ONE FOR LIFE.
“And doth not a meeting like this make amends
For all the long years I’ve been wand’ring away?”--ANON.
A noble, handsome fellow was Rolfe Heywood, and though the suffering
stranger guest was neither forgotten nor neglected, “joy crowned the
board” at Sweetbrier upon his return, and the weeks that followed were
full of quiet happiness to himself, parents, and sister.
He was succeeding well in the new State of his adoption, and hoped to
persuade these dear ones to join him there at some not very distant day.
He took a benevolent interest in the sick woman, and rejoiced with the
others when the physician pronounced the crisis of the disease past and
the patient in a fair way to recover.
“She’s come to her full senses now, and there ain’t no doing anything
with her,” announced the nurse a few days later, looking in at the open
door of the room where the family were at breakfast. “Not a morsel of
food will she take, not a drop of medicine will she swallow. She just
lays there with her eyes shut, and every once in a while I see a big
tear a-rollin’ down them thin, white cheeks o’ hern.”
She withdrew with the last words, and while finishing their meal the
family held a consultation on the case.
On leaving the table, Mrs. Heywood repaired to the sick-chamber.
The face resting on the snowy pillows was not only wan and emaciated,
but wore an expression of deepest melancholy. The eyes were closed, but
not in sleep, as Mrs. Heywood at first thought. Stepping softly to the
bedside, she stood silently gazing upon her, thinking how sad it was
that one so young and fair should be already weary of life.
“My baby, my baby!” came from the pale lips in low, heart-broken
accents, and tears trembled on the long silken lashes that lay like
dark shadows on the white cheeks.
“My poor, poor child,” said the old lady, bending down to press a
gentle kiss upon her brow, “do not despair. Try to get well, and who
knows but we shall be able to find your treasure and restore her to
you.”
“Yes, to be sure,” said the nurse, putting a spoon to her patient’s
lips. “Swallow this that the doctor left for you, there’s a dear, and
then take a little of this beef-tea, and I’ll warrant you’ll feel a
heap better.”
“No, no, take it away. Let me die in peace,” she sighed, averting her
face, and with her wasted hand feebly putting the spoon aside.
“I want to die--I’ve nothing to live for now.” And great tears rolled
down the pale sad face. “Ah, me! I gave her to them, and they will
never, never give her up! Oh, my darling! my baby! my little Ethel!”
she cried, bursting into hysterical weeping.
Endearments, persuasions, caresses, reasoning, exhortation on the
duty of doing everything in our power to preserve the life God has
given--all were tried by turns, but in vain. She lay there in silent
despair, seeming neither to hear nor heed.
Though nearly as much interested in the suffering stranger as were his
parents and sister, Rolfe had not ventured into the sick-room, and so
had never yet seen her face; nor had he ever heard her voice or learned
her name, of which last, indeed, they were all ignorant.
Something was taking him to his own apartments that evening on leaving
the tea-table, when he met Mrs. Scott, the nurse, coming down the
stairs.
“Do you leave your patient alone?” he asked.
“Never for long. I’m going down to my supper, and I’ll speak to Miss
Ada to come up and take my place for a bit.”
She had left the door of the sick-room ajar. A moan caught Rolfe’s
ear in passing, then the words, “Oh, my baby, my baby!” He started
violently, a strange pallor suddenly overspreading his face. He stood
still, intently listening. The words were repeated; and hastily pushing
the door open, he stepped to the bedside.
“Ethel, Ethel! Can it be? Oh, Ethel, my light, my life!”
“Rolfe!” she cried, starting up in the bed, with both hands extended,
the large, lustrous eyes full of joy and amazement.
He took her in his arms, seating himself on the side of the bed; her
head dropped upon his shoulder, and folding her to his heart, “Yes, it
is Rolfe,” he said. “Oh, Ethel, have I found you again? Are you mine at
last?”
“Yes, yes,” she faintly whispered. “But they told me you were married
to another; then--”
“Never, never, my darling! I have loved you always--you alone. Oh,
why did you write so coldly, rejecting my offered heart and hand, and
telling me that another had won you?”
There was no answer. The strength excitement had supplied for the
moment was gone, and she lay apparently lifeless in his arms.
With a sharp cry of agony he laid her back upon her pillow, and began
chafing the cold hands and pressing passionate kisses on the pale lips.
Hearing his cry as she neared the door of the sick-room, Ada hurried
in, full of wonder and alarm.
“Rolfe!” she exclaimed in astonishment.
“Ada, make haste! Throw up the window to give her air! Hand me that
bottle of ammonia--quick, quick! she’s dying! she’s dead! Oh, Ethel,
my life, my love! have I found you only to lose you again?” he
groaned, redoubling his efforts to restore her to consciousness, while
Ada, divided between amazement at his presence there and excessive
agitation, and her fear that life was really extinct, hastily obeyed
his orders.
“Thank God, she yet lives!” he said in tones tremulous with emotion, as
at length the eyelids began to quiver and a long, sighing breath came
from the white lips.
“Rolfe,” they whispered very low and feebly.
“Yes, yes, I am here, my poor little Ethel,” he answered, kneeling by
her couch and fondly caressing her hair and cheek. “You will live for
me, and nothing in life shall ever part us again.”
A beautiful smile crept over her face as she opened her eyes for a
single instant; then closing them again, she fell asleep with her hand
in his.
Ada stood on the farther side of the bed, looking and listening in
increasing surprise and wonder.
Mrs. Heywood and the nurse stole in on tiptoe and beheld the scene
in no less astonishment and perplexity, but Rolfe motioned them all
away, and kept guard over the slumbers of the invalid as one who had a
superior and undoubted right.
She slept quietly, awoke refreshed, and refused neither food nor
medicine at his hands.
But he would not let her talk.
“Wait, my Ethel, till you are stronger,” he said, “and then we will
tell each other all. In the mean time we may rest content in the
knowledge that we are restored to each other, and no earthly power can
part us.”
Lips and eyes smiled brightly, and a faint color stole into her cheek,
but faded again as she moaned sadly, “My baby, my baby!” the tears
stealing down her face.
“We will find her; she shall be restored to you. Nothing is impossible
to a determined will,” he said with energy.
She believed him, and once more resigned herself to peaceful slumber.
It was now near midnight, yet a bright light burned in the
sitting-room. Mr. and Mrs. Heywood and their daughter, too much excited
to think of retiring, sat there waiting for they scarce knew what.
Reluctantly leaving Ethel to the care of the nurse, Rolfe joined them.
“Yes,” he said, in answer to their inquiring looks, “we knew and loved
each other years ago in Jefferson, where I first set up business. She
was an orphan, and the sweetest creature I ever saw, but very much
under the influence of an older sister--a proud, selfish, scheming,
domineering woman. She, I have always thought it was, who came between
my love and me. I meant to speak before I left, and tried to do so, but
she contrived to foil every attempt. Then I wrote, and the answer was,
I have little doubt, dictated or forged by her.”
“She rejected you?”
Mrs. Heywood’s tone was both inquiring and indignant.
“Yes, mother; but don’t condemn her unheard,” he said, with a smile of
filial affection. “That in so doing she did not follow the dictates of
her own heart I now know beyond a question.”
“I don’t want to be uncharitable, or to wound you, Rolfe,” returned his
mother, flushing slightly, “but that any woman should reject the man
she loves and marry another seems to me both weak and wicked.”
“Wait, my dear, till you have heard her story,” said the old gentleman.
“We don’t know how she may have been deceived and betrayed.”
A few days later Rolfe came to his mother with an explanation which
even in her eyes exculpated Ethel.
“Ah, well, poor thing! she’s had a hard time of it,” said the old lady,
wiping away a tear. “And I hope, Rolfe, if she falls into your hands
you’ll try to make it up to her.”
“I shall indeed,” he said, with a peculiar and very happy smile.
“Come, mother, come to her room with me. The minister is there, my
father and Ada too, and Ethel and I are now to be made one for life.”
“Rolfe!” she cried in astonishment.
“Yes, mother; I cannot let her feel herself alone in the wide world any
longer, and I must have the right to nurse her back to health. You will
not withhold your consent, mother dear?”
“No,” she said, with a half-bewildered look as she accepted the support
of his offered arm, “not if it is to make you and that poor young thing
happy; but it is very sudden.”