THE BRIDAL DAY.
The morning was breaking in the east,—a bright, rosy morning, such as is
usual in early September,—a morning when the birds sang as gayly among
the trees as in the summer-time, and when the dew-drops glittered on the
flowers just as they had done in the mornings of the past. All night the
gas had burned dimly in the sick-room across the street, and all the
night the sick man had prayed that he might be prepared for what the
future had in store, whether of joy or sorrow. All night Jessie and
Johnnie had slept uneasily, dreaming, one of the Roman Forum, where he
repeated the speech made at his last exhibition, and the other that she,
instead of Dora, wore the bridal wreath and stood at John Russell’s
side, and found it not so very terrible after all. All night Squire
Russell had lain awake, with a strange, half sad, half delicious feeling
of unrest, which drove slumber from his pillow, but brought no shadow of
the storm gathering round his head. All night, too, Dora,—but over the
scene of agony, contrition, remorse, terror, hope, and despair which her
chamber witnessed, we draw a veil, and speak only of the results.
With the dawn the household was astir, for the elaborate breakfast was
to be served before the ceremony, which was to take place at half past
seven. In the children’s room there was first the opening of sleepy
little eyes, as Clem called out, “Come, come, wake up. This is your
father’s wedding-day.” Then there was a scampering across the floor, a
patter of tiny feet, a chorus of birdlike voices, mingled occasionally
with wrathful exclamations as Ben’s antagonistic propensities clashed
with those of Burt, who declared that “Aunt Dora was going to be
father’s mother, too, as well as theirs.” Then there were louder tones,
and finally a fight, which was quelled by Jessie, who appeared in
dressing-gown, with her brush in hand, and seemed in no hurry to finish
a toilet which she intuitively felt would be made for naught.
Across the yard came Squire John from visiting Margaret’s grave, where
he had left a tear and a bouquet of flowers. Up the walk, from the front
gate, came Robert West, a look of determination on his handsome face,
which boded no good to the bridegroom-elect, who, guessing at once that
he was the doctor’s brother, greeted him cordially and bade him sit down
till the breakfast was announced. Up the same gravel walk came the woman
who was to dress the bride, and just as Robert West was stammering some
apology for being there unbidden, she asked if Miss Freeman had come
down.
Nobody had seen her yet; nobody had heard her either, though Jessie had
been three times to her door, while Clem had been once, but neither
could get an answer.
“Would she be apt to sleep so soundly on this morning?” Squire John
asked, just as Jessie, who had again tried the door, came running to the
head of the stairs, her brush in her hands, and her dressing-gown flying
back as she breathlessly explained to the anxious group in the hall
below how she was positive she had heard a moan as if Dora was in
distress.
“Burst the door,” the Squire ordered, his face white as ashes, as he
hurried up the stairs, followed by Robert West.
Yes, there was a moan, a faint, wailing sound, which met the ears of
all, and half crazy with fear Squire John pressed heavily against the
bolted door until it gave way, when he stood modestly back while Jessie,
stooping under his arm, darted into the room, exclaiming:
“Dora, O Dora! what’s the matter? What makes her so sick?” and she cast
an appealing glance at her companions, who stood appalled at the change
a few hours had wrought in Dora, the bride of that morning.
In her soiled garments, damp and wet, she had sat or lain the entire
night, but the burning fever had dried them and stained her face with a
purplish red, while her eyes, bloodshot and heavy, had in them no ray of
intelligence. She was lying now upon the bed, her hands pressed to her
forehead, as if the pain was there, while she moaned faintly, and
occasionally talked of the light on the wall which had troubled her so
much.
“It would not go out,” she said to Jessie, who gently lifted up the
aching head and held it against her bosom. “It was there all the night,
and I know it burned for him. Does he know how sick I am?”
A glance of intelligence passed between Robert West and Jessie, for they
knew that the light from Richard’s room had shone into Dora’s through
the darkness, and this it was which troubled her. Squire John had no
such suspicions, and when she asked, “Does _he_ know how sick I am?” he
bent over her tenderly, and smoothing her brown hair, said, “Poor child,
poor darling, I do know, and I am so sorry. Is the pain very hard?”
At the sound of his voice Dora started, while there came into her face a
rational expression, and as he continued to caress her, her lip
quivered, her eyes filled with tears, and she said, pleadingly, as a
child would beg forgiveness of an injured parent:
“Dear John, don’t be angry, I could not help it. I tried to come to you
last night when everybody was asleep and the clock was striking twelve.
I tried to come, but I could not find the way for the light on the wall.
I can’t, I can’t. The trunks are all packed too, and the people are
coming. Tell them I can’t.”
“Poor little girl, never mind. I know you can’t, and it don’t make one
bit of difference, for I can wait, and I will tell the folks how sick my
Dora is,” John said, kissing her softly. Then in an aside to Jessie, he
added, “She thinks I’ll be disappointed because the wedding is deferred,
and it troubles her. There’s the door-bell now. I must go down to
explain,” and he hurried away to meet the guests, who were arriving
rapidly, and who, as they turned their steps homeward, seemed more
disappointed than the bridegroom himself.
Blessed Squire John! He was wholly unselfish, and as in his handsome
wedding-suit he stood bowing out his departing guests, he was not
thinking of himself, but of Dora and how she might be served.
“Margaret believed fully in homœopathy,” he said to the last lady, who
asked what doctor he would call; “but Dr. West is sick, and what can I
do?”
“He might prescribe,” returned the lady, who was also one of Dr. West’s
adherents. “You can tell him her symptoms, and he can order medicine.”
“Thank you; I never thought of that. I’ll go at once,” John said; and
bareheaded as he was, he crossed the street, and was soon knocking at
Mrs. Markham’s door.
“The doctor’s worse,” she said, in reply to his inquiry. “He seems
terribly excited, and acts as if he was possessed.”
“But I must see him,” Squire John continued. “Miss Freeman is very sick,
and he must prescribe.”
“Ain’t there no wedding after all? Wall, if that don’t beat me!” was
Mrs. Markham’s response, as she carried to Dr. West the message which
roused him from the hopeless, despairing mood into which he had fallen.
He had insisted upon sitting up by the window, where he could watch the
proceedings across the street, and as Robert did not return, while one
after another the invited guests went up the walk into the house, he
gave up all as lost, and sick with the crushing belief, went back to his
bed, whispering sadly:
“Dora is not for me. But God knows best!”
He did not see the bridegroom coming to his door, but when the message
was delivered it diffused new life at once.
“Yes, show him up; I must talk with him,” he said, and a moment after
Squire John stood before his rival, his honest face full of anxiety, and
almost bedewed with tears as he stated all he knew of Dora’s case. “If I
could see her I could do so much better,” Richard said; “but that is
impossible to-day, so I must send,” and with hands which shook as they
had never shaken before, he gave out the medicine which he hoped might
save Dora’s life.
“If you were able to go,” the Squire said, as he stood in the doorway,
“I would carry you myself; but perhaps it is not prudent.”
He looked anxiously at the doctor, who replied:
“If she gets no better, I’ll come.”
And then as the door closed upon the Squire, he gave a great pitying
groan as he thought how trustful and unsuspicious he was.
Holding fast to the medicine, and repeating the direction, Squire
Russell hastened back to the house, finding that Dora had been divested
of her soiled garments, and placed in bed, where she already seemed more
comfortable, though she kept talking incessantly of the light on the
wall which would not let her sleep.
“It’s perfectly dreadful, isn’t it?” Jessie said to Robert, who, ere
going home, stepped to the door of Dora’s room. “I’m sure I don’t know
what to do. I wish Bell was here.”
Dora heard the name, and said:
“Yes, Bell; she knows, she understands,—she said I ought not to do it.
Send for Bell.”
Accordingly Robert was furnished with the necessary directions, and left
the house for the telegraph office, just as the Squire entered.
Johnnie was nearly frantic. At first he had seemed to consider that his
trip to Europe was prevented, and, boy-like, only was greatly
disappointed; but when he was admitted into the room and saw Dora’s
burning cheeks and bright, rolling eyes, he forgot everything in his
great distress for her.
“Auntie must not die! Oh, she must not die!” he sobbed, feeling a keener
pang than any he had known when they brought home his dead mother.
Intuitively he seemed to feel that his father’s grief was greater than
his own, and keeping close to his side he held his hand, looking up into
his face, and whispering occasionally:
“Poor father, I hope she won’t die!”
The father hoped so too, but as the hours wore on and the fever
increased, those who saw her, shook their heads doubtingly, saying with
one accord:
“She must have help soon, or it will come too late.”
“Help from where? Tell me. Whom shall I get? Where shall I go?” John
asked, and the answer was always the same. “If _Dr. West_ could come,
but I suppose he can’t!”
“He _can_! he _shall!_!” Johnnie exclaimed, as the house seemed filled
with Dora’s delirious ravings. “Father and that Mr. West can bring him
in a chair! He shall!” and Johnnie rushed across the street, nearly
upsetting Mrs. West in his headlong haste, and bursting upon Richard
with the exclamation, “She’ll die! she is dying, and you shall go! You
must,—you will! We’ll take you in this big chair!” and Johnnie wound his
arm around the doctor’s neck, while he begged of him to go and save Aunt
Dora.
At first the doctor hesitated, but when his brother also joined in the
boy’s request, he said, “I’ll go.”