THE SHADOWS OF DEATH.
It was a novel sight to see the little procession which half an hour
later left Mrs. Markham’s house and moved across the street. Wrapped in
a blanket and reclining in the huge arm-chair which Squire John, his
coachman, and Robert West were carrying was Dr. West, while behind him
walked his mother, with Johnnie and Jim and Burt and Ben bringing up the
rear.
“I think I had better go in alone. Too many may disturb her,” Richard
suggested, as, supported by his brother and the Squire, he reached the
upper hall and turned towards Dora’s chamber.
All saw the propriety of this, and so only Jessie was present when
Richard first sat down by Dora’s side, and taking her hot hand pressed
it between his own, calling her by name and asking if she knew him.
“Yes, Richard, and you have come to save me; I am so glad, and the night
was so long, with the light on the wall,” Dora replied, and over her
cheeks the tears fell refreshingly.
“You have done her good already,” Jessie whispered to the doctor, who,
repressing his intense desire to hug the sick girl to his bosom,
proceeded carefully to examine every symptom and then to prescribe.
She was very sick, he said, and the utmost quiet was necessary; only a
few must be allowed to see her, and no one should be admitted whose
presence disturbed her in the least. This was virtually keeping Squire
Russell away, for his presence did disturb her, as had been apparent all
the day, for she grew restless and talkative and feverish the moment he
appeared. It smote the doctor cruelly to see how meekly he received the
order.
“Save her, doctor,” he said, “save my Dora and I will not mind giving
you all I’m worth.”
But the power to save was not vested in Dr. West. He could only use the
means, and then with agony of soul pray that they might be blessed, that
Dora might live even though she should never be his. It was unnecessary
for him to return to Mrs. Markham’s, and yielding to what seemed best
for all, he remained at Squire Russell’s during the dreadful days of
suspense when Dora’s life hung on a thread, when Bell and Mattie, both
of whom came in answer to Robert’s telegram, bent over her pillow,
always turning away with the feeling that she must die, when Jessie,
yielding her place as nurse to more experienced hands, took the children
to the farthest part of the building, where she kept them quiet,
stifling her tears while she sang to them childish songs, or told them
fairy stories; and when Squire Russell, banished from the sick-room, sat
in the hall all the day long watching Dora’s door with a wistful,
beseeching look, which touched the hearts of those who saw it, and who
knew of the blow in store for him even if Dora lived. It was no secret
now, to five at least, that Dora could never be Squire Russell’s wife.
Mrs. West, Bell, Mattie, Jessie, and Robert all knew it, and while four
approved most heartily, _Jessie_ in her great pity hardly knew what she
should advise. She was so sorry for him sitting so patiently by the hall
window, and she wanted so much to comfort him. Sometimes, as she passed
near him, she did stop, and smoothing his hair, tell him how sorry she
was, while beneath the touch of those snowy fingers, his heart throbbed
with a feeling which prompted him to think much of Jessie, even while he
kept that tireless watch near Dora.
It was strange how the doctor bore up, appearing better than when he
first came to Dora. It was excitement, he knew, and he was glad of the
artificial strength which kept him at her side, noting every change with
minuteness which went far toward effecting the cure for which he prayed.
Two weeks had passed away, and then one night, just as the autumn
twilight was stealing into the room, Dora woke from a long, heavy sleep,
which Richard had watched breathlessly, for on its issue hung her life
or death. It was over now, and the hand Richard held was wet with
perspiration. Dora was saved, and burying his head upon her pillow, the
doctor said aloud:
“I thank thee, O my Father, for giving me back my darling.”
Richard was alone, for Bell and Mattie had both left the room to take
their supper, and there was no one present to see the look of
unutterable joy which crept into his face, when, in response to his
thanksgiving, a faint voice said:
“Kiss me once, Richard, for the sake of what might have been, then let
me die,—here, just as I am, alone with you.”
He kissed her more than once, more than twice, while he said to her:
“You will not die; the crisis is past; my darling will live.”
Neither thought of Squire Russell then, so full, so perfect was that
moment of bliss in which each acknowledged the deep love filling their
hearts with joy. Dora was the first to remember, and with a moan she
turned her face to the wall while the doctor still held and caressed the
little wasted hand which did not withdraw itself from his grasp. There
was joy in the household that night, for the glad news that Dora was
better spread rapidly, while smiles and tears of happiness took the
place of sorrow. Squire Russell was gone; business which required
attention had taken him away for several hours, and when he returned it
was too late to visit the sick-room; but he heard from Johnnie that Dora
would live, and from his room there went up a prayer of thanksgiving to
Heaven, who had not taken away one so dear as Dora.