The tranquillity of Ridgemont was this summer disturbed by several
events of unusual local interest. Two, of a melancholy nature, were the
deaths of good old Parson Townsend and of Dr. Brown, one of the only
two regular physicians of whom the town could boast. The latter event
had the effect to bring about the beginning of young Dr. Horton's
professional career. The road now lay fair and open before him. His
father had been widely known and liked, and people were not slow in
showing their allegiance to the honored son of an honored father.
Of course this event, being one of common interest, was duly discussed
and commented upon, and nowhere so loudly and freely as in the
post-office and cobbler's shop, where, surrounded by their disciples
and adherents, the respective proprietors dispensed wit and wisdom in
quantities suitable to the occasion.
"He's young," remarked the worthy post-master, with a wave of his clay
pipe, "an' he's brought home a lot o' new-fangled machines an' furrin
notions, but he's got a good stock of Yankee common-sense to back it
all, an' I opine he'll _do_."
And such was the general verdict.
His popularity was further increased by the rumor of his engagement to
Miss Florence Fairfield. Miss Fairfield being a native of the town, and
the most elegant and accomplished young woman it had so far produced,
was regarded with much the same feeling as the brick block and the
soldiers' monument; and as she drove through the village streets in her
pretty pony phaeton, she received a great deal of homage in a quiet
way, particularly from the masculine portion of the community.
"A tip-top match for the young doctor," said one. "She's putty as
a picter an' smart as lightnin', an' what's more, she's got 'the
needful.'"
"Well, as to that," said another, "Horton ain't no need to look for
that. He's got property enough."
To which must be added Mr. Hanniford's comments, delivered amidst a
rapid expectoration of shoe-pegs.
"She's got the littlest foot of any girl in town, an' I ought to know,
for I made her shoes from the time she was knee-high to a grasshopper
till she got sot on them French heels, which is a thing I ain't agoin'
to countenance. She was always very fond o' my singin', too. Says
she,'You'd ought to have your voice cultivated, Mr. Hanniford,' says
she, 'it's equal, if not superior, to Waktel's or Campyneeny's, any
time o' day.' Though," he added, musingly, "as to _cultivatin'_, I've
been to more'n eight or ten singin'-schools, an' I guess there ain't
much more to learn."
The death of Parson Townsend brought about another crisis in the life
of Lilly O'Connell. It had been his express wish that she should remain
an inmate of his family, which consisted now of a married son and his
wife and children. But, with her quick intuition, Lilly saw, before
a week had passed, that her presence was not desired by young Mrs.
Townsend, and her resolution was at once taken.
Through all these years she had had one true friend and
helper--Priscilla Bullins, milliner and dress-maker.
Miss Bullins was a queer little frizzed and ruffled creature, with
watery blue eyes, and a skin like yellow crackle-ware. There was
always a good deal of rice-powder visible in her scant eyebrows, and
a frost-bitten bloom upon her cheeks which, from its intermittent
character, was sadly open to suspicion, but a warm heart beat under
the tight-laced bodice, and it was to her, after some hours of mental
conflict, that Lilly went with her new trouble. Miss Bullins listened
with her soul in arms.
"You'll come and stay with _me_; that's just what you'll do, Lilly,
and Jim Townsend's wife had ought to be ashamed of herself, and she a
professor! I've got a nice little room you can have all to yourself.
It's next to mine, and you're welcome to it till you can do better. I
shall be glad of your company, for, between you and me," dropping her
voice to a confidential whisper, "I ain't so young as I was, and, bein'
subject to spells in the night, I ain't so fond of livin' alone as I
used to be."
So Lilly moved her small possessions into Miss Bullin's spare bedroom,
and went to work in the dingy back shop, rounding out her life with
such pleasure as could be found in a walk about the burying-ground on
Sundays, in the circulating library, and in the weekly prayer-meeting,
where her mellow voice revelled in the sweet melodies of the hymns,
whose promises brought such comfort to her lonely young heart.
From the window where she sat when at work she could look out over
fields and orchards, and follow the winding of the river in and out
the willow-fringed banks. Just opposite the window, a small island
separated it into two deep channels, which met at the lower point with
a glad rush and tumult, to flow on again united in a deeper, smoother
current than before.
Along the river bank, the road ran to the covered bridge, and across
it into the woods beyond. And often, as Lilly sat at her work, she
saw Miss Fairfield's pony phaeton rolling leisurely along under the
overhanging willows, so near that the voices of the occupants, for
Miss Fairfield was never alone, now, came up to her with the cool
river-breeze and the scent of the pines on the island. Once, Roger
Horton happened to look up, and recognized her with one of those grave
smiles which always brought back her childhood and the barren pasture
where the tiger-lilies grew; and she drew back into the shadow of the
curtain again.
Doctor Horton saw Lilly O'Connell often; he met her flitting through
the twilight with bulky parcels, at the bedsides of sick women and
children, and even at the various festivals which enlivened the
tedium of the summer (where, indeed, her place was among the workers
only), and he would have been glad to speak to her a friendly word
now and then, but she gave him little chance. There was a look in her
face which haunted him, and the sound of her voice, rising fervid and
mournful above the others at church or conference-meeting, thrilled him
to the heart with its pathos. Once, as he drove along the river-side
after dark, the voice came floating out from the unlighted window of
the shop where he so often saw her at work, and it seemed to him like
the note of the wood-thrush, singing in the solitude of some deep
forest.
Before the summer was over, something occurred to heighten the interest
which the sight of this solitary maiden figure, moving so unheeded
across the dull background of village life, had inspired.
It was at a lawn party held upon Mrs. Fairfield's grounds, for the
benefit of the church of which she was a prominent member. There was
the usual display of bunting, Chinese lanterns, decorated booths,
and pretty girls in white. A good many people were present, and the
Ridgemont brass band was discoursing familiar strains. Doctor Horton,
dropping in, in the course of the evening, gravitated naturally
toward an imposing structure, denominated on the bills the "Temple of
Flora," where Miss Fairfield and attendant nymphs were disposing of
iced lemonade and button-hole bouquets in the cause of religion. The
place before the booth was occupied by a group of young men, who were
flinging away small coin with that reckless disregard of consequences
peculiar to very youthful men on such occasions. All were adorned with
_boutonnières_ at every possible point, and were laughing in a manner
so exuberant as might, under other circumstances, have led to the
suspicion that the beverage sold as lemonade contained something of a
more intoxicating nature.
Miss Fairfield was standing outside the booth, one bare white arm
extended across the green garlands which covered the frame-work. She
looked bored and tired, and was gazing absently over the shoulder of
the delighted youth _vis-à-vis_.
Her face brightened as Doctor Horton was seen making his way toward the
place.
"We were laughing," said the young man who had been talking with her,
after greetings had been exchanged,--"we were laughing over the latest
news. Heard it, Doctor?"
Dr. Horton signified his ignorance.
He was abstractedly studying the effect of a bunch of red columbine
nodding at a white throat just before him. He had secured those flowers
himself, with some trouble, that very day, during a morning drive, and
he alone knew the sweetness of the reward which had been his.
"A marriage, Doctor," went on the youth, jocosely. "Marriage in high
life. Professor Samuel Commeraw to Miss Lilly O'Connell, both of
Ridgemont."
Horton looked up quickly.
"From whom did you get your information?" he asked, coolly regarding
the young fellow.
"From Commeraw himself," he answered, with some hesitation.
"Ah!" Dr. Horton returned, indifferently. "I thought it very likely."
"I don't find it so incredible," said Miss Fairfield, in her fine,
clear voice. "He is the only one of her own color in the town. It seems
to me very natural."
Dr. Horton looked into the fair face. Was it the flickering light of
the Chinese lanterns which gave the delicate features so hard and cold
a look?
He turned his eyes away, and as he did so he saw that Lilly O'Connell,
with three or four children clinging about her, had approached, and,
impeded by the crowd, had stopped very near the floral temple. A
glance at her face showed that she had heard all which had been said
concerning her.
The old fiery spirit shone from her dilated eyes as they swept over
the insignificant face of the youth who had spoken her name. Her lips
were contracted, and her hand, resting on the curly head of one of the
children, trembled violently.
She seemed about to speak, but as her eyes met those of Doctor Horton,
she turned suddenly, and, forcing a passage through the crowd,
disappeared.
Dr. Horton lingered about the flower-booth until the increasing crowd
compelled Miss Fairfield to to resume her duties, when he slipped
away, and wandered aimlessly about the grounds. At last, near the
musicians' stand, he saw Lilly O'Connell leaning against a tree, while
the children whom she had in charge devoured ice-cream and the music
with equal satisfaction. Her whole attitude expressed weariness and
dejection. Her face was pale, her eyes downcast, her lips drawn like a
child's who longs to weep, yet dares not.
Not far away he saw, hanging upon the edge of the crowd, the tall form
of Commeraw, his eyes, alert and swift of glance as those of a lynx,
furtively watching the girl, who seemed quite unconscious of any one's
observation.
Some one took Horton's attention for a moment, and when he looked again
both Lilly, with her young charge, and Commeraw were no longer to be
seen. He moved away from the spot, vaguely troubled and perplexed.
The brazen music clashed in his ears the strains of "Sweet
Bye-and-Bye," people persisted in talking to him, and at last, in sheer
desperation, he turned his steps toward the temple of Flora. It was
almost deserted. The band had ceased playing, people were dispersing,
the flowers had wilted, and the pretty girls had dropped off one by
one with their respective cavaliers. The reigning goddess herself was
leaning against a green pillar, looking, it must be confessed, a little
dishevelled and a good deal out of humor, but very lovely still.
"You must have found things very entertaining," she remarked,
languidly. "You have been gone an hour at least."
"I have been discussing sanitary drainage with Dr. Starkey," Horton
answered, taking advantage of the wavering light to possess himself of
one of the goddess's warm white hands, and the explanation was, in a
measure, quite true.
Miss Fairfield made no other reply than to withdraw her hand, under
the pretext of gathering up her muslin flounces for the walk across
the lawn. Horton drew her white wrap over the bare arms and throat,
and walked in silence by her side to the hall door. Even then he did
not speak at once, feeling that the young lady was in no mood for
conversation, but at last he drew the little white figure toward him,
and said:
"You are tired, little girl. These church fairs and festivals are a
great nuisance. I will not come in to-night, but I will drive round in
the morning to see how you have slept."
To his surprise, the girl turned upon him suddenly, repulsing his arm.
"Why," she began, hurriedly, "why are you always defending Lilly
O'Connell?"
She shot the question at him with a force which took away his breath.
She had always seemed to him gentleness itself. He hardly recognized
her, as she faced him with white cheeks and blazing eyes.
"It was always so," she went on, impetuously, "ever since I can
remember. You have always been defending her. No one must speak of her
as if she were anything but a lady. I cannot understand it, Roger! I
want to know what it means--the interest you show, and always have
shown, in that--that girl!"
Horton had recovered himself by this time. He looked into the angry
face with a quiet, almost stern, gaze. The girl shrank a little before
it, and this, and the quiver of her voice toward the close of her last
sentence, softened the resentment which had tingled through his veins.
Shame, humiliation, not for himself, but for her, his affianced wife,
burned on his cheeks.
"What interest, Florence?" he said, repeating her words. "Just that
interest which every honest man, or woman, feels in a fellow-creature
who suffers wrongfully. Just that--and nothing more."
Her lips parted as if to retort, but the steadiness of her lover's gaze
disconcerted her. He was very gentle, but she felt, as she had once or
twice before, the quiet mastery of his stronger nature, and the eyes
fell. He took both her hands and held them awhile without removing his
eyes from her face.
"Good-night, Florence," he said, at last, almost with sadness.
She would have liked to let him see that she was sorry for her
ill-temper, or rather for the manifestation of it, but she was only
overawed, not penitent, and bent her head to his parting kiss without a
word.
* * * * *
Two or three evenings later, Doctor Horton received an urgent summons
from one of his patients, who lived at the end of a new and almost
uninhabited street. A lamp at the corner of the main street lighted it
for a short distance, beyond which the darkness was intense. When just
opposite the lamp, and about to cross over, he observed a woman pass
swiftly across the lighted space in the direction toward which he was
himself going. There was no mistaking the erect figure and graceful
gait--it was Lilly O'Connell. After an instant of wondering what could
have brought her there at such an hour, for it was late, according to
village customs, he changed his intention as to crossing, and kept down
the other side.
The sight of this girl brought back afresh that brief, unpleasant scene
with Florence, which he had tried to forget, but which had recurred
to him very often, and always with a keen sting of pain and shame. His
faith in the woman he loved was so perfect! Should hers be less in him?
For him there was no happiness without repose. To doubt, to be doubted,
would end all. He walked on in the darkness, lost in such thoughts, and
quite forgetting where he was, but all at once he became aware of other
footsteps behind him, and involuntarily looking back, he saw, just on
the edge of the lamp-lit space, the figure of a man--a tall figure,
with a certain panther-like grace of movement. There was but one such
in the town, that of Commeraw, the mulatto.
The sight gave him a disagreeable shock. That he was following Lilly
O'Connell he had no doubt. Could it be true, then, the rumor to which
he had given so little credence? He remembered, now, that he had seen
this fellow hanging about at various times and places when she was
present. Might it not have been pretence--her proud indifference and
scornful evasion of his advances? He asked himself, with a hot flush
of mortification, the same question which Florence had put to him.
It was true that he had many times openly defended her. He had been
forced to do so by that quality of his nature which moved him always to
espouse the cause of the weak. Perhaps he had elevated this girl to a
higher plane than she deserved to occupy. After all, it would not be
strange if her heart, in its longing for sympathy, had turned toward
this man of her dead mother's race. Then her face, so sensitive, so
overshadowed with sadness, came before him, and he could not think of
it in juxtaposition with the brutal face of Commeraw. He banished the
thought with disgust.
In the meantime, the man could be seen creeping along, a black shadow
thrown into faint relief against the white sand of the overhanging
bank. There was something furtive and stealthy in his actions which
excited Horton's fears. He saw that he had at last overtaken the girl,
and he quickened his own pace until he was so near that the sound of
their voices came over to him.
"There is no other answer possible," she was saying. "You must never
speak to me in this way again."
She would have gone on, but the man placed himself before her. There
was a deliberation in the way he did so which showed his consciousness
of power.
"This is a lonesome place," he said, with a short, cruel laugh.
She made no answer.
The man muttered an imprecation.
"You are not going to leave me so," he said. "Curse it! why do you
treat me so, as if I were a dog? What are you more than I am? Are you
so proud because you have a few more drops of their cursed white blood
in your veins than I have? What will that help you? Do you imagine it
will get you a white husband?"
"Let me pass!" interrupted the girl, coldly. "You can kill me if you
like. I would rather die than give you any other answer. Will you let
me pass?" and she made another swift motion to go by him.
A savage cry came from his lips. He sprang toward her. She made no
outcry. The two shadows struggled for a moment in deadly silence, but
it was only for a moment. Quick as thought, Horton flung himself upon
the man, who, taken thus by surprise, loosened his hold upon the girl,
shook himself free, and, with a fierce oath, fled.
Lilly staggered back against the bank.
"Do not be afraid," said Horton, panting. "The fellow will not come
back."
"Doctor Horton!" she said, faintly.
"Yes, it is Doctor Horton. Where were you going? I will see you in
safety."
"I was on my way to watch with Mrs. Lapham," she answered, in firmer
tones.
"I am going there too," said Horton. "If you feel able, go on, I will
follow after awhile. Or will you go home?"
She came forward, walking a little slowly.
"I will go on; she expects me."
And in a few moments she had disappeared from sight.
Horton remained where she had left him for perhaps a quarter of an
hour. Then he proceeded on his way. An old woman admitted him to the
house, and he went into the sick-room. Lilly O'Connell was sitting
by the cradle of the youngest child, which lay across her lap. She
greeted him with a bow, and averted her head, but the glimpse he had
of her face showed him that it was not only pale, but drawn as if with
physical pain.
As he was about to leave his patient's side he looked toward her again,
and his eyes fell upon the arm which supported the child's head. About
the sleeve, a handkerchief, stained with blood, was tightly bound.
He went over to the corner where she was sitting.
"Will you come into the next room?" he said. "I would like to give you
some directions about the medicine."
She gave him a quick, upward glance, arose, laid the baby in the arms
of the old woman, and followed him mutely into the adjoining room,
where a light was burning on the table, and stood before him, waiting
for him to speak.
"You are hurt," he said, taking the bandaged arm in his hand. "That
fellow has wounded you."
"I suppose he meant to kill me," she answered, leaning with the
disengaged arm against the table.
Horton unbound the handkerchief. The blood was oozing from a deep flesh
cut below the elbow. With skilful fingers, he ripped open the sleeve
and turned it back from the fair round arm. Then, with the appliances
the country doctor has always at hand, he dressed the wound. When he
had finished, Lilly drew the sleeve down and fastened it over the
bandage.
Horton looked into her face. She was deadly pale, and her hands, which
had touched his once or twice during the operation, were like ice.
"You are weak and unstrung. You have lost a great deal of blood. Sit
down, Miss O'Connell."
She did so, and there was a little silence. The young man's nerves were
still thrilling with the excitement of the last hour. For the moment,
this girl--sitting there before him, this fair girl with her hard,
cruel destiny--filled him completely.
"What are you going to do?" he asked, at length.
"Do?" she repeated. "Nothing."
"You will let this villain escape justice?" he said. "You will take no
measures to protect yourself?"
Lilly raised her head. A look of intense bitterness swept across her
face.
"I shall not do anything," she said. "Doctor Horton, you have always
been good to me. As far back as I can remember, you have been my
friend. I want you to promise me not to speak of what has happened
to-night."
Horton bit his lips in perplexity.
"I do not think I have any right to make such a promise," he said,
after a little pause. "This was an attempt at murder."
She rose and came close up to him.
"You _must_ promise me. Do you not see?" she went on, passionately. "If
I were any one else, it would be different--do you not understand? To
have my name dragged before the public--I could not bear it! I would
rather he killed me outright!"
Doctor Horton walked the floor excitedly.
"It is a terrible thing," he said. "I cannot blame you, but it does not
seem right. Think the matter over. Perhaps you will feel differently.
In the meantime, I will do nothing without your consent."
"Thank you, Doctor Horton," she said.
A feeble call came from the sick-room, and she turned away. Soon after,
Doctor Horton left the house.
The next day Commeraw's shop remained closed, and it was discovered
that he had fled the town. Numerous debts and embarrassments which
came to light sufficiently accounted for his departure, and were also
ample guarantee against his return. In this way, the question which had
vexed Doctor Horton's mind was unexpectedly settled.
He did not see Lilly O'Connell for several days, but met her at last on
the street in such a way that she could not well avoid him.
"It goes against my sense of justice that that scoundrel should escape
so easily," he said, after having made professional inquiries after the
wounded arm, "but at least you will now be safe," and, touching his hat
respectfully, he turned to leave her. At that instant, Miss Fairfield's
phaeton dashed around the corner. The occupant drew the reins slightly
and regarded the two with a flash of the turquoise eyes; then, bowing
coldly, she gave her horse a touch of the whip and dashed on again.
When Horton appeared at Mrs. Fairfield's that evening, however,
Florence received him with unusual sweetness, and when chided playfully
for the coldness of her greeting on the street, replied only with a
light laugh.
The next morning rain was falling steadily, but it did not prevent
Miss Fairfield from appearing in Miss Bullins's shop, taut and trim
in her blue flannel suit, the yellow hair and delicate rose-tinted
face finely relieved against the black velvet lining of her hat. She
found Lilly O'Connell in attendance and the shop otherwise unoccupied,
as she had expected. She was very gracious. She brought with her a
parcel containing costly linen and laces, which she wished made into
mysterious garments after the imported models inclosed.
"My dresses will be made in Boston," she explained, with a conscious
blush, "but I want these things made under my own supervision--and I
want _you_ to make them."
What was it in her crisp, clear tones which gave the common words so
subtle an effect? The two girls looked each other full in the face for
a moment. Miss Fairfield was the first to look away.
"You do your work so beautifully, you know," she added, with a very
sweet smile.
There was nothing more to say, yet she sauntered about the shop awhile,
looking at the goods displayed, or out into the rainy street.
"I'm sorry to see you looking so badly," she said, at last, turning
her eyes suddenly upon the pale face behind the counter. "But I don't
wonder, either. It is natural you should take it hard."
Again the gray eyes met the blue in that mute encounter.
"I don't think I know what you mean," said Lilly, her fingers
tightening upon the laces she was folding.
Miss Fairfield raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, of course," she went on, sympathetically, "of course, you don't
like to talk about it, but I'm sure _you_ are not in the least to
blame. It was shameful of Commeraw to go off the way he did. I am
really sorry for you. _Good_-morning!"
A moment later, when she was well outside, a little laugh broke from
her lips. It had been very well done--even better than she had meant to
do it.
The new minister, a susceptible young man, meeting her at this moment,
thought he had never seen his fair parishioner looking so charming.
Just after, he was equally struck by another face, framed in
reddish-golden hair, which was gazing out from the milliner's window at
the murky sky. Its set, hopeless expression startled him.
"What a remarkable face!" he reflected. "It is that girl whose voice
I noticed the other evening." And, being a well-meaning young man, he
mentally added, "I really must speak with her, next conference-meeting."
Summer passed tranquilly away, autumn ran its brief course; and
in November, when the days were getting toward their shortest and
dreariest, something happened which startled quiet Ridgemont out of the
even tenor of its way. The small-pox broke out among the operatives
in the paper-mill, and spread so rapidly during the first days as to
produce a universal panic. The streets were almost deserted; houses
were darkened, as if by closed shutters one might shut out the fatal
guest. Those who were compelled to go about, or whose social instinct
overcame their fear, walked the streets with a subdued and stealthy
air, as if on the lookout for an ambushed foe.
The village loafers were fewer in number, and their hilarity was forced
and spasmodic. Jokes of a personal nature still circulated feebly,
but seemed to have lost their point and savor, and the laughter which
followed had a hollow ring. Mr. Hanniford was visibly depressed, and
the sallies which his position as local humorist compelled him to utter
were of a ghastly description. He still endeavored to enliven his
labors with his favorite ditty, but it had lost perceptibly in force
and spirit.
Mr. Doolittle, the post-master, bore himself with a dignified composure
truly admirable, going fishing more persistently and smoking more
incessantly than ever.
"What you want, boys," he remarked, with great earnestness, to the
few faithful retainers whom the potent spell of gingerpop rendered
insensible to other considerations,--"what you want is to take
plenty of exercise in the open air, and smoke freely. Tobacco is a
great--a--prophylactic."
Meetings of citizens were held, and all the usual sanitary means
adopted and put in execution. An uninhabited farm-house, whose
rightful owner was in some unknown part of the world, was chosen for
hospital uses, and thither all victims of the disease were carried at
once. From the beginning, Dr. Horton had been most prompt and active
in suggesting prudential measures, and in seeing them carried out.
By universal consent, he was invested with full powers. Dr. Starkey,
the only other physician, on the ground of failing health, willingly
submitted to the situation. The young physician's entire energies
were aroused. He worked indefatigably, sparing neither strength nor
pocket; for among the victims were several heads of families, whose
sickness--and, in a few cases, whose death--left want and misery behind
them.
One of the greatest obstacles encountered was the scarcity of nurses,
most of those responding to the call becoming themselves victims in a
few days. Two men only--veteran soldiers--were equal to the occasion,
and acted in multifarious capacities--as drivers of the ambulance,
housekeepers, cooks, nurses, undertakers, and grave-diggers.
On the evening when the certainty of the outbreak was established,
Dr. Horton, after a day of excessive labor, went around to Mrs.
Fairfield's. It was a dark, rainy evening, and the house seemed
strangely cheerless and silent. A faint light shone from one upper
window, and he fancied, as he reached the steps, that he saw a girlish
figure leaning against the window-sash. The housemaid who admitted him,
after a second ring, did so with a hesitating and constrained air, eyed
him askance as she set her lamp upon the parlor table, and retreated
hastily.
He was kept waiting, too, as it seemed to him, an unnecessarily long
time. He was tired and a little unstrung. He was in that mood when
the touch of a warm, tender hand is balm and cordial at once, and the
delay fretted him. He could hear muffled footfalls over his head, and
the murmur of voices, as he wandered about the room, taking up various
small articles in a listless way, to throw them down impatiently again;
pulling about the loose sheets of music on the piano, and wondering
why so lovely a creature as Florence need to be so scrupulously
exact about her toilet, with an impatient lover chafing and fretting
not twenty paces away. But at last there was a sound of descending
footsteps, a rustling of skirts, and the door opened to admit--Mrs.
Fairfield. She, at all events, had not been spending the precious
moments at her toilet-table. Something must have thrown her off her
guard. She was negligent in her attire, and certain nameless signs of
the blighting touch of Time were allowed to appear, it may be safely
asserted for the first time, to the eyes of mortal man. She was also
flustered in manner, and, after giving Dr. Horton the tips of her cold
fingers, retreated to the remotest corner of the room, and sank into
an easy-chair. He noticed as she swept by him that her person exhaled
camphor like a furrier's shop.
"It's dreadful, isn't it?" she murmured, plaintively, holding a
handkerchief saturated with that drug before her face. "Perfectly
dreadful!"
Dr. Horton was at first puzzled, and then, as the meaning of her remark
came to him, a good deal amused. He had not felt like laughing, all
day; but now he was obliged to smile, in the palm of his hand, at the
small, agitated countenance of his future mother-in-law, seen for the
first time without "war-paint or feathers."
"It is certainly a misfortune," he said, reassuringly; "but it is not
wise to become excited. The disease is confined at present to the lower
part of the town, and, with the precautions which are to be taken, it
will hardly spread beyond it."
Mrs. Fairfield shook her head incredulously.
"There's no telling," she murmured, sniffing at her handkerchief with a
mournful air.
"I have only a few moments to stay," the young man said, after a slight
pause. "I have to attend a citizens' meeting. Is not Florence well?"
"Y-yes, she is well," came in hesitating and muffled accents from
behind the handkerchief. "She is not _ill_, but she is terribly upset
by the state of things, poor child! She has _such_ a horror of
disease! Why, she can't bear to come near me when I have one of my sick
headaches. So sensitive, you know. So----"
A light had gradually been breaking upon Horton's mind. He colored, and
stepped forward a little. He had not been asked to sit down, and was
still in overcoat and gloves.
"I think," he said, slowly, looking Mrs. Fairfield full in the
face,--"I _suppose_ I know what you mean. Florence will not come down.
She is afraid to--to see me."
Mrs. Fairfield fidgeted in her chair, and a red spot burned in her
sallow cheek.
"You must not think strange of it, Roger," she began, volubly. "You
know how delicately organized Florence is. So nervous and excitable.
And it would be _such_ a misfortune--with her complexion!"
Dr. Horton took one or two turns across the room. He was not apt to
speak on impulse, and he waited now. He stopped before a portrait of
Florence, which hung over the piano. The tender face looked out upon
him with the soft, beguiling smile about the small, curved lips, which
had become so dear to him. Above it was a bunch of gorgeous sumac,
which he had gathered for her one heavenly day, not long ago; and
on the piano-rack stood the song she had taught him to believe the
sweetest song in all the world:
"Du bist wie eine Blume,
So schön, so hold, so rein."
He looked at the face again. She _was_ "like a flower." How could he
have found it in his heart to blame her, even by the remotest thought?
"I'm sure," came the plaintive voice again, "you ought not to blame
her. I think it's perfectly natural."
Dr. Horton turned toward her, with a cheerful smile.
"Yes, it is quite natural. Of course I have taken every precaution; but
it was wrong of me to come without finding out how she felt. Tell her
I will not come again until"--he paused, with an unpleasant feeling in
his throat--"until she wishes me to come."
"Well, I am sure," said Mrs. Fairfield, rising with an alacrity which
betrayed how great was her relief, "you must know what a trial it is to
her, Roger. The poor girl feels _so_ badly. You are not angry?" giving
her hand, but holding the camphorated handkerchief between them.
"No," Dr. Horton said, taking the reluctant fingers a moment, "not at
all angry."
He went away into the outer darkness, walking a little heavily. The
house-door shut behind him with a harsh, inhospitable clang, and as he
went down the steps the wind blew a naked, dripping woodbine-spray
sharply against his cheek, giving him a curiously unpleasant thrill.
When he was part way down the walk, he looked back. At the upper window
the girlish figure was still visible, the face still pressed against
the pane. His heart bounded at the sight, and then sank with a sense
of remoteness and loss for which, a moment later, he chided himself
bitterly.
Mrs. Fairfield waited only until she believed Roger was off the
grounds, when she threw open all the windows in the room, sprinkled
everything liberally with carbolic acid, and went up-stairs to her
daughter.
She found Florence standing at the window where she had left her.
"What did he say?" she asked, without looking around.
"Oh, he was very reasonable," Mrs. Fairfield answered, seizing the
camphor-bottle from the bureau, "very, indeed. He said it was wrong in
him to have come under such circumstances, and he would not come again
until the danger was over. Roger always was so sensible."
Tears rolled from the girl's eyes down over her blue cashmere wrapper,
and she bit her lips to keep back the sobs which threatened to break
out.
"Hannah says three more cases were reported to-night," said her mother,
re-entering, after a short absence.
An exclamation escaped the girl's lips, and she wrung her fingers
nervously.
"We'd better go, hadn't we?" said Mrs. Fairfield.
"No!" cried the girl. "Yes! Oh, I don't know! I don't know!" and she
threw herself upon the bed, crying hysterically.
The evil news being corroborated by the milkman next morning, led to
another conference between mother and daughter, the result of which
was that the following notes awaited Dr. Horton on his return from an
exhausting day's work:
"MY DEAREST ROGER: Do not be _too_ much hurt or shocked to hear
that mother and I have left town on the 3.30 train. We think it
best. It is hard, of course; but the separation will be easier
than if we were in the same place. I assure you, dear Roger, it
pains me to go, _dreadfully_; but I cannot bear such a strain
upon my nerves. Do, dearest, take care of yourself--though, of
course, you won't take the disease. Doctors never do, I believe.
I don't see why, I'm sure.
"Oh, how I wish you had settled in Boston, or some large place,
where your practice would have been among first-class people
only. Those low mill people are always breaking out with some
horrid thing or other. It is too bad. We are going to stay with
Aunt Kitty, in Boston. She has been wanting me to spend the
winter with her. She is very gay, but of course, dearest, I
shall have no interest in _anything_. Of course you will write.
"Your own, as ever,
"F. F."
Doctor Horton read this letter twice before opening the other, which
was from Mrs. Fairfield herself, and ran as follows:
"MY DEAR ROGER: I am sure you will not blame me for taking our
darling Flossie out of harm's way, nor her for going. As I told
her last night, you always were so sensible. The poor child has
been in such a state, you've no idea! We feel real anxious about
you. Do take every precaution, for Flossie's sake, though they
say doctors never take diseases. Do wear a camphor-bag somewhere
about you. I always did wish you had chosen the law--it is so
much nicer. Of course Flossie will expect letters, but don't you
think you had better soak the paper and envelopes in carbolic
acid beforehand? They say it's very efficacious.
"Yours, affectionately,
"A. FAIRFIELD.
"P. S.--You have no idea how the darling child's spirits have
risen since we began packing. She is quite another creature.
"A. F."
Doctor Horton smiled as he read, but as he put both notes away in his
desk, his face became grave and sad again.
"It is perfectly natural," he said to himself, as he went down to his
lonely tea. "Perfectly so, and I am glad she has gone. But----"
* * * * *
The terrible disease whose presence had sent such a thrill of horror
through the quiet little town had been raging for two weeks, and though
the inevitable rebound from the first pressure of dread was making
itself universally felt, as a topic of conversation it had lost none of
its charms.
On a wild, wet afternoon, Lilly O'Connell sat in the stuffy work-room
sacred to the mysteries of making and trying on the wonderful
productions of Miss Bullins's scissors and needle. She was sewing the
folds upon a dress of cheap mourning, while Miss Bullins sat opposite
with lap-board and scissors, her nimble tongue outrunning the latter by
long odds.
"What's friends _for_," she was saying, "if they aint goin' to stand
by you when the pinch comes? Folks that's got husbands and lovers
and friends a plenty don't realize their blessin's. As for Florence
Fairfield, it makes me ashamed of bein' a woman--the way that girl did!
They say she wouldn't even see Roger Horton to bid him good-by. I never
heard the like!"
Lilly turned her head toward the window, perhaps because the dress in
her hands was black, and the light dull.
"They say he's workin' himself to death for all them poor people, and
he aint got nobody--no sister nor mother--to nurse him up when he
comes home all tuckered out; though Nancy Swift thinks a sight of him,
and she'll do her duty by him, I make no doubt. He's just like his
father, and he _was_ a good man. Florence Fairfield don't deserve her
privileges, I'm afeard."
The street door opened, and with a gust of cold wind entered Widow
Gatchell, the village "Sairey Gamp." She was an elderly woman, tall,
stiff and dry as a last year's mullein-stalk. Her dark, wrinkled
face was fixed and inexpressive, but the small black eyes were full
of life. She was clothed in rusty garments, and carried a seedy
carpet-sack in her hand.
"How d'ye do?" she said, in a dry voice, dropping on to the edge of a
chair. "I jest come in to tell ye, if ye was _drove_, 'taint no matter
about my bunnit. I sha'n't want it right away."
"Why not?" said Miss Bullins, looking up.
"I'm goin' to the pest-house nussin' to-morrow," returned the old
woman, in the same quiet tone.
"Good land! Sarah Gatchell!" cried Miss Bullins, upsetting her
lap-board. "Aint you 'most afraid?"
A quaint smile flitted across the widow's face.
"What'd I be afeared of," she said, "'s old 'n' homely 's I be? The
small-pox aint agoin' to touch _me_. I'd 'a' gone a week ago, but
I couldn't leave Mis' Merrill, an' her baby not a week old. I've
jess been a-talkin' with Dr. Horton," she went on. "He says they're
sufferin' for help. They's three sick women an' two children, an' not
a woman in the house to do a thing for 'em. They've been expectin' two
nusses from the city, but they aint come. Seems to me 'taint jest right
fur men-folks to be fussin' 'round sick women an' childern."
"Oh my, it's awful!" sighed Miss Bullins, pinning her pattern crooked
in her distress.
"Not a woman there?" said Lilly O'Connell, who had been listening with
her hands idle in her lap.
"There'll _be_ one there in the mornin'," said the widow, rising to go.
"I'd 'a' gone to-night, but I couldn't be o' much use till I'd gone
'round the house by daylight, an' got the hang o' things."
"Wall, you've got good grit, Sarah," said the milliner, with
enthusiasm. "You're as good as half a dozen common women. I declare,
I'd go myself, but I shouldn't be a bit o' use. I should catch it in a
day. I was always a great one for catchin' diseases."
"Aint ye well?" said Mrs. Gatchell, turning suddenly toward Lilly. "Ye
look kind o' peakèd. I guess ye set still too much."
"I am perfectly well," said Lilly.
"Ye be? Wall, sewin' _is_ confinin'. Good-by."
Lilly had no appetite for her tea, and immediately after she put on her
cloak and hat, and went out. The wind had gone down as the sun set, the
rain had ceased, and a few pale stars were struggling through the thin,
vapory clouds.
The streets were very quiet, and she met but few people. The choir in
the Orthodox Church were rehearsing, their voices ringing out clear and
not inharmonious in a favorite hymn. She stopped, and bowing her head
upon one of the square wooden posts, waited until the hymn closed. Then
she went on her way. It was quite dark when she reached the end of her
walk--the residence of Dr. Starkey. She seized the brass knocker with a
firm hand, and was shown into the office. In a few moments Dr. Starkey
entered.
He was an old-school physician, and an old-school gentleman as well.
He would have considered it indecent to appear before the world in
any other garb than a broadcloth swallow-tail coat of ancient date,
and with his long neck wrapped in white lawn nearly to the point of
suffocation. He entered the room, and bowed with courtly gallantry on
seeing a feminine figure standing by the table; but, as Lilly looked up
and the lamp-light fell upon her face and hair, there was a perceptible
congealing of his manner.
"Miss--a----" he began.
"I am Lilly O'Connell," she said, simply.
"Oh--a--yes! Miss O'Connell. Hm! Sit down, Miss O'Connell,--sit down!"
he added, observing her closely from under his shaggy brows.
The girl remained standing, but the doctor seated himself before the
glowing grate, and placed himself in an attitude of professional
attention.
"You are--indisposed?" he asked, presently, as she remained silent.
"No; I am quite well," she answered; and then, after a little pause,
during which her color mounted and faded, she continued: "I have heard
that there is need of more help at the hospital, and I came to ask you
to take me as nurse, or anything you most need."
Her voice trembled a little, and her eyes were fixed eagerly upon the
doctor's face.
He turned square about, the withered, purple-veined hands clutching the
arms of his chair tightly, a kind of choking sound issuing from his
bandaged throat.
"Will you say that again?" he asked abruptly, staring with raised
eyebrows at the pale, earnest face.
Lilly repeated what she had said, more firmly.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated the old man, measuring the girl from head to
foot slowly.
"Child," he said, after a pause, "do you know what you are talking
about?"
"I think so," the girl answered, quietly.
"No, you do not!" the old man said, almost brusquely. "It is a place to
try the nerves of the strongest man, to say nothing of a woman's. It is
no place for a girl--no place."
"I am not afraid," the girl said, her voice breaking. "They say I
am good in sickness, and I will do any kind of work. It is dreadful
to think of those poor little children and women, with no one to do
anything for them but men. Oh, do not refuse!" she cried, coming nearer
and holding out her hands entreatingly.
The doctor had fidgeted in his chair, uttering a variety of curious,
inarticulate exclamations while she was speaking.
"But, child," he repeated, earnestly, "it would be as much as your life
is worth to enter the house. You would come down in a week. You might
die!"
Lilly looked up into the mottled old face, and smiled sadly.
"I am not afraid," she said again, "and there is no one to care very
much. Even if I should die, it would not matter."
Dr. Starkey reflected, rubbing one shrivelled finger up and down the
bridge of his nose. He knew how woman's help was needed in that abode
of pestilence and death. He looked at the white, supple hands clasped
over the gray cloak before him, and thought of the work which they
would be required to perform, then shook his head slowly, and rose.
"No," he said, "I cannot consent."
Lilly made a motion as if to speak, but he raised his hand
deprecatingly.
"It would be as bad as murder," he went on. "I respect your
motive, Miss O'Connell, I do, indeed; but you are too young and
too--a--delicate for the undertaking. Don't think of it any more."
He took one of the hands which dropped at her side and held it in
his glazed palm, looking kindly into the downcast face. He knew the
girl's whole history. He had been one of the fiercest opponents of
her application for a teacher's place, and from conscientious motives
solely, as he believed; but he remembered it now with sharp regret.
There was nothing in this fair and womanly figure to inspire antipathy,
surely. For the first time, a realizing sense of her solitary life came
to him, and he was pained and sorry. He wanted to be very kind to her,
but felt strangely unable to express himself.
"Don't say no one would care what befell you," he began, his gruff
voice softening. "A young woman of your--a--attractions should have
many friends. Consider _me_ one, Miss O'Connell," he continued, with
a blending of the sincere and the grandiose in his manner,--"consider
_me_ a friend from this day, and let me thank you again for your offer.
It was very praiseworthy of you, very."
Lilly bowed--she could not trust herself to speak--and went away.
Dr. Starkey walked up and down his office several times, raised and
lowered the flame of the lamp, poked the fire, looked out into the
starlit night, and, with a fervent "Bless my soul! how extraordinary!"
settled himself for his customary nap over the Boston paper.
Lilly hurried home through the silent streets. Miss Bullins's shop
was empty of customers, and she herself, her hair bristling with
crimping-pins and curl-papers, was putting things in order for the
night. She studied Lilly's face with watchful anxiety, as she joined in
her labors.
"I hope to gracious she aint comin' down sick!" she reflected. "You
aint got backache and pains in your limbs, have you?" she inquired,
with thinly veiled anxiety.
Lilly laughed.
"No, Miss Bullins; nothing of the kind."
"I thought you looked kind o' _queer_," said the good creature,
coloring.
"I am only a little tired; not sick."
She came and stood by the old maid's chair, as she sat warming her feet
at the stove, and laid her hand on the thin gray hair.
"Good-night, Miss Bullins."
"Good-night, dear. Hadn't you better drink a cup of pepper-tea before
you go to bed?"
"No, thank you; I am only tired."
She sat by the window of her little bedroom over the shop a long time
before lighting her lamp. Dim and dark, the river wound along, its
surface gleaming here and there faintly through the leafless branches
of the willows. Overhead, the solemn stars shone coldly. The houses
along its banks were already dark and silent. At some involuntary
movement, her hand fell upon a soft white mass of needle-work which
strewed the table near her, and the contact seemed to rouse her. She
rose, lit the lamp, folded the dainty, lace-trimmed garment, and made
it into a parcel with some others which she took from a drawer, and
went to bed. It was long before she slept, but the early morning found
her asleep, with a peaceful smile upon her face.
The next day, being Saturday, was a busy one, for let Death stalk as he
will, people must have their Sunday gear. The little shop was full at
times, and feminine tongues and fingers flew without cessation, mixing
millinery and misery in strange confusion.
"You don't say that's Mis' Belden's bonnet, with all them flowers on
it? Well, I never! And she a member!"
"Why, you're a member, too, ain't you, Mis' Allen?" says another, with
a glance at the first speaker's head, where feathers of various hues
waved majestically.
"Oh, you mean my feathers?" was the spirited answer. "Feathers an'
_flowers_ is different things. You must draw the line somewhere, an' I
draw it at feathers."
"They say one o' the women died up to the pest-house yesterday," said
one woman, in the midst of an earnest discussion as to the comparative
becomingness of blue roses and crimson pansies.
"Dear me!" said Miss Bullins, compassionately, "an' not a woman there
to lay her out! Sarah Gatchell didn't go up till to-day."
"They don't lay 'em out," remarked the other, unconcernedly, holding a
brilliant pansy against her bilious countenance. "They roll 'em up in
the sheet they die on, and bury 'em in the pasture."
Lilly's hands trembled over the bonnet she was lining.
"Well, good-day, Miss Bullins. I guess I'd better take the roses. I'm
most too old for red. Get it done if you can. Good-day."
It went on so all day. At one time there was a rush for the window.
"It's Doctor Horton!" cried a pretty girl. "Oh my! Ain't he sweet? He's
handsomer than ever, since he got so pale. I don't see how in the world
Flossie Fairfield could do as she did. They say she's afraid to have
him write to her."
"She loves her good looks more'n she does him, I guess," said another.
"And they to be married in the spring," said Miss Bullins,
pathetically. "Lilly, here, was making her underclo'se, and they're a
sight to see,--all hand-made, and so much lace in 'em that it ain't
modest, I do declare!"
"If she got her deserts she wouldn't have no use for weddin' clo'se,"
said another, with acerbity; "not if _I_ was Roger Horton."
"Wall, you ain't," said her companion, drily, "an' he ain't no
different from other men, I guess."
Lilly worked on with feverish haste. About four o'clock she rose and
went out, pausing an instant at the door, and looking back. Miss
Bullins, intent upon some button-holes for which every moment of
daylight was needed, did not look up. Lilly closed the door, and went
up to her room.
It was small and simple, but it was the best she had known. There were
some innocent efforts at decoration, a daintiness about the bed, a few
books on hanging shelves, and a pretty drapery at the one window. She
looked around with a sinking heart. There was a small writing-desk upon
the table, and she went to it and wrote a few lines, which she sealed
and directed. She packed a few articles in a satchel, put on her cloak
and hat, and stole down the stairs.
Choosing the quietest street, she walked rapidly through the village
until the last house was passed, and the open country lay before her,
bare and brown and desolate, except for the blue hills in the distance,
which, summer or winter, never lost their beauty.
Two or three farmers, jogging homeward with their week's supplies,
passed her, and one offered her a lift as far as she was going, which
she declined.
A mile from the village, a road turned off to the left, winding
through barren fields, until lost in the pine woods. As she turned into
this, a man driving toward the village reined in and called to her,
warningly:
"The pest-house is up yonder!"
She merely bowed and kept on. The man stared a moment, and whipped up
his horse again. It was dark in the woods, and chilly, but she felt no
fear, not even when the sere bushes by the way-side rustled, or twigs
snapped as if beneath the tread of some living creature.
As she came out into comparative light she saw a buggy driven rapidly
toward her. She recognized its occupant at once, and with a quick
heart-throb sprang behind a clump of young pines, and dropped upon her
knees.
Dr. Horton drove by, his face turned toward her place of concealment.
He did not know that any human eye was upon him, and the heaviness of
his spirit appeared unrepressed in every feature. His eyes followed
listlessly the irregular outline of the way-side walls and bushes,
but it was evident that his thoughts were not of surrounding things,
otherwise he must have seen the crouching figure and the white face
pressed against the rough bark of the tree whose trunk she clasped.
The girl's eyes followed him until he was lost to sight in the woods.
Then she came out and pursued her way.
A curve in the road brought her in sight of the house now devoted
to hospital uses. It was a two-story farm-house, black with age,
shutterless and forsaken-looking. Over it hung the cloud of a hideous
crime. A few years before, the owner, led on by an insane passion,
had murdered his aged wife in her bed. The sequel had been a man's
life ended in prison, a girl's name blasted, a dishonored family, a
forsaken homestead,--for the son, to whom the property had fallen, had
gone away, leaving no trace behind him. It had stood for years as the
murderer had left it; its contents had been untouched by human hands;
the hay had rotted in the barn; the fields were running waste. The very
road itself was avoided, and the old wheel-ruts were almost effaced
by grass and weeds. Swallows had possessed themselves of the cold,
smokeless chimneys and sunken, mossy eaves; vagrant cats prowled about
the moldering mows and empty mangers. The old well-sweep pointed like
a gaunt, rigid finger toward heaven. The little strips of flower-beds
beneath the front windows were choked with grass, but the red roses
and pinks and columbines which the old woman had loved, still grew
and bloomed in their season, and cast their petals about the sunken
door-stone, and over the crooked path and neglected grass.
There were no flowers now,--only drifting masses of wet brown leaves.
The setting sun had just turned the windows into sheets of blood, and
down in the pasture could be seen the rough clods of several new-made
graves. The silence was absolute. Faint columns of smoke, rising from
the crumbling chimneys, were the only signs of human presence.
A tremor shook the girl from head to foot, and she ceased walking.
After all, she was young and strong, and the world was wide; life might
hold something of sweetness for her yet. It was not too late. She
half turned,--but it was only for a moment, and her feet were on the
door-step, and her hand on the latch.
She turned a last look upon the outer world,--the bare fields, the
leafless woods, the blue hills, the fading sky. A desperate yearning
toward it all made her stretch out her hands as if to draw it nearer
for a last farewell. Then from within came the piteous cry of a sick
child, and she raised the latch softly and entered the house. The
air of the hall smote her like a heavy hand, coming as she did from
the cool outer air; but guided by the cry, which still continued,
she groped her way up the bare, worn stairs, pushed open a door, and
entered.
The child's voice covered the sound of her entrance and, sickened by
the foul air, she had leaned for some moments against the wall before
Widow Gatchell, who was holding the child across her knee, turned and
saw her. The old woman's hard, brown features stiffened with surprise,
her lips parted without sound.
"I have come to help you," said Lilly, putting down her satchel and
coming forward.
"Who sent ye?" the widow asked, shortly.
"Nobody. I offered my services, but Dr. Starkey refused to let me come.
I knew you would not send me away if I once got here, and so I came."
"What was folks thinkin' of to _let_ ye come?" asked the old woman
again.
"Nobody knew it," Lilly answered.
"Wall," the widow said, "ye had no sort o' business to come, though the
Lord knows they's need enough of help."
"Perhaps _He_ sent me, Sarah," the girl said, gently. "Oh, the poor,
poor baby! Let me take it."
Widow Gatchell's keen eyes swept the girl's compassionate face with a
searching gaze. She rose stiffly and laid the child in her arms.
"There!" she said, drawing a long breath. "You're in for it now, Lilly
O'Connell, and may the Lord have mercy on ye!"
When Dr. Horton entered the pest-house in the morning, the first person
he encountered was Lilly O'Connell, coming through the hall with a tray
in her hands. In her closely fitting print dress and wide apron, the
sleeves turned back from her smooth, strong arms, her face earnest, yet
cheerful, she was the embodiment of womanly charity and sweetness. He
started as though he saw a spectre.
"Good heavens!" he said; "how came you here? Who--who permitted you to
come here?"
"No one," said Lilly, supporting the waiter on the post at the foot of
the stairs. "I just came. I asked Dr. Starkey to take me as nurse, but
he refused."
"I know, I know," said the young man. He stepped back and opened the
door, letting in the crisp morning air. "But why did you come? It is a
terrible place for you."
"I came to be of use," she answered, smiling. "I hope I am useful. Ask
Mrs. Gatchell. She will tell you that I am useful, I am sure."
Horton's face expressed pain and perplexity.
"It is wrong--all wrong," he said. "Where were your friends? Was there
no one who cared for you, no one that you care for, enough to keep you
from this wild step?"
She looked up into his face, and, for one brief moment, something in
her deep, luminous eyes chained his gaze. A soft red spread itself over
her cheeks and neck. She shook her head slowly, and taking up the tray,
went on up the stairs.
Miss Bullins found the little note which Lilly had left for her, when,
as no response came to her repeated summons to tea, she mounted the
stairs to see what had happened.
She read the hastily written lines with gathering tears.
"You can get plenty of milliners and seamstresses; but those
poor women and children are suffering for some one to take care
of them. Forgive me for going this way, but it seemed the only
way I _could_ go. May be I shall be sick; but if I do, there is
no beauty to lose, you know, and if I die, there is nobody to
break their heart about it. _You_ will be sorry, I know. I thank
you, oh so much, for all your kindness to me, and I do love you
dearly. May God bless you for all your goodness. If I should
die, what I leave is for you to do what you please with.
"Your grateful and loving
"LILLY."
The good little woman's tears fell faster as she looked about the empty
room.
"I never was so beat in my life," she confided to a dozen of her
intimate friends many times over during the next week. "You could have
knocked me down with a feather."
Dr. Starkey's amazement surpassed Miss Bullins's, if possible. He first
heard of the step Lilly had taken from Dr. Horton. He saw her himself a
day or two later, on making his tri-weekly visit to the hospital, and
commended her bravery and self-sacrificing spirit in phrases something
less stilted than usual.
He could not entirely banish an uneasy feeling when he looked at the
fresh young face, but he became tolerably reconciled to the situation
when he saw what her energy and tenderness, in cooperation with Widow
Gatchell's skill and experience, were accomplishing.
As for the girl herself, the days and nights passed so rapidly, making
such demands upon body and mind, as to leave no time for regret. The
scenes she witnessed effaced the past entirely for the time. In the
midst of all the pain, and loathsomeness, and delirium, and death, she
moved about, strong, gentle and self-contained, so self-contained that
the vigilant eyes of the old nurse followed her in mute surprise.
"I never see nothin' like it," she said to Dr. Horton one day. "I've
known her since she was little, an' I never would 'a' believed it,
though I knew she'd changed. Why, she used to be so high-strung an'
techy, like, an' now she's like a lamb."
On the tenth day after her coming, Dr. Horton in making his round
entered an upper chamber, where Lilly was standing by one of the three
beds it contained. She had just drawn the sheet over the faces of two
who had died that morning--mother and child.
The dead woman was the deserted wife of a man who had left her a year
before, young, weak and ignorant, to certain want and degradation.
"I cannot feel sorry," Lilly said. "It is so much better for them than
what was left for them here."
Dr. Horton hardly seemed to hear her words. He was leaning wearily
against a chair behind him; his eyes were dull, and his forehead
contracted as if with physical suffering.
"You are ill!" she said, with a startled gesture.
"No, only getting a little tired out. I hope the worst is over now, and
I think I shall hold out."
He went about from room to room, and from bed to bed, attentive and
sympathetic as ever, and then left the house. A half hour later, one
of the men came into the kitchen where Mrs. Gatchell was stirring
something over the fire.
"Got a spare bed?" he asked, laconically.
The widow looked up.
"'Cause we've got another patient."
"Who is it?" she asked, quickly.
"Come and see."
She followed the man to the rear of the house, where, upon a stone
which had fallen from the wall, Dr. Horton was sitting, his head bent
in slumber. She listened a moment to his heavy breathing, laid her hand
upon his forehead, and turned silently away.
A bed was made ready, and the young doctor, still wrapped in the heavy
sleep of disease, was laid upon it, and one of the men was sent for
Dr. Starkey.
In the delirium which marks the first stages of the disease, young
Horton would allow no one but Lilly O'Connell to minister to him.
Sometimes he imagined himself a boy, and called her "mother," clinging
to her hand, and moaning if she made the least effort to withdraw. At
other times, another face haunted him, and another name, coupled with
endearing words or tender reproaches, fell from the half-unconscious
lips.
Who but a woman can comprehend the history of those days and nights of
watching and waiting? Each morning found her more marble-pale; purple
rings formed themselves about the large eyes, but a deep, steady light,
which was not born of pain and suffering, shone in their clear depths.
At last, one night, the crisis, whose result no human judgment could
foretell, was at hand. No delirium, no restlessness now--only a deep
sleep, in which the tense muscles relaxed and the breath came as softly
as a child's.
Widow Gatchell shared the young girl's watch, but the strain of the
last month had told upon her, and toward morning she fell asleep, and
Lilly kept her vigil alone. Only the ticking of the old clock in the
hall and the breathing of the sleepers broke the deep silence which
filled the house. The lamp threw weird shadows across the ceiling and
over the disfigured face upon the pillow. Of all manly beauty, only
the close-clustering chestnut hair remained, and the symmetrical hands
which lay nerveless and pale, but unmarred, upon the spread.
Statue-like, the young girl sat by the bed-side, her whole soul
concentrated in the unwavering gaze which rested upon the sleeper's
face. A faint--ever so faint--murmur came at last from the hot, swollen
lips, and one languid hand groped weakly, as if seeking something. She
took it gently and held it between her own soft palms. It seemed to her
fine touch that a light moisture was discernible upon it. She rose and
bent over the pillow with eager eyes. A storm of raptured feeling shook
her. She sank upon her knees by the bed, and pressed the hand she held
close against her breast, whispering over it wild words which no ear
might hear.
All at once, the fingers which had lain so inert and passive in her
grasp seemed to her to thrill with conscious life, to return faintly
the pressure of her own. She started back.
A ray of dawning light crept under the window-shade and lay across the
sick man's face. His eyes were open, and regarding her with a look of
perfect intelligence.
The girl rose with a smothered cry, and laid the drooping hand upon the
bed. The dark, gentle eyes followed her beseechingly. It seemed as if
he would have spoken, but the parched lips had lost their power.
She went to the sleeping woman and touched her shoulder.
"Sarah, I think he is better," she said, her voice trembling.
Instantly, the old nurse was on the alert. She went to the bed, and
laid her hand upon the sick man's forehead and wrist, then turned
toward Lilly, with a smile.
"Go and take some rest," she said in a whisper. "The crisis has passed.
He will live."
Dr. Horton's recovery was not rapid, but it was sure.
From the hour of his return to consciousness, Lilly O'Connell had not
entered his room.
When a week had passed, he ventured to question his faithful attendant,
Widow Gatchell, in regard to her. For twenty-four hours he had missed
the step and voice he had believed to be hers, passing and repassing
the hall outside his door. The old woman turned her back abruptly and
began stirring the already cheerful fire.
"She ain't quite so well to-day," she answered, in a constrained voice.
The young man raised his head.
"Do you mean that she is sick?" he asked hastily.
"She was took down last night," the widow answered, hesitating, and
would have left the room; but the young man beckoned her, and she went
to his side.
"Let everything possible be done for her," he said. "You
understand--everything that _can_ be done. Let Mason attend to me."
"I'll do _my_ part," the old nurse answered, in the peculiarly dry tone
with which she was accustomed to veil her emotions.
Dr. Starkey, who, since the young doctor's illness, had been, perforce,
in daily attendance, was closely questioned. His answers, however,
being of that reserved and non-committal nature characteristic of the
profession, gave little satisfaction, and Horton fell into a way of
noticing and interpreting, with the acute sense of the convalescent,
each look of his attendant, each sound which came to him, keeping
himself in a state of nervous tension which did much toward retarding
his recovery.
Three or four days had passed in this way, when one morning, just at
daybreak, Dr. Horton was roused from his light sleep by sounds in the
hall outside his door--hushed voices, shuffling footsteps, and the
sound of some object striking with a heavy thud against the balusters
and wall. He raised himself, his heart beating fast, and listened
intently. The shuffling steps moved on, down the creaking stairs and
across the bare floor below. A door opened and shut, and deep silence
filled the house again. He sank back upon his pillow, faint and
bewildered, but still listening, and after some moments, another sound
reached his ears faintly from a distance--the click of metal against
stones and frozen mold.
He had already been able, with some assistance, to reach his chair once
or twice a day; now he rose unaided, and without consciousness of pain
or weakness, found his way to the window, and pushed aside the paper
shade with a shaking hand.
It was a dull, gray morning, and a light snow was falling, but through
the thin veil he could see the vague outlines of two men in the pasture
opposite, and could follow their stiff, slow motions. They were filling
in a grave.
He went to his bed and lay back upon it with closed eyes. When he
opened them, Widow Gatchell was standing by him with his breakfast on a
tray.
Her swarthy face was haggard, but her eyes were tearless, and her lips
set tightly together. He put his hand out and touched hers.
"I know," he said, softly.
The woman put the tray on the table, and sank upon a chair. She cleared
her throat several times before speaking.
"Yes," she said, at last, in her dry, monotonous voice. "She is gone.
We did all we could for her, but 'twarn't no use. She was all wore out
when she was took. Just afore she died she started up and seized hold
o' my hand, her eyes all soft an' shinin', an' her mouth a-smilin'.
'Sarah,' says she, 'I shall know the meaning of it now!' The good Lord
only knows what she meant--her mind was wanderin', most likely--but
them was her last words, 'I shall know the meanin' of it now, Sarah!'"
The old woman sat a while in silence, with the strange repressed look
which watching by so many death-beds had fixed upon her face; then,
arranging the breakfast upon the stand, went out again.
It snowed persistently all day. From the chair by the window, Doctor
Horton watched it falling silently, making everything beautiful as it
fell,--rude wall, and gnarled tree, and scraggy, leafless bush,--and
covering those low, unsightly mounds with a rich and snowy pall. He
watched it until night fell and shut it from his sight.
Lilly O'Connell's was the last case. The disease seemed meantime to
have spent its force, and in a few weeks the unbroken silence of
midwinter rested over the drear and forlorn spot.
Doctor Horton was again at home. He was thin, and his face showed some
traces of the disease from which he had just recovered, but they were
slight, and such as would pass away in time. The pleasant chamber where
he was sitting was filled with evidences of care and attention, for
every woman in Ridgemont, old or young, desired to show in some way her
admiration and esteem for the young physician. Fruit and jellies and
flowers and books filled every available place.
He was seated before a cheerful fire. Upon the table by his side lay
many papers and letters, the accumulation of several weeks. One letter,
of a recent date, was open in his hand. A portion of it ran thus:
"* * * It has been very gay here this season, and mother and
Aunt Kitty have insisted upon my going out a great deal. But I
have had no heart in it, dearest, especially since I knew that
you were ill. I assure you, I was almost ill myself when I heard
of it. How thankful I am that you are convalescent. I long to
see you so much, but Aunt Kitty does not think I ought to
return before spring. Oh Roger, _do_ you think you are much
changed? * * *"
Shading his eyes with his thin hand, he sat a long time in deep
thought. At last, rousing himself, he went to his desk and wrote as
follows:
"MY DEAR FLORENCE: I _am_ changed; so much that you would not
know me; so much that I hardly know myself; so much, indeed,
that it is better we do not meet at present.