THE YELLOW FEVER.
It was very hot in Florida that summer, but it suited Queenie, who, like
some tropical plant, seemed to thrive under the burning sun which
affected even the negroes, accustomed to it as they were. Physically she
had never been better than she was at Magnolia Park, or prettier either,
for the bright color had crept back to her cheeks and her eyes had in
them a look of softness and humility, while the expression of her face
was ineffably sweet and gentle like the faces of some of the Madonnas.
She had suffered terribly, and the fierce storm through which she had
passed had left its marks upon her so that she would never again be
quite the same dashing, impetuous girl she once had been. Margery wrote
to her often,—long letters full of tenderness and affection, and
entreaties for her to return to the home which was not the same without
her.
From Grace and Ethel Rossiter she also heard frequently, and their
letters touched her closely, as they always addressed her as their
cousin, ignoring altogether the terrible thing which had separated her
from them. Once in speaking of Margery Ethel said: “She is very lonely
at Hetherton Place, though we go there often, and Mr. Beresford, we
hear, is there every day.”
This was underscored, and conveyed to Queenie’s mind just the meaning
Ethel meant it to convey. Mr. Beresford was daily growing more and more
interested in Margery, and Queenie rejoiced that it was so. She was so
glad for Margery to be happy in a good man’s love, though her own sun
had set in deepest gloom, and there was a ceaseless moan in her heart
for poor Phil, while the load of humiliation which had come so suddenly
upon her seemed sometimes greater than she could bear.
“If I only had something to do which would make me forget myself a
little I should be happier,” she thought, as morning after morning she
awoke to the same monotonous round of duties, or, rather, occupation of
trying to kill the time.
She had no real duties, for everything pertaining to the household
arrangements was managed by Aunt Judy, who petted her young mistress as
if she had been a queen, while both Pierre and Axie, watched vigilantly
to anticipate every want before it was framed in words.
Mrs. Strong was absent on her plantation near Lake Jackson, and thus
Queenie was left almost entirely alone and free to let her morbid
fancies feed upon themselves. She _did_ need something to do, and at
last the something came, though in a very different form from what she
would have chosen had it been hers to choose.
As the summer advanced it grew hotter and hotter until the nights were
like the days, and there came no breath of air to relieve the dreadful
heat. There were rumors of sunstroke here and there, and talk of the
sickness which must ensue if the state of things continued. And still in
middle Florida it was comparatively healthy, and the air was free from
malaria; but farther to the north, where a city spread itself over miles
of territory, an ominous cloud was gathering. Once before the town had
been scourged as with the plague, and the terror-stricken inhabitants
had fled to the country for refuge from the pestilence, which oftentimes
overtook them on the road and claimed them for its victims. And now it
was coming again—was lurking in the corners of the lanes and alleys,
where poverty and filth held high carnival—was breathed in the poisonous
air which brooded over the doomed city like a pall, until at last it was
_there_, and men spoke the awful word to each other in whispers, while
their voices shook with fear and their hearts sank as they remembered
the past and thought of the possible future. The _yellow fever_ was in
their midst, and though as yet confined to the poorer classes and the
unfrequented parts of the city, the people knew too well that, like fire
applied to cotton, it would spread until there was no house however
grand, or spot however exclusive, which its shadow would not reach, its
horrid presence threaten. The city was doomed, and as the days went by
and the disease and danger grew, and the death roll increased, and men
who walked the streets to-day were dead to-morrow, a panic seized upon
the terror-stricken inhabitants, who fled before the horror as those who
live on a frontier in time of war flee from the rapidly advancing enemy.
Then it was, when the city was almost deserted, that the cry went up for
help for the sick and the dying. And the North heard that cry as well as
the South, and poured out her treasures with a most liberal hand, and
“help for Memphis” was the watchword everywhere. Physicians were wanted,
with nurses for the sick and deserted ones, and this demand it was which
tried to the very quick the courage of those on whom it was made.
It was an easy matter to give of one’s substance to the needy, to drop
the money into the boxes placed everywhere for that purpose, but to take
one’s life in his hands and go into the very jaws of death, where the
air was full of infection and the very flowers seemed to exhale a deadly
poison, was a different thing. But there were hundreds of brave men and
women who, from the New England hills, and the prairies of the West, and
the pine glades of the South, went to the rescue, and by their noble
heroism proved themselves more Christ-like than human. In her far-off
Florida home Queenie heard the cry for help, and to herself she said:
“Here is something for me to do. Here is my chance, and I’ll take it.”
Had she known just what yellow fever was, she might have hesitated ere
she made her decision, or having made it, might have drawn back from it
at the frantic entreaties of Pierre, who, when she communicated her
intention to him, fell upon his knees and with blanched face and
chattering teeth begged her not to go where there was certain death for
them both, for his place was with her: if she went, he must go also.
Axie, too, tried to dissuade her from her purpose, but Queenie would not
listen.
“I am not afraid,” she said. “I shall not take the fever. I never catch
things as some people do. I sat three hours once with a servant who had
the small-pox, and who died two hours after, and I did not take it.
Somebody must go, and I have nobody to care much if I should die. Nobody
but Margery, and she would say I was doing right. So pack my trunk, like
a good, brave girl, for I must be off to-morrow. Something which I
cannot resist is calling me to Memphis. What it is I cannot tell, but I
must go.”
And so the next night the northern train for Savannah took in it Pierre
and Queenie, bound for the fever-smitten city where the people were
dying so fast and help was sorely needed. By some strange coincidence
while Queenie was making up her mind to _go_ to Memphis, Christine La
Rue was already there. She, too, had heard the cry for help, and it
roused her from the state bordering on insanity into which she was
falling.
“I am going,” she said, to Margery, “for I feel that I can do some good.
I am not a bad nurse, and if I can save one life or ease one dying
pillow, maybe it will atone to God for some of my misdeeds. I am not
afraid of the fever, and if I should take it and die, better so than end
my own life, as I am often tempted to do.”
Her mind was made up, and Margery did not oppose her, but promised her
plenty of money in case it should be needed. And so the mother and the
daughter were bound for the same work—the one to have something to do,
the other to atone. It was a fancy of Mrs. La Rue to assume the gray
dress of a lay sister, as she felt freer and safer in this garb, and
could go where she pleased. It was not her wish to be hampered by any
restrictions; and when the physicians saw how efficient and fearless she
was, they let her take her own course and do as she liked.
_Sister Christine_ was the name by which she was known, and many a poor
dying wretch blessed her with his last breath, and commended to her care
some loved one struggling in the next room, perhaps, with the dread
destroyer. Money Christine had in plenty, for Margery kept her supplied,
and it was spent like water where it was of any avail, so that Sister
Christine became a power in the desolated city, and was known in every
street and alley of the town. Queenie had written to Margery of her
intentions, and with a cry of horror on her lips Margery read the letter
and then telegraphed to Christine:
“Queenie is or will be there. Find her at once and send her away.
_Queenie must not die._”
There was a faint smile about Christine’s lips as she read the dispatch,
and then whispered to herself, “No, Queenie must not die,” while her
pulse quickened a little as she thought what happiness it would be to
nurse the fever-tossed girl, should she be stricken down, and bring her
back to life and health.
“I’ll find her, if she is here, and keep a watch over her,” she said;
and two days after they met together high up in a tenement house, where,
in a dark, close room, two negro children lay dead, and the mother was
dying.
Queenie was doing her work bravely and well, seeking out the worst
cases, and by her sweetness and tenderness almost bringing back the life
after it had gone out. Always attended by Pierre, who carried with him
every disinfectant of which he had ever heard, she went fearlessly from
place to place where she was needed most, but found frequently that
_Sister Christine_ had been there before her. Naturally she felt some
curiosity with regard to this mysterious person, whose praises were on
every lip, and also a great desire to see her.
“If she could impart to me some of her skill, I might do more good and
save more lives,” she said to Pierre, and there was a thought of the
woman in her heart as she bent over the dying negress, wiping the black
vomit from her lips and the sweat-drops from her brow. “_She_ might have
saved her, perhaps,” she said, just as the door opened and the gray
sister came in.
Far gone as was the poor colored woman, she still had enough of sight
and sense to recognize the new-comer, and something like a cry of joy
escaped her as she managed to say:
“Sister Christine!”
In an instant Queenie sprang to her feet, and mother and daughter stood
confronting each other for a moment, neither speaking, but each looking
into the other’s eyes with an eager questioning look. In Christine’s
there was love, and tenderness, and anxiety and fear, all blended
together, while in Queenie’s there was great surprise and something like
gladness, too. She was the first to speak.
“Christine,” she said, “Sister Christine they call you, though I never
dreamed it was you, how came you here, and when?”
Christine told her how and when, and then repeated Margery’s message—to
find her and send her away.
“She says Queenie must not die, and I say so, too. Will you go before it
is too late?” she asked, and Queenie answered her:
“No, my place is here, and I am glad you are here, too. It makes me feel
safer and stronger.”
“Oh, Queenie, Queenie, God bless you for saying even so much,” and the
woman who had stood undaunted by many a death-bed trembled like a leaf
as she snatched Queenie’s hand to her lips, and then went swiftly from
the room, where her services were no longer needed, for while she was
speaking the negress was dead.
That night a telegram went to Margery: “She will not go away, and she
_shall not die_.”
So there was nothing for Margery to do but pray earnestly and
unceasingly for the young girl who seemed to bear a charmed life, so
fearlessly did she meet every peril and overcome every difficulty.
Almost as popular as Sister Christine, she was hailed with delight
everywhere, and more than one owed his recovery to her timely aid. At
last, however, she began to flag a little, and was not quite as strong
to endure as she had been. There were about her no symptoms of the
fever; she was only tired and worn, she said to Pierre, as she sat in
her room one evening. The day had been damp and sultry, and the night
had closed in with rain and fog, while the air was heavy as if laden
with noxious vapors. Queenie had thrown off her street dress and put on
a comfortable wrapper, when there came a quick, sharp ring, and Pierre
brought her a note, or rather a bit of paper torn from a pocket tablet,
and on which was written in French:
“Come immediately to No. 40, —— street. You are needed there.
“CHRISTINE.”
The handwriting was very uneven, as if penned in great excitement, and
as Queenie looked at it there swept over her an undefinable apprehension
of something, she could not tell what—a feeling that this call from
Christine on such a night was no ordinary call, and the need no ordinary
one.
“I believe I am growing nervous myself, and that will never do,” she
thought, as she felt a faintness stealing over her and a kind of chill
creeping through her veins communicated, she believed, by the message
she had received.
Never before had Christine sent for her, but, on the contrary, had
always tried to shield and spare her as much as possible from fatigue or
exposure; but this “Come, you are needed,” was imperative, and, with
trembling hands and a strange sinking from what she was to do, she
donned her usual every-day attire, and with Pierre started for No. 40.
It was a private hotel, which had remained free from infection until
within a day or two, when the fever had suddenly broken out in its most
malignant form. Two of the inmates had already died, one the wife of the
proprietor, who with his guests had fled in dismay, leaving behind a
young man who had come to the city the previous day, and who was now
lying senseless in an upper chamber, where Christine had found him,
burning with fever and raving with delirium. It was a very bad case,
aggravated by nervous excitement and fatigue; but she had done for him
what she could, and then had sent for Queenie, whom she met on the
landing outside the sick-room, and to whom she explained why she had
sent for her.
“He is very sick,” she said, “and needs the closest watching, and I know
of no one who would be as faithful as you, for I must be elsewhere
to-night. This weather has increased the danger tenfold, and there is no
telling where it will end.”
Then she gave some minute directions with regard to the treatment of the
patient who, she said, was sleeping, and must be allowed to sleep as
long as possible. She seemed greatly excited as she talked, and there
was a glitter in her eyes, and occasionally an incoherency in her manner
of expressing herself, especially with regard to the sick man, which
made Queenie look curiously at her, wondering if she were altogether in
her right mind. When all had been said which was necessary to say
Christine still stood irresolute, as it were, looking fixedly at
Queenie; then, with a sudden, upward movement of her arms, she wound
them around the young girl’s neck, and kissing her forehead, said:
“God bless you, my child, and keep you, and all those whom you love,
from harm.”
There were bright red spots upon her cheeks, but the lips which touched
Queenie were cold as ice, as was the hand which accidentally brushed
Queenie’s cheek. Ordinarily Queenie would have resented this liberty,
but she did not now. She was too much excited to resent any thing, and
she was so glad afterward that it was so—glad that she had some thought
and care for Christine, to whom she said, as she felt her lips and hand:
“How cold you are, and why do you tremble so? You surely must be ill.
Don’t go out to-night; there must be plenty of vacant rooms here. Stay
and rest yourself. We cannot let you die.”
She had one of Christine’s cold hands in her own, chafing and rubbing it
as she spoke, but when she said, so kindly, “We cannot let you die,” the
woman drew it away suddenly, and bursting into a paroxysm of tears,
exclaimed:
“Better so; better for me to die; but for you, oh! Queenie, you must
live—you and——Oh, my child, summon all your strength and courage; you
will need it. There is hard work ahead for you. Do you think you can
meet it?”
Queenie did not know what the woman meant, but she was greatly moved and
agitated, and shook from head to foot with a nameless terror.
“You, too, are cold are trembling, and that will never do. Drink this,”
Christine said, pouring from a flask which she always carried with her a
quantity of brandy, and offering it to Queenie, who swallowed it in one
draught.
The brandy steadied her nerves, and after standing a moment watching
Christine as she went slowly down the stairs, holding to the banisters,
like one suffering from great physical weakness, she turned toward the
door of the sick-room, and opening it softly, went in.