringing
with him a physician, who carefully examined the soft black eyes,
which could not now endure the light, then shaking his head he said
gravely, "There is still some hope, but she must go to the city,
where I can see her every day."
J.C. looked at Dr. Kennedy, and Dr. Kennedy, looked at J.C., and
then both their hands sought their pockets, but came out again--empty!
J.C. really had not the ready means with which to meet the
expense, while Dr. Kennedy had not the inclination. But one there
was, the faithful John, who could not stand by unmoved, and darting
from the room, he mounted the woodshed stairs, and from beneath the
rafters drew out an old leathern wallet, where from time to time he
had deposited money for "the wet day." That wet day had come at
last; not to him, but to another--and without a moment's hesitation
he counted out the ten golden eagles which his purse contained, and,
going back to Maude, placed them in her hand, saying: "Go to
Rochester, Miss Maude. I saved 'em for you, for I wouldn't have the
light squenched in them shinin' eyes for all the land in old
Virginny."
It was a noble act, and it shamed the paler faces who witnessed it,
but they offered no remonstrance, though Maude did, refusing to
accept it, until Louis said: "Take it, sister--take it, and when I'm
twenty-one I'll give to him ten times ten golden eagles."
The necessary arrangements were quickly made, and ere a week was
passed Maude found herself in Rochester, and an inmate of Mrs.
Kelsey's family; for, touched with pity, that lady had offered to
receive her, and during her brief stay treated her with every
possible attention. Nellie, too, was very kind, ministering
carefully to the comfort of her stepsister, who had ceased to be a
rival, for well she knew J.C. De Vere would never wed a penniless
bride and blind!