MARION'S SICKNESS.
THE drive back to town was a silent one, and not until they were
within a short distance from home was a word spoken. Mr. Angus seemed
absorbed in thought, and his companion, with the added care of the
friends she had just left, was little inclined for conversation.
A sigh from her at last caused the gentleman to ask,—
"Have I done wrong in bringing to your notice these strangers?"
"No, sir. No, indeed. What a dear old lady she is! And not very old
either. Sorrow, I imagine, more than time, has aged her. Eugene is
a perfect dream of boyish beauty."
"What of the young mother?"
Marion sighed again. "I don't know. I have been trying to decide.
I have seen somebody whom she resembles. She does not attract me as
her mother does."
"Eugene scarcely has a feature like hers."
"No, he is more like you than like her."
She had entirely forgotten her high praise of the boy's beauty; but a
little twitching about the muscles of his mouth proved that he
remembered and was far from displeased.
"Do you know," she asked quickly, as they drew up to the door of her
uncle's house, "that I am going to take your new parishioners to
New York? For some reason, Madam Douglass prefers being there, and I
have promised for you that you will aid them in their removal."
"Pecuniarily, do you mean?"
"Certainly not. Only as a friend, in getting to the right train,
etc.; but even that is not necessary: Uncle Asbury will attend
to it."
"Just as you please, Miss Howard."
She sprang from the carriage without giving him an opportunity to
help her, and ran into the house. His voice, so sad and cold, had
hurt her. Seeing no one in the hall, she went in haste to her own
room, to pack her satchel for her journey home, saying to herself
meanwhile,—
"If he knew all that I do, and all that I can guess about his sad
past, and how shamefully I have neglected my promise to that poor,
dying girl, he would be justified in never speaking to me at all."
At the dinner-table Marion gave a description of Madam Douglass and
Eugene, merely mentioning Mrs. Cheriton as the boy's mother; and
easily won a promise from her aunt to go and see them. "I wish,
aunty," she added, after the conversation had turned to another
subject, "that you would notice whether Mrs. Cheriton resembles any
one you know. Her eyes haunt me. I have tried in vain to account for
the resemblance."
Once on the train, Marion acknowledged to herself the need of rest.
With one hand to her throbbing temples, she took memorandum book and
pencil from her pocket. Two visits to some very destitute families
ought to be paid, and Hepsey must take her place for this time.
She noted down the following words: "Board for three, not too far
away. Home for the Sick. Letter to Dr. Moore. Search for lost
package."
The carriage, with James on the box with the driver, met her at the
station, as she had telegraphed him to do. Seizing a letter from
Dr. B-, she read hastily, and, finding that Mary could be received at
once on the recommendation of Dr. Moore, countermanded her order to
be driven to the hospital, and said "Home." Here she only remained
long enough to dash off a letter to Dr. Moore, enclosing the one from
the superintendent, and then went to Mrs. Mitchell for advice about a
boarding-place. Four or five were advertised as desirable situations;
and Marion, putting by her anxiety to begin her search for the
package, hurried off in the carriage to examine for herself. Two or
three hours were consumed in going from one house to another, finding
each that she visited more unsuitable than the one before it, and at
last only engaged rooms conditionally, in a private family,
recommended to her by a friend, whom she met near the door. Enclosing
the street and number to her aunt, she requested that Madam Douglass
might be informed of the place and price, and an answer returned at
once.
Hepsey was just about starting on her mission when she caught a
glimpse of her young mistress, and exclaimed, in great excitement,—
"You are ill, and have not told me. I must see you in bed before I
go out."
It was indeed true that a terrible lassitude had been stealing over
her ever since the excitement of the morning. For two nights she had
scarcely slept, and since breakfast she had barely tasted food.
"A cup of tea will revive me," she said, trying with a smile to allay
Hepsey's too evident anxiety.
Then feeling herself grow more languid, she said, aloud,—
"I can't give up now. I must find that package, I must, if I search
all night."
The tea was brought and eagerly swallowed, but the temples still
throbbed, and at last the young girl reluctantly acknowledged that
she felt ill and must rest for a few hours.
Hepsey quietly laid off her bonnet and shawl, called James, and gave
him the address of the poor she was going to visit, with directions
as to procuring them food, etc., and then devoted herself to her
young mistress.
An hour later Marion woke from the heavy sleep into which she had
fallen with a shriek of distress. Her eyes were wide open, but she
did not recognize the faithful nurse who was bending over her.
A physician was instantly summoned, who found her in a high state
of mental excitement.
"How long has this been coming on? I ought to have been called
earlier," he said, in some irritation.
"She only returned from the country this afternoon," explained Hepsey.
He went back to the bedside, re-examined the pulse of his patient,
listened to her incoherent mutterings, and then said gravely,
"She has symptoms of a contagious fever. I have had a few cases
already among the poor."
"James has just returned from an errand to one of her protégés,
a mission boy. He had just been buried, and a flag was hung from the
window to prevent people from entering."
"Well, if people will go round to these filthy haunts, they,—
but it's no use to think of that now. I'll do my best to save her.
I'll have a flag out here, unless you will promise that no one shall
come in: perfect quiet is a necessity."
Hepsey promised, but the next morning, after a short absence from the
room, she found a young lady sitting by the bed, bathing the hot
temples of the sufferer.
"I have come to stay," she said softly, as she rose and beckoned
Hepsey into the hall. "Mrs. Mitchell told me last night how ill
she is, and I have come prepared to act as nurse. You will let me
help you"; and the young girl gazed wistfully in Hepsey's face.
It was Annie Leman, a favorite protégé of Marion, whom she was
educating for a music teacher, and, looking in her earnest face,
Hepsey had not the heart to deny her request.
"We'll see what the doctor will say," she murmured, and then they
both returned to the room.
What the doctor said at first sight of this girlish figure was,
"I won't have her here." What he said after the second day was,
"What could we do without her?"
And so the sun rose and set while in that quiet room the fever raged,
for Marion had been in the full vigor of health, and the heated blood
rushed rampant through her body. Sometimes she tried to spring from
the bed, calling out,—
"I must find it," or "Here it is," and laughed aloud for joy.
At other times she lay for hours in a heavy stupor, while rich and
poor besieged the door with inquiries concerning her.
Among others who came was Dr. Moore. He had safely conveyed Mary
Falkner to the Home for the Sick, where he learned from Dr. B— that
Miss Howard was dangerously ill, and went at once to her house
to learn who was her physician, when they came together to see her.
Marion woke suddenly, to find her old friend from N— bending over
her. A momentary consciousness caused her to call him by name, and
then, associating him at once with her friends in Grantbury,
she said,—
"Tell him there is hope," then fell back into heavy sleep. Every
morning came a bunch of cut flowers of the choicest varieties from
Mr. Lambert, with a request to Mrs. Mitchell to be informed whether
"any change had taken place in Miss Howard."
Day after day as it passed proved to all Marion's friends that the
young girl who glided so noiselessly around the bed was possessed
of a native skill just fitting her to take a part in the struggle
between life and death going on in that chamber. She was never seen
to sleep, and yet she never seemed weary. Not a movement of that
prone figure escaped her notice, not an order or prescription of the
physician was forgotten. When the doctor asked in wonder,—
"What sustains you?" her brief answer was, "Love, sir. Love and
gratitude. She deserves from me all that I can give her."
Hepsey told Mrs. Asbury, who came from Grantbury to see her niece,—
"We have all cause to thank God for sending Miss Annie here.
The doctor says, if our dear Marion lives through this dreadful time,
it will be the loving care, which, with the blessing of God,
has brought her through."
If Mr. Lambert believed what he was so fond of affirming, that the
poor are a thankless set, who will steal your purse the minute your
back is turned, his faith in this assurance might have been shaken by
the genuine sorrow manifested during Miss Howard's illness.
One instance of affection and gratitude he was himself a witness of.
He was approaching Miss Howard's door early one morning with a bunch
of exquisite blossoms in his hand, carefully shielded from sun and
wind by the tissue paper covering, when he saw a little girl
approaching from the opposite direction. She had on a thin shawl,
which she held out from her person as though shielding something
precious. Curiosity prompted the gentleman to watch and see what she
was going to do. He held back till she ran down the basement steps
and timidly rang the bell of the lower door of Mr. Mitchell's house.
Cautiously he stepped forward, and saw her hold out one little pink.
"Will you please give the kind lady this?" she asked, in a pleading
tone. "When I was down with fever, she brought me a beautiful bush
all covered with flowers, and she told me how to water it, and put it
in the sun. This flower came out last night. There are no more, or I
would have brought them. She's been ever so good to mammy and me."
There were tears in her voice as she spoke, and the listener,
grumbling under his breath at his own folly, put up his finger
to prevent a tear from falling from his own eye.
"What's your name?" asked the woman at the door.
"Nanny Morse,—she'll know."
"Well, I'll see that she has it,—if it's only to hold in her poor,
unconscious fingers," she added, as the child, after an earnest
"Thank you, ma'am," turned away.
Mr. Lambert afterwards confessed that he felt like throwing his
costly flowers into the street. He did not, however; he rang the
bell, delivered them to James, the servant in waiting, received the
sadly spoken message, "No change, sir," and then hurried away,
muttering,—
"World upside down; just my luck; only girl in all the crowd worth
that," snapping his finger; "and she going—"
He stopped suddenly at sight of the little flower-girl again.
She was talking to a disreputably dressed lad, who, with a rimless
cap stuck on one side of his head, was evidently annoyed at the
detention.
"Don't go, Jack. 'T would grieve her, even in heaven, if she knew
you'd turn back to the bad after all she's done for yer."
"I'm hungry, and if I go home mammy'll beat me, sure."
"No, she won't, Jack,—not when I tell her about the kind lady.
Come, go with me."
"Take this and buy a cake," exclaimed Mr. Lambert, thrusting some
silver pieces into Nanny's hand.
Not waiting for any thanks, he strode off in the opposite direction,
muttering, "Old fool! Just like you! Meddling, always meddling."
After using his handkerchief vigorously, he went on: "What business
is it of mine, if she dies to-day? I don't care. Yes, that's a lie:
you do care, you old sinner! You only say that because you're so
hateful,—you know you care. You'll never see another like her.
There!"