THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
_Telegram to Dora Freeman, Morrisville._
“‘SARATOGA, August 25th.
“‘Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly live.
“‘JOHN RUSSELL.’
This is the telegram which I received this morning, and to-morrow I am
going to poor Margaret. God grant she may not be dead! Dear sister, what
would I not give if I had never written those dreadful things of her in
my journal. Poor Margaret! her married life has not been very happy with
all those children born so fast, and if she lives how much I will love
her to make amends for the past. My trunks are packed and standing in
the hall, and I am looking, for the last time it may be, on the woods
and hills of Morrisville, where the moonlight is falling so softly. I
can see a little of the cemetery in the distance, and I know where
Anna’s grave is so well. I have been there but once since that day, and
then I found Jessie with Mrs. West planting flowers over Robin. Mrs.
West loves that young girl, and so do I, in spite of what the doctor
said; but she does shock me with her boyish, thoughtless manners,
actually whistling _John Brown_ as she dug in the yellow dirt. Jessie is
a queer compound. She and her father and Bell are going on with me to
Saratoga. Oh, if Dr. West could be there too, he would cure Margaret. I
have been half tempted to telegraph, but finally concluded that brother
John would do so if desirable. Poor John! what will he do if he is left
alone? and does Jessie remember the foolish thing she said about his
second wife? I trust not, for that would be terrible, and Margaret not
yet dead.
“CLARENDON HOTEL, SARATOGA. }
_August_ 30th. }
“My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to some one, and so I
come to you, my journal, to pour out my grief. Margaret is dead; and all
around, the gay world is unchanged; the song and the dance go on the
same as if in No.—there were no rigid form, no pale Margaret gone
forever,—no wretched husband weeping over her,—no motherless little
children left alone so early.
“It was seven when we reached Saratoga, and I stepped from the car into
the noisy, jostling crowd which Judge Verner pushed hither and thither
in his frantic efforts to find his baggage, and secure an omnibus. How
sick of fashionable life it made me, to see the throng upon the
sidewalks and in front of the hotels, as we drove along the streets, and
how anxiously I looked up at all the upper windows as we stopped before
the Clarendon, saying to myself, ‘Is this Margaret’s room, or that?’
“I knew there was a group of men on the piazza, and remembering how
curiously new-comers are inspected, I drew my veil before my face and
was following Judge Verner, when Jessie suddenly exclaimed, ‘Perfectly
splendid!’ and the next moment my hand was grasped by Dr. West. He was
waiting for us, he said; he expected us on that train, and was staying
downstairs to meet us.
“‘And Margaret?’ I asked, clinging to his arm, and throwing off my veil
so I could see his face.
“‘Your sister is very sick,’ he replied, ‘but your coming will do her
good. She keeps asking for you. I arrived yesterday, starting as soon as
I received your brother’s telegram. Johnnie is nearly distracted, and
nothing but my telling him I was sure you would prefer to have him
remain at home, was of the least avail to keep him from coming with me.
“All this he told me while we waited in the reception-room for the keys
to our apartments.
“‘It is very crowded here,’ he said, ‘but by a little engineering I
believe you are all comfortably provided for. Your room especially,’ and
he nodded to me, ‘is the most desirable in the building.’
“I did not then know he had given it up to me, going himself into a
little hot attic chamber. Kind, generous Richard, you are a great
comfort to me these dreadful days. As he had said, my own room was every
way desirable, but I only gave it at first a hasty glance, so anxious
was I to get to Margaret. She knew I had come, and was asking
continually for me. How sadly she was changed from the Margaret who
stood upon the piazza and said good-by one morning last June. The long
curls were all brushed back, and the blue eyes looked so large, so
unnaturally bright, as they turned eagerly to me, and yet I liked her
face better than ever before. There was less of self stamped upon it,
and more of kindly interest in others.
“‘Dora, darling sister,’ was all she said, as she wound her arms about
my neck, but never since my childhood had she called me by so endearing
a title, and I felt springing up in my heart a love mightier than any I
had ever felt for her, while with it came a keen remorse for the harsh
things written against my dying sister.
“I knew she was dying; not that instant, perhaps, but that soon, very
soon, she would be gone, for there was upon her face the same pinched
look I had seen on father and Robin just before the great destroyer
came.
“‘Dora,’ she whispered at last, ‘I am so glad you are here. I was afraid
I might never see you again, and I wanted so much to tell you how sorry
I am for the past. I did not make your home with me as happy as I might.
Forgive me, Dora. I worried you and John so much. He says I never did,
but I know better. I’ve thought it all over, lying here, and I know you
cannot be so sorry to have me die as I should if it were you.’
“I tried to stop her,—tried to say that I had been happy with her,—but
she would not listen, and talked on, telling me next of the little life
which had looked for half an hour upon this world, and then floated away
to the next.
“‘I called it Dora for you,’ she said, ‘for something told me that I
should die, and I thought you might love baby better if she bore your
name. But I am glad she died; it makes your burden less: for Dora, you
will be my children’s mother,—you will care for them.’
“I thought of Dr. West, and the year which divided us, but I answered,
‘Yes, I will care for the children;’ and then, to stop her talking, I
was thinking of leaving her, when Jessie’s voice was heard in the hall,
speaking to the chamber-maid.
“‘Who is that?’ Margaret asked, her old expression coming back and
settling down into a hard, unpleasant expression, when I replied:
“‘That’s Jessie Verner. The family came with me, or rather I came with
them. You know her; she was here a few weeks since.’
“‘The dreadful girl! Why, Dora, she _whistles_, and romps with the dog,
and talks to the gentlemen, and goes down the sidewalk _hip-pi-ti-hop_,
and up the stairs two at a time; and _joked_ with John about being his
second wife right before me! Actually, Dora, right before _me_!’ and
Margaret’s voice was highly indicative of her horror at this last-named
sin of Jessie’s.
“‘It was better to joke before you than when you were absent. Jessie is
at least frank and open-hearted,’ I said, but Margaret would not hear a
word in her favor, so deeply prejudiced had she become against the young
girl, who half an hour later inquired for her with much concern, and
asked if she might see her.
“‘I did not know,’ I said, ‘I’d ask.’
“‘Never, Dora, never!’ and Margaret’s lips shut firmly. ‘That terrible
girl see me! No, indeed!’ and in this she persisted to the last, Dr.
West telling Jessie that he did not think it best for her to call on
Mrs. Russell, as it might disturb her.
“That night, tired as Jessie was, she danced like a top in the
drawing-room, meeting many acquaintances, and winning a host of male
admirers by her frankness and originality. Next morning I counted upon
her table as many as six bouquets, the finest of which she begged me
carry Margaret, with her compliments.
“Margaret was weaker this morning than she had been the previous night,
but her eyes lighted up with a gleam of pleasure when I appeared with
the flowers, and she involuntarily raised her hand to take them.
“‘Miss Jessie sent them,’ I said, and instantly they dropped from
Margaret’s grasp, while she exclaimed:
“‘That dreadful girl? Put them out of my sight. They make me sick. I
can’t endure it!’
“So I put the poor discarded flowers away in the children’s room, and
then went back to Margaret, who kept me by her the live-long day,
talking of the years gone by, of our dead parents, and finally of the
rapidly coming time when she would be dead like them. Then she spoke of
Johnnie and the little boys at home, and gave to me messages of love,
with sundry injunctions to mind whatever I might tell them. Remembering
Johnnie’s letter, in which he had expressed so much contrition for the
saucy words said to her when he did battle for me, I told her of his
grief and his desire that I should do so. Margaret was beautiful then,
with the great mother-love shining out upon her face, as with quivering
lip she bade me tell the repentant boy how she forgave him all the past,
and only thought of him as her eldest-born and pride.
“‘And, Dora, when I’m dead, cut off some of my curls, and give the
longest, the brightest to Johnnie.’
“I assented with tears, and received numerous other directions until my
brain was in a whirl, so much seemed depending upon me.
“Hovering constantly over and around her was brother John, doing
everything so clumsily and yet so kindly, that Margaret did hot send him
from her until the day was closing. Then as I came back to her after a
short absence, during which I had gone with Bell and Jessie to the
Congress Spring, she said to him softly:
“‘Now leave me with Dora.’
“He obeyed silently, and I fancied there was a flush upon his cheek as
he closed the door upon us. All thought of that, however, was forgotten
in Margaret’s question:
“‘Dora, are you engaged?’
“How I started, standing upon my feet, so that from the window I saw Dr.
West leaning against a tree, and talking to Jessie, who sat with Bell
upon the piazza. I thought she referred to him, and I answered her no,
wondering the while if it was a falsehood I told her.
“‘I am glad,’ she said, reaching for my hand. ‘When I heard he was at
his sister’s in Morrisville, I thought it might end in an engagement,
particularly as he admired you so much when he visited us last summer.’
“I knew now that she was talking of Lieutenant Reed, and that no
suspicion of my love for Dr. West had ever crossed her mind, and so I
listened, while she continued:
“‘I told you last night that you must be my children’s mother, and you
promised that you would. Tell me so again, Dora. Say that no one else
shall come between you, and if, in after years, children of your own
shall climb your lap, and cling about your neck, love mine still for
your dead sister’s sake. Promise, Dora.’
“For an instant there flashed upon my mind a thought, the reality of
which would prove a living death, and in that interval I felt all the
sickening anguish which would surely come upon me were I to take her
place in everything. But she did _not_ mean that. She could not doom me
to such a fate, and so when she said to me again faintly, oh! so
faintly, while the perspiration stood on her white lips, and her cold
hand clasped mine pleadingly, ‘Promise, Dora, to be my children’s
mother.’
“I answered, ‘Yes, I will care for and be to them a mother.’
“‘You make me so happy,’ she replied; ‘for, Dora,’ and her dim eyes
flashed indignantly, ‘you may say it was all in a jest, but I know that
dreadful _whistling_ girl meant more than half she said. She fancied
John, and sometimes I thought he fancied her. Dora, I should rise out of
my grave to have her there, in my room, riding in my carriage, sporting
my diamonds, and using my dresses, the whistling hoyden!’
“I shed tears of repentance over Margaret’s dead body for the merry
laugh I could not repress at the mere idea of her being jealous of
Jessie Verner, who was only eighteen years of age, while brother John
was almost forty. My laugh disturbed her, and so I forced it back, going
at her request for John, who, when next we met alone, stroked my hair
kindly, saying to me:
“‘You are a good girl, Dora, to make Madge so easy about the children.’
“Again that torturing fear ran like a sharp knife through every nerve,
and hurrying on to the farther end of the long hall, I sat down upon the
floor and wept bitterly as I thought, ‘What if Margaret did mean that I
should some time be his wife. Am I bound by a promise to do so?’
“From the busy street below came up a hum of voices, among which I
recognized the clear, musical tones of Dr. West, while there stole over
me a mad desire to fly to him at once, to throw myself into his arms and
ask him to save me from I knew not what, unless it were the white-faced
sister going so fast from our midst. And while I sat there crouching
upon the floor, Jessie came tripping down the hall, her bright face all
aglow with excitement, but changing its expression when she saw and
recognized me.
“‘Poor Dora!’ she whispered, kneeling beside me and pressing her warm
cheek against my own; ‘I am so sorry for you. It must be dreadful to
lose one’s sister. Why, only this afternoon, when I was talking and
laughing with those young men downstairs, whom I can’t endure, only I
like to have them after me, I was thinking of you, and the tears came
into my eyes as I tried to fancy how I should feel if Bell were dying
here. Death seems more terrible, don’t it, when it comes to such a place
as this, where there is so much vanity, and emptiness, and fashion? I
have been saying so to Dr. West, who talked to me so Christian-like. Oh!
I wish I was as good as Dr. West! I should not then be afraid to lie
where your sister does, and go out from this world alone in the night,
leaving you all behind. Is she afraid, do you think?’
“I did not know, and I answered only with a choking sob, as I gazed up
into the clear evening sky, where the myriads of stars were shining, and
thought of the father and mother already gone, wondering if we should
one day all meet again, an unbroken family. For a long time we sat
there, I listening while Jessie talked as I had not thought it possible
for her to talk. There was more to her even than to Bell I began to
realize, wishing Margaret might live to have her prejudice removed. But
that could not be. Even then the dark-winged messenger was on his way,
stealing noiselessly into the crowded house and gliding past the gay
throng, each one of which would some day be sent for thus. Up the
winding stair he went and through the upper halls until Margaret’s room
was reached, and there he entered. Dr. West was the first to detect his
presence, knowing he was there by the peculiar shadow cast by his dark
wing upon the ghastly face and by the fluttering of the feeble pulse;
and Margaret knew it next, and asked for me and the children.
“I was sitting with Jessie at the window, watching the glittering stars,
when a step came hurriedly towards us, and Dr. West’s voice said to me,
pityingly:
“‘Dora, your sister has sent for you. I believe she is dying.’
“I had expected she would die,—had said I was prepared to meet it; but
now when it came it was a sudden blow, and as I rose to my feet I
uttered a moaning cry, which made the doctor lay his hand on my head,
while, unmindful of Jessie’s presence, he passed one arm round my waist,
and so led me on to where the husband and the children wept around the
dying wife and mother. The waltzing had commenced in the parlor below,
and strain after strain of the stirring music came in through the open
windows, making us shudder and grow faint, for standing there, with
death in our midst, the song and the dance were sadly out of place. For
a moment I missed the doctor from my side, and afterwards I heard how a
few well-chosen words from him had sufficed to stop the revellers, who
silently dispersed, some to the other hotels, where there was no
dying-bed, some to the cool piazzas, where in hushed tones they talked
together of Margaret, and others to their rooms, thinking, as Jessie had
done, how much more terrible was death at such a place as this, than
when it came into the quiet bedchamber of home. And the great hotel was
silent at last, every guest respecting the sorrow falling so heavily on
a few, and even the servants in the kitchen catching the pervading
spirit, and speaking only in whispers as they kept on with their labor.
And up in Margaret’s room it was quiet, too, as we watched the life
going out slowly, very slowly, so that the twinkling lights were gone
from the many windows, and the _nuns_ in the convent across the street
had ceased to tell their beads ere the chamber-maid in our hall leaned
over the bannisters, and whispered to a chamber-maid below, ‘The lady is
dead.’
“There had been a last word, and it was spoken to _me_, ringing in my
ears for hours after the stiffening limbs were straightened, and the
covering laid over the still, white face of her who said them.
“‘Remember your promise, Dora,—your promise to your dead sister.’
“Yes. I would remember it, as I understood it, I said to myself, hugging
little Daisy in my arms, and soothing her back to the sleep which had
been broken that her mother might kiss her once more. And while I cared
for Daisy, Jessie cared for Margaret, just as she had for Robin. Jessie
was a blessing to us then, and we could not well have done without her.
Bell, though ten years older, was helpless as a child, while her young
sister ordered all, thought of all, even to the bereaved husband sobbing
so long by the side of his lost wife. In the gray dawn of the morning,
as I passed the room, I saw her standing by him, and knew she was
comforting him, for her small hand was smoothing his hair as if he had
been her father. Involuntarily I looked to see if from the dead there
came no sign of disapprobation; but no, the wife was lying there so
still, while Jessie comforted the husband.
* * * * *
“They have put Margaret in her coffin; it is fifteen hours since she
died, and to-morrow we shall go with her back to the home she left a few
weeks since, and whither a telegram has preceded us telling them of our
loss. Jessie would gladly accompany me, but I do not think it best,
neither does Bell, and so she will remain behind, and visit me in the
winter with her sister. I shall need her then so much, for the world
will be doubly lonely,—Margaret gone, and the California sun shining
down on Richard. Do I love him now? Yes, oh yes, and I am not ashamed to
confess it here on paper, while more than once I have wished so much to
tell it to him,—wished he would ask me again what he did by Anna’s
grave, and I would not answer angrily, jealously as then. I would say to
him:
“‘Wait, Richard, a little time till Margaret’s children are a few years
older, and then I will be yours, caring still for the little ones as I
promised I would.’
“But he gives me no chance, and talks with Jessie and Bell far more than
he does with me. He is going with us to Beechwood, and then in a few
weeks’ time he too, will be gone, and I left all alone. Oh, if he would
but give me a right to think of, and talk of him as of one who was to be
my husband, that terrible something would not haunt me as it does,
neither should I ask myself so constantly:
“‘Did Margaret mean anything more than that as a mother I should care
for her children?’”