Part 5 (1/2)
She listened with a troubled countenance. ”Surely, young Clyde will not be so inconsiderate, so officious, as to induce those ladies to visit us?”
”No, indeed, mother. He is not officious. He knows you would not like to see them. He would not think of such a thing.”
”No, no,” I repeated to myself, as I exerted myself bravely in my new offices, as nurse and housekeeper, ”there is no danger of that fair creature seeking out this little obscure spot. She will probably ask Richard Clyde who the little country girl was, whose water-pail he was so gallantly carrying, and I know he will speak kindly of me, though he will laugh at being caught in such an awkward predicament. Perhaps to amuse her, he will tell her of my flight from the academy and the scenes which resulted, and she will ask him to show her the poem, rendered so immortal. Then merrily will her silver laughter ring through the lofty hall. I have wandered all over Grandison Place when it was a deserted mansion. No one saw me, for it is far back from the street, all embosomed in shade, and it reminded me of some old castle with its turreted roof and winding galleries. I wonder how it looks now.” I was falling into one of my old-fas.h.i.+oned dreams, when a moan from Peggy wakened me, and I sprang to her bedside with renewed alarm.
CHAPTER VIII.
Yes, Peggy was very sick; but she would not acknowledge it. It was nothing but a violent headache,--a sudden cold; she would be up and doing in the morning. The doctor! No, indeed, she would have nothing to do with doctors. She had never taken a dose of medicine in her life, and never would, of her own freewill. Sage tea was worth all the pills and nostrums in the world. On the faith of her repeated a.s.sertions, that she felt a great deal better and would be quite well in the morning, we slept, my mother and myself, leaving the lamp dimly burning by the solemn hour-gla.s.s.
About midnight we were awakened by the wild ravings of delirious agony,--those sounds so fearful in themselves, so awful in the silence and darkness of night, so indescribably awful in the solitude of our lonely dwelling.
Peggy had struggled with disease like ”the strong man prepared to run a race,” but it had now seized her with giant grasp, and she lay helpless and writhing, with the fiery fluid burning in her veins, sending dark, red flashes to her cheeks and brow. Her eyes had a fierce, lurid glare, and she tossed her head from side to side on the pillow with the wild restlessness of an imprisoned animal.
”Good G.o.d!” cried my mother, looking as white as the sheets, and trembling all over as in an ague-fit. ”What shall we do? She will die unless a doctor can see her. Oh, my child, what can we do? It is dreadful to be alone in the woods, when sickness and death are in the house.”
”_I_ will go for the doctor, mother, if you are not afraid to stay alone with Peggy,” cried I, in hurried accents, wrapping a shawl round me as I spoke.
My mother wrung her hands.
”Oh! this is terrible,” she exclaimed. ”How dim and dark it looks abroad. I cannot let you go alone, at midnight. It cannot be less than a mile to Dr. Harlowe's. No, no; I cannot let you go.”
”And Peggy must die, then. _She_ must die who has served us so faithfully, and lived alone for us! Oh, mother, let me go I will fly on the wings of the wind. You will hardly miss me before I return. I am not afraid of the darkness. I am not afraid of the lonely woods. I only fear leaving you alone with her.”
”Go,” said my mother, in a faint voice. ”G.o.d will protect you. I feel that He will, my good, brave Gabriella.”
I kissed her white cheek with pa.s.sionate tenderness, cast a glance of anguish on Peggy's fearfully altered face, then ran out into the chill, dark midnight. At first I could scarcely discern the sandy path I had so often trodden, for no moon lighted up the gloom of the hour, and even the stars glimmered faintly through a grey and cloudy atmosphere. As I hurried along, the wind came sighing through the trees with such inexpressible sadness, it seemed whispering mournfully of the dark secrets of nature. Then it deepened into a dull, roaring sound, like the murmurs of the ocean tide; but even as I went on the melancholy wind pursued me like an invisible spirit, winding around me its chill, embracing arms.
I seemed the only living thing in the cold, illimitable night. A thick horror brooded over me. The sky was a mighty pall, sweeping down with heavy cloud-fringes, the earth a wide grave. I did not fear, that is, I feared not man, or beast or ghost, but an unspeakable awe and dread was upon me. I dreaded the great G.o.d, whose presence filled with insupportable grandeur the lonely night. My heart was hard as granite.
_I_ could not have prayed, had I known that Peggy's life would be given in answer to my prayer. I could not say, ”Our Father, who art in heaven,” as I had so often done at my mother's knee, in the sweet, childlike spirit of filial love and submission. My Father's face was hidden, and behind the thick clouds of darkness I saw a stern, vindictive Being, to whom the smoke of human suffering was more acceptable than frankincense and myrrh.
I compared myself wandering alone in darkness and sorrow, on such an awful errand, to the fair, smiling being cradled in wealth, then doubtless sleeping in her bed of down, watched by attending menials. Oh!
rebel that I was, did I not need the chastening discipline, never exerted but in wisdom and in love?
Before I knew it, I was at Dr. Harlowe's door. All was dark and still.
The house was of brick, and it loomed up gloriously as I approached. It seemed to frown repulsively with its beetling eaves, as I lifted the knocker and let it fall with startling force. In a moment I heard footsteps moving and saw a light glimmering through the blinds. He was at home, then,--I had accomplished my mission. It was no matter if I died, since Peggy might be saved. I really thought I was going to die, I felt so dull and faint and breathless. I sunk down on the stone steps, just as the door was opened by Dr. Harlowe himself, whom I had seen, but never addressed before. Placing his left hand above his eyes, he looked out, in search of the messenger who had roused him from his slumber. I tried to rise, but was too much exhausted. I could scarcely make my errand understood. I had run a mile without stopping, and now I _had_ stopped, my limbs seemed turned into lead and my head to ice.
”My poor child!” said the doctor, in the kindest manner imaginable. ”You should not have come yourself at this hour. It was hardly safe.
Why,--you have run yourself completely out of breath. Come in, while they are putting my horse in the buggy. I must give _you_ some medicine before we start.”
He stooped down and almost lifted me from the step where I was seated, and led me into what appeared to me quite a sumptuous apartment, being handsomely carpeted and having long crimson curtains to the windows. He made me sit down on a sofa, while he went to a closet, and pouring out a generous gla.s.s of wine, insisted upon my drinking it. I obeyed him mechanically, for life seemed glowing in the ruddy fluid. It was. It came back in warmth to my chilled and sinking heart. I felt it stealing like a gentle fire through my whole system,--burning gently, steadily on my cheek, and kindling into light my heavy and tear-dimmed eyes. It was the first gla.s.s I had ever tasted, and it ran like electricity through my veins. Had the doctor been aware of my previous abstinence, he might not have thought it safe to have offered me the br.i.m.m.i.n.g gla.s.s. Had I reflected one moment I should have swallowed it less eagerly; but I seemed sinking, sinking into annihilation, when its reviving warmth restored me. I felt as if I had wings, and could fly over the dreary s.p.a.ce my weary feet had so lately overcome.
”You feel better, my dear,” said the doctor, with a benevolent smile, as he watched the effect of his prescription. ”You must not make so dangerous an experiment again as running such a distance at this time of night. Peggy's life is very precious, I dare say, and so is yours. Are you ready to ride? My buggy is not very large, but I think it will accommodate us both. We will see.”
Though it was the first time I had ever spoken with Dr. Harlowe, I felt as much confidence in his kindness and benevolence as if I had known him for years. There was something so frank and genial about him, he seemed, like the wine I had been quaffing, warming to the heart. There was barely room for me, slender as I was, for the carriage was constructed for the accommodation of the doctor alone; but I did not feel embarra.s.sed, or as if I were intruding. He drove very rapidly, conversing the whole time in a pleasant, cheering voice.