THE CRISIS.
It was the night before the one appointed for the bridal, and in the
solitude of her chamber a young girl wept in the utter hopelessness
of despair. At the morrow's early dawn he would be there to claim
her as his bride, and though he was noble and good, there was in her
heart no answering chord of love, and she knew that without such love
their union would be unholy. Earnestly, and with many tears, had she
striven to awaken again the deep affection she had felt for him in
the time gone by, but it could not be, and shudderingly she thought
of the long, weary years when she should be an unloving wife, bearing
a crushed and aching heart, wherein was enshrined the memory of one
of whom it would soon be a sin to think.
On the table at her side lay her bridal dress, the gift of Richard
Delafield, who, without a shadow on his brow, or a wavering in the
tones of his voice, had asked her to accept it as a token of the
_esteem_ he should ever feel for her! Alas, poor Rose, as your tears
fell like rain upon the orange wreath which seemed to mock your woe,
how little did you dream of the anguish it cost the donor to say to
you the words he did, or that your sorrow was naught compared to his,
for you could weep, while to him this privilege was denied, and his
was the hard task of enduring in silence the burning pain which no
tear-drop came to moisten.
Slowly the hours of night wore away, and as the moon rose higher and
higher in the heavens, her rays fell upon the bowed form of Rosa,
who, with clasped hands and bloodless cheeks, sat just where first we
saw her--praying--weeping--thinking, and praying again, until at last
there came over her troubled spirit a calm which, ere long, resolved
itself into a fixed determination. "She would tell him all--how she
loved Richard Delafield, and how, though that love were hopeless, she
could not call another her husband." And he would release her--she
knew he would. "But if he should not?" seemed whispered in her ear.
For an instant her heart stood still, and then she answered aloud, "I
will not do this great wickedness, and sin against both God and man."
It was strange how calm this resolution made her. Rising up from the
crouching posture she had assumed in the first abandonment of her
grief, she walked to the open window, where she stood gazing out upon
the starry sky, until at last, sick and faint with the sweet perfume
of the night air, she turned away, and shuddering, she knew not why,
sought her pillow. It was now the first of June, and in that
southern clime the air was already hot, sultry, and laden with
disease. For two weeks a fearful epidemic, whose nature the oldest
physician did not understand, had been raging in the towns adjoining,
and many who in the morning rose up full of life and vigor, were in
the evening no longer numbered among the living, so rapid was the
work of death. In great alarm the terrified inhabitants had fled
from place to place, but the destroyer was on their track, and the
"brain fever," as it was termed, claimed them for its victims.
As yet there had been no cases in W----, but the people were in daily
dread of its arrival, and a feeling of gloom pervaded the village.
Mrs. Lansing, on the contrary, though usually alarmed, even at the
mention of a contagious disease, expressed no fear and went on with
the preparations for the party, unconscious of the dark cloud
hovering near. But when on the morning succeeding the night of which
we have spoken she heard, in passing Rosa's door, the sound of some
one talking incoherently, while at the same time a negro girl came
rushing out, exclaiming, "The Lord help us--young Miss has now got
the brain fever, and gone ravin' mad," she fled in wild alarm to the
farthest extremity of the building, and, gathering her frightened
children together, with Ada, around her, she called to the terrified
servants from the window, bidding them go for her brother and tell
him as he valued his life not to venture near the infected room, but
to hasten with all speed to her. And there, trembling, weeping, and
wringing her hands in fear, the selfish, cold-hearted woman stayed,
while parched with fever and thirst, the suffering girl lay moaning
in her pain; now asking for water to cool her burning brain, and
again clasping her thin, white hands convulsively upon her brow, as
if to still its agonized throbbings.
But one there was who did not forget. In her excitement Mrs. Lansing
failed to notice the absence of little Jessie, who, going fearlessly
to the bedside of her beloved teacher, gently bathed the aching head
and administered the cooling draught, while with childish love she
kissed the ashen lips and smoothed back the long tresses which
floated over the pillow. In the hall below there was the sound of
footsteps, and the bridegroom's voice was heard, asking for his
bride, but his cheek blanched to a marble whiteness when told that
she was dying in the chamber above. In a moment he had her in his
arms--his precious Rose--dying--dying--he believed, for he, too, had
heard of the strange disease, and he thought there was no hope. With
a bitter cry he bent over the unconscious girl, who knew him not, for
the light of reason was obscured and darkness was upon her vision.
"_Can_ nothing be done? Is there no help?" he exclaimed wildly, and
little Jessie, awed by his grief, answered, as she laid her soft,
white hand on Rosa's forehead, "_God can help her_, and maybe Uncle
Dick can. I mean to go for him," and gliding noiselessly from the
room, she was soon on her way to Sunny Bank, looking, with her golden
curls floating over her bare white shoulders, as if she were indeed
an angel of mercy.
------------
Alone in his library sat Richard Delafield, his arms resting upon the
table, and his face buried in his hands. All the night long he had
sat there thus, musing sadly of the future when _she_ would be gone,
and he should be alone. Why had she crossed his path--that little,
humble girl, and why had he been permitted to love her so madly, or
to dream of a time when he could call her "_his own, his Rose, his
wife_." Again and again he repeated those words to himself, and then
as he thought whose she would be when another sun should have set, he
groaned aloud, and in despairing tones cried out, "How can I give her
up!"
The sun had risen, and, struggling through the richly curtained
window, fell upon his bowed head, but he did not heed it. He was
sleeping at last, and in his dreams another than Dr. Clayton had
claimed Rose for his bride, even Death, and without a tear he laid
her in her coffin, and buried her where the soft sighing cedar and
the whispering pine would overshadow her grave. From that dream he
was roused by Jessie, who shrieked in his ear, "Wake, Uncle Dick, and
come. Miss Lee is dying with the fever, and there is nobody to help
her."
For a time the selfish part of Richard Delafield's nature gained the
ascendant, and he said aloud, "Thank God! Rather thus than the bride
of another."
Still this feeling did not prevent him from action, and with a firm
step and composed manner he went with Jessie to Cedar Grove, going
immediately to Rosa's chamber, where, for a moment, he stood appalled
at the scene before him. She had fearfully changed since last he saw
her, for the disease had advanced with rapid strides, and now utterly
insensible, and white as the wintry snow, she lay with her head
thrown back, and her lips apart, while her hands nervously picked at
the bed-clothes around her! Many a time had Dr. Clayton heard that
this was a sure omen of death, and though he had ever laughed at it
as an old woman's whim, he shuddered now as he saw it in her, and
bowing his head upon the pillow, he wept like a child. For a moment
Richard Delafield stood gazing upon the apparently dying girl and the
weeping man, who seemed wholly incapable of action: then rousing
himself, he went in quest of the black women, commanding them in a
voice they dared not disobey to come at once to the sick-room. He
had heard that nothing but violent and continual perspiration had as
yet been of any avail in such extreme cases, and calmly giving orders
to that effect, he himself assisted while the hemlock and the bottles
of hot water were applied, then, administering a powerful tonic, he
bade Jessie go for her mother, while he took his station at the
bedside to watch the result.
Quieted in a measure by the cool demeanor of his companion, Dr.
Clayton, too, arose, and after hurriedly pacing the room, resumed his
post, and there on each side of Rose they stood, those two men, the
one with his fair handsome face stained with tears, praying earnestly
that she might live; while the other, with dark, lowering countenance
and wrinkled brow stood with folded arms, and firmly compressed lips,
struggling to subdue the evil passion which whispered, "Let her die!
There will be a comfort in weeping over her grave, and knowing that
she sleeps there in all her maiden purity."
In the mean time Jessie had been missed, and a servant despatched to
find her. But this the woman failed to do as she was then at Sunny
Bank, and Mrs. Lansing was about venturing to go in quest of her,
when she appeared with her uncle's message saying, "she knew Miss Lee
was dying, she looked so dreadfully."
"Jessie--child," screamed the affrighted Mrs. Lansing, shrinking from
the little girl as if she had been a loathsome thing, "have you been
there--in the room?"
Without any attempt at concealment, Jessie told what she had done,
and when her mother exclaimed, "You are a dead child," she answered
fearlessly, "I am not afraid to die."
Just then the negro, who had been sent to the village for the family
physician, returned, bringing the news that the fever had broken out
there the night before, and that in one family two were already dead,
while a third was thought to be dying. In the utmost dismay, Mrs.
Lansing now announced her intention of leaving the place at once and
fleeing for safety to her brother's plantation, which was distant
about twelve miles.
"And leave Miss Lee alone? oh, mother!" said Jessie, beginning to
cry, while Halbert, frightened as he was, remonstrated against the
unfeeling desertion.
But Mrs. Lansing was determined--"she couldn't help her at all if she
stayed," she said. "And the colored women would do all that was
necessary; it wasn't like leaving her alone with Dr. Clayton, for
there were a dozen, able-bodied females in the house to wait upon
her."
"And if she dies?" suggested Jessie; but her mother would not hear to
reason, and urged on by Ada, who was no less frightened than herself,
she ordered out the traveling carriage, which soon stood before the
door.
She would fain have had her brother accompany her, but she knew it
was useless to propose it. Still she would see him before she went,
and her waiting-maid was sent to bring him.
"I'll go. Let me go," said Jessie, and ere her mother could detain
her, she was half-way there.
Entering the room on tiptoe, she gave her uncle her mother's message,
and then stealing up to Rose, wound her arms round her neck, and
laying her soft, warm cheek caressingly against the white, thin face
of her teacher, wept her last adieu. They would never, never meet
again, for ere the summer flowers were faded, one would be safely in
the bosom of the Good Shepherd, who would lead her in green pastures,
and beside the still waters of the better land.
"Bury her under the tall magnolia, a little ways from father," was
Jessie's last injunction to Dr. Clayton, whose tears burst forth
afresh, for not till then had he thought how he must leave her alone
in that far south land--many miles away from her native hills, and
that to him would be denied the solace of weeping over her early
grave.
------------
It was in vain that Mr. Delafield attempted to dissuade his sister
from going. She would not listen, for their lives, she said, were
all endangered by remaining in town, and as several other families
were going to leave, she should follow their example--then bidding
him hasten to them the moment Rose was dead, she entered her carriage
and was driven rapidly away, followed by Halbert and two or three
negroes on horseback. Unfeeling as this proceeding seemed to
Richard, he still experienced a sensation of relief at the absence of
the family, and thinking they would probably be safer at "The Pines"
than at Cedar Grove, he returned to the chamber above, where Rose
still lay, in the same deathlike unconsciousness, perfectly still
save when a movement of the head or a faint moan told how she
suffered. Everything had been done for her which could be done, and
now there was naught for them to do but to wait and watch, which they
did in perfect silence--Dr. Clayton, with his head bowed upon the
pillow, while Mr. Delafield leaned against the wall, with compressed
lips, and eyes dark as midnight, fastened upon the white, still face
before him.
The clock in the hall struck the hour of eleven, and then, with a
feeble moan, the sick girl withdrew her hand from beneath the
covering, and when the stern man took it within his own he forced
back an exclamation of joy, for it was moist with perspiration!
There was hope, and his first impulse was to tell the good news to
his companion, but the demon, which all the morning he had hugged to
his bosom, whispered, "Not now--let him suffer yet a little longer!"
Soon, however, casting this thought aside as unworthy of him, he
said, "Look up, Dr. Clayton, she is better. She may live. _See!_"
and lifting the damp hair from her brow, he pointed to the dewy drops
which stood thickly upon it.
"Thank Heaven!" was Dr. Clayton's exclamation, and bending down, he
said, "Rose, my precious Rose--she will live, and _you_ have saved
her," he continued advancing towards the dark statue, whose hand he
pressed to his lips. "To you the credit is due, for you worked when
despair had rendered me powerless to do, but now I am strong. I am
myself again, and if I have any skill it shall be exerted in her
behalf."
There was a curl on Richard Delafield's lip--a blur before his eyes,
and an icy chill at his heart, which prevented him from answering.
Bitter were the thoughts which crowded upon him, and which he strove
to put away. If she lived, would it not be in a measure owing to the
efficient means he had employed--and why should _he_ wish to save
her? Would he not rather see her dead? It was an evil spirit which
counseled with him thus, but ere long the noble nature of Richard
Delafield conquered, and when at last her eyes unclosed, and turned
towards Dr. Clayton, whose name she breathed, asking for her bridal
dress, he looked on calmly while his rival kissed her again and
again, telling her she should yet wear it and be his bride, but when
he saw how she shuddered at these words, feebly answering, "No, no.
Have they not told you that I cannot be your bride, for another has
come between us?" a thrill of joy ran through his frame, but soon
passed away as he thought it was merely the vagary of a disordered
mind.
All that day and night they stood over her, applying the remedies
said to be most efficient in cases of the kind, and when the next
morning came she was unquestionably better, though still in great
danger from a tendency of the disease to the lungs which, however,
was less to be feared than its return to the brain. Very carefully
and tenderly they watched her, and had not Mr. Delafield been blinded
by her supposed love for another, he must have seen how much more
readily she took things from him than from Dr. Clayton, following him
with her eyes whenever he moved away, and seeming much more quiet
when he was at her side. By the close of the third day she was
nearly free from the brain fever, but much fear was felt by Dr.
Clayton lest it should assume the typhoid form, which it did ere
long, and then for three weeks she raved in wild delirium, driving
Richard Delafield from her presence, shuddering when he came near,
and begging of Dr. Clayton, whom she called her brother Charlie, "to
send the black man with his ugly face away."
This state of affairs was almost intolerable to Richard, who, if he
had loved Rose before, felt that she was tenfold dearer to him now,
and so, though he dared not come in her sight when awake, he watched
by her when she slept, standing over her hour after hour, and
enduring with almost superhuman strength the care which Dr. Clayton
could hardly be said to share, so absorbed was he in grief at the
thoughts of losing her at last. Thus the days wore on until her
frenzy abated, and she sank into a state of apathy from which nothing
could rouse her, not even the sight of Richard Delafield, from whom
she no longer shrank, but for whom she seemed to have conceived a
kind of pity, asking him sometimes "if he hated her because she did
not love him, and telling him how hard she had tried to do so, but
could not, and that he must go away and leave her alone!" And all
this while it never occurred to him that she fancied _he_ was Dr.
Clayton, though he _did_ marvel at her never mentioning her affianced
husband, in whose arms she would fall asleep, and whose hand she
would kiss, calling him Charlie, and asking if he had come to carry
her home.
Matters were in this state when one day, towards the dusk of evening,
he was surprised by the appearance of Halbert, who said that the
_cholera_ had broken out at the Pines, and he must come immediately,
adding further, that his mother and Ada had both had it, that several
of the blacks were dead, and that the man, who two days before had
been sent to Cedar Grove, had died upon the road. Greatly alarmed
for the safety of his people, Mr. Delafield started at once for the
Pines, whither, in another chapter, we will follow him.