"Madam, are you aware that you breathe an infected atmosphere?--that
this building is assigned to small-pox cases? Pray do not cross the
threshold."
The superintendent of the hospital laid aside his pipe, and
advanced to meet the stranger whose knock had startled him from a
_post-prandial_ doze.
"I am not afraid of contagion, and came to see the patient who was
brought here yesterday from No. 139 Elm Street."
"Have you a permit to visit here?"
"Yes; you will find it on this paper, given me by the proper
authorities."
"What is the name of the person you desire to see?"
The superintendent opened a book that lay on the table beside him, and
drew his finger up and down the page.
"Maurice Carlyle."
"Ah, yes,--I have it now. Maurice Carlyle, Ward 3,--cot No. 7. Madam,
may I ask,--"
"No, sir; I have no inclination to answer idle questions. Will you
show me the way, or shall I find it?"
"Certainly, I will conduct you; but I was about to remark that a death
has just occurred in Ward No. 3, and I am under the impression that it
was the Elm Street case. Madam, you look faint; shall I bring you a
glass of water?"
"No. Show me the body of the dead."
"This way, if you please."
He walked down a dim, low-vaulted passage, and paused at the entrance
of a room lined with cots, where the nurse was slowly passing from
patient to patient.
"Nurse, show this lady to cot No. 7."
Swiftly the tall figure of the visitor glided down the room, and
placing her hand on the arm of the nurse, she said huskily,--
"Where is the man who has just died? Quick! do not keep me in
suspense."
"There, to the right; shall I uncover the face?"
Under the blue check coverlet that was spread smoothly over the cot,
the stiff outlines of a human form were clearly defined; and, when the
nurse stooped, the stranger put out one arm and held him back, while
her whole frame trembled violently.
"Stop! be good enough to leave me."
The attendant withdrew a few yards, and curiously watched the queenly
woman, who stood motionless, with her fingers tightly interlaced.
She was dressed in a gray suit of some shining fabric, and a long
gossamer veil of the same hue hung over her features. After a few
seconds she swept back the veil, and, as she bent forward, a stray
sunbeam dipped through the closed shutters, and flashed across a white
horror-stricken face, crowned with clustering braids of silver hair.
She shut her eyes an instant, grasped the coverlet, and drew it down;
then caught her breath, and looked at the dead.
It was a young, boyish face, horribly swollen and distorted, and
coarse red locks were matted around his brow and temples.
"Thank God, Maurice Carlyle still lives."
She involuntarily raised her hands towards heaven, and the expression
of dread melted from her countenance.
Slowly and reverently she re-covered the corpse, and approached the
nurse.
"I am searching for my husband. Which cot is No. 7?"
"That on your left,--next to the dead."
Mrs. Carlyle turned, and gazed at the bloated crimson mass of disease
that writhed on the narrow bed, and a long shudder crept over her, as
she endeavored to discover in that loathsome hideous visage some
familiar feature--some trace of the manly beauty that once rendered it
so fascinating.
The swollen blood-shot eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, and, while
delirious muttering fell upon the ears of the visitor, she saw that
his cheeks were somewhat lacerated, and his hands, partially confined,
were tearing at the inflamed flesh.
She shivered with horror, and a groan broke from her pitying heart.
"What an awful retribution! My God, have mercy upon him! He is
sufficiently punished."
Drawing her perfumed lace handkerchief from her pocket, she leaned
over and wiped away the bloody foam that oozed across his lips, and
lifting his hot head turned it sufficiently to expose the right ear,
where a large mole was hidden by the thick hair.
"Maurice Carlyle! But what a fearful wreck?"
She covered her eyes with her hand, and moaned.
The nurse came nearer, and said hesitatingly,--
"Madam, surely he is not your husband? His clothes are almost in
tatters, while yours are--ahem!--"
"Spare me all comments on the comparison. Can I obtain a comfortable,
quiet room, in this building, and have him removed to it at once? You
hesitate? I will compensate you liberally, will pay almost any price
for an apartment where he can at least have silence and seclusion."
"We can accommodate you, but of course if the patient is carried from
this ward to a private room, we shall be compelled to charge extra."
"Charge what you choose, only arrange the matter as promptly as
possible. How soon can you make the change?"
"In twenty minutes, madam."
The nurse rang for an assistant, to whom the necessary instructions
were given, and in the _interim_ Mrs. Carlyle leaned against the cot,
and brushed away the flies that buzzed about the pitiable victims.
Two men carried the sufferer up a flight of steps, and ere long he was
transferred to a large comfortable bed in an airy, well-furnished
apartment.
The removal had not been completed more than an hour, when the surgeon
made his evening round, and followed the patient to his new quarters.
He paused at sight of the elegantly dressed woman who sat beside the
bed, and said, stammeringly,--
"I am informed that No. 7 is your husband, and that you have taken
charge of his case, and intend to nurse him. Have you had small-pox?"
"No, sir."
"Madam, you run a fearful risk."
"I fully appreciate the hazard, and am prepared to incur it. Do you
regard this case as hopeless?"
"Not altogether, though the probabilities are that it will terminate
fatally."
"I have had too little experience to warrant my undertaking the
management of the case, and, while I intend to remain here, I wish you
to engage the services of some trustworthy nurse who understands the
treatment of this disease. Can you recommend such a person?"
"Yes, madam; I can send you a man in whom I have entire confidence,
and fortunately he is not at present employed. If you desire it, I
will see him within the next hour, and give him all requisite
instructions about the patient."
"Promptness in this matter will greatly oblige me, and I wish to spare
no expense in contributing to the comfort and restoration of the
sufferer. As I am utterly unknown to you, I prefer to place in your
hands a sufficient amount to defray all incidental expenditures."
She laid a roll of bills upon the table, and as Dr. Clingman counted
them, she added,--
"It is possible that I may be attacked by this disease, though I have
been repeatedly vaccinated; and if I should die, please recollect that
you will find in my purse a memorandum of the disposition I wish made
of my body,--also the address of my agent and banker in New York
City."
With mingled curiosity and admiration the physician looked at the
pale, handsome woman, who spoke of death as coldly and unconcernedly
as of to-morrow's sun, or next month's moon.
"Madam, allow me to ask if you have no friends in this city,--no
relatives nearer than New York?"
"None, sir. It is my wish that our conversation should be confined to
the symptoms and treatment of your patient."
Dr. Clingman bowed, and, after writing minute instructions upon a
sheet of paper left on the mantelpiece, took his departure.
Securing the door on the inside, Mrs. Carlyle threw aside her bonnet
and wrappings, and came back to the sufferer on the bed.
Eight years of reckless excess and dissipation had obliterated every
vestige of manly beauty from features that disease now rendered
loathsome, and the curling hair and long beard were unkempt and
grizzled.
Leaning against the pillow, the lonely woman bent over to scrutinize
the distorted, burning face, and softly took into her cool palms one
hot and swollen hand, which in other days she had admiringly stroked,
and tenderly pressed against her cheek and lips. How totally unlike
that countenance, which, handsome as Apollyon, had looked down at her
on her bridal day, and fondly whispered--"my wife."
Memory mercilessly broke open sealed chambers in that wretched woman's
heart, and out of one leaped a wail that made her tremble and
moan,--"Oh, Evelyn, my wife, forgive your husband."
Slowly compassion began to bridge the dark gulf of separation and
hate, and as the wife gazed at the writhing form of her husband, her
stony face softened, and tears gathered in the large, mournful eyes.
"Ah, Maurice! This world has proved a huge cheat to you and to
me,--and well-nigh cost us all peace in the next one. My husband, yet
my bitterest foe,--my first, my last, my only love! If I could recall
one throb of the old affection, one atom of the old worshipping
tenderness and devotion,--but it has withered; my heart is scorched
and ashen,--and neither love nor hope haunts its desolate ruins. Poor,
polluted, down-trodden idol! Maurice--Maurice--my husband, I have
come. Evelyn, your wife, forgives you, as she hopes for pardon at the
hands of her God."
Kneeling beside the bed, with her snowy fingers clasped around his,
she bowed her head, and humbly prayed for his soul, and for her own;
and, when the petition ended, that peace which this world can never
give,--which had so long been exiled, fluttered back and brooded once
more in her storm-riven heart.
Softly she lifted and smoothed the long tangled hair that clung to his
forehead, and tears dripped upon his scarlet face, as she said;
brokenly,--
"_Till death us do part!_ Poor Maurice! Deserted and despised by your
former parasites. After long years, my vows bring me back in the hour
of your need. God grant you life, to redeem your past,--to save your
sinful soul from eternal ruin."
Suns rose and set, weary days and solemn nights of vigil succeeded
each other, and tirelessly the wife and hired nurse watched the
progress of the dreadful disease. Occasionally Mr. Carlyle talked
deliriously, and more than once the name of Edith Dexter hung on his
lips, and was coupled with tenderer terms than were ever bestowed on
the woman who wore his own. Bending over his pillow, the pale watcher
heard and noted all, and a sad pitying smile curved her mouth now and
then, as she realized that the one holy love of this man's life
triumphed over the wreck of fortune, health, and hope, and kept its
hold upon the heart that long years before had sold itself to
Lucifer.
Sleeplessly, faithfully, she went to and fro in that darkened room,
whose atmosphere was tainted by infection, and at last she found her
reward. The crisis was safely passed, and she was assured the patient
would recover.
The apartment was so dimly lighted that Mr. Carlyle took little notice
of his attendants, but one afternoon when the nurse had gone to
procure some refreshments, the sick man turned on his pillow, and
looked earnestly at the woman who was engaged in writing at a table
near the bed.
"Mrs. Smith."
Mrs. Carlyle rose and approached him.
"Are you Mrs. Smith,--my landlady?"
"No, sir. I am merely your nurse."
"My nurse? What is the matter with me?"
"Small-pox,--but the danger is now over."
"Small-pox! Where did I catch it? Am I still in Elm Street?"
"No, sir; you are in the hospital."
Shading his inflamed eyes with his hand, he mused for some moments,
and she saw a perplexed and sorrowful expression cross his features.
"Is there any danger of my dying?"
"That danger is past."
"What is your name?"
"Mrs. Gerome."
"Stand a little closer to me. I find I am almost blind. Mrs. Gerome?
Your voice is strangely like one that I have not heard for many
years,--and it carries me back,--back--to--" He sighed, and pressed
his fingers over his eyes.
After a few seconds, he said,--
"Do give me some water. I am as parched as Dives."
She lifted his head and put the glass to his lips,--and while he
drank, his eyes searched her face, and lingered admiringly on her
beautiful hand.
"Are you a regular nurse at this hospital?"
"I am engaged for your case."
"I see no pock-marks on your skin; it is as smooth as ivory. Shall I
escape as lightly?"
"It is impossible to tell. Here comes your dinner."
He caught her arm, and gazed earnestly at her.
"Is your hair really so white, or is it merely an illusion of my
inflamed eyes?"
"There is not a dark hair in my head; it is as white as snow."
While the nurse prepared the food and arranged it on the table, Mrs.
Carlyle hastily collected several articles scattered about the
apartment, and softly opened the door.
Standing there a moment, she looked back at the figure comfortably
elevated on pillows, and a long sigh of relief crossed her lips.
"Thank God! I have done my duty, and now he needs me no longer. Next
time I see your face, Maurice Carlyle, I hope it will be at the last
bar, in the final judgment; and then may the Lord have mercy upon us
both."
The words were breathed inaudibly, and, closing the door gently, she
hurried down the steps and in the direction of a small room which Dr.
Clingman had converted into an office.
As she entered, he looked up and pushed back his spectacles.
"What can I do for you?"
"A little thing, which will cost you no trouble, but will greatly
oblige me. Doctor, I have found you a kind and sympathizing gentleman,
and am grateful for the delicate consideration with which you have
treated me. Mr. Carlyle is beyond danger, and I shall leave him in
your care. When he is sufficiently strong to be removed, I desire that
you will give him this letter, which contains a check payable to his
order. There, examine it, and be so good as to write me a receipt."
Silently he complied, and when she had re-enclosed the check and
sealed the envelope she placed it in his hand.
"Dr. Clingman, is there any other place to which small-pox cases can
be carried? To-day I have discovered some symptoms of the disease in
my own system, and I feel assured I shall be ill before this time
to-morrow."
"My dear madam, why not remain here?"
"Because I do not wish to be discovered by Mr. Carlyle, and forced to
meet him again. I prefer to suffer, and, if need be, die, alone and
unknown."
"If you will trust yourself to me, and to a faithful female nurse whom
I can secure, I promise you, upon my honor as a gentleman, that I will
allow no one else to see you, living or dead. My dear madam, I beg you
to reconsider, and remain where I can watch over, and perhaps preserve
your life. I dreaded this. You are feverish now."
Wearily she swept her hand across her forehead, and a dreary smile
flitted over her wan features.
"My life is a worthless, melancholy thing, useless to others, and a
crushing burden to me; and I might as well lay it down here as
elsewhere. I accept your promise, Dr. Clingman, and hope you will
obtain a room in the quiet and secluded portion of the building. If I
should be so fortunate as to die, do not forget the memorandum in this
purse. I leave my body in your care, my soul in the hands of Him who
alone can give it rest."
"The burden of my days is hard to bear,
But God knows best;
And I have prayed,--but vain has been my prayer,--
For rest--for rest."