University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Rev. Thomas Gordon, vigorous and robust, unaccustomed to pain and sickness of any sort, committed the error so often committed by persons in perfect health. He worked hard, ate heartily, and scarcely ever gave a thought to himself. Toiling on, head, hand and heart, through the winter, which to him indeed was little different than summer, spring came, and found him not a little relaxed in constitution. His eye had lost some of its accustomed brightness, his step was less brisk, his complexion less rosy and healthful-looking; still he was not sick, and thought nothing of giving up his work. It was his intention to go north in July or August,

returning thence in the fall to resume his work and prepare for the wedding.

A tacit agreement existed between himself and the Vanross family, as well as with his relatives and friends in the North, that he should give up his work among the freedmen, after the marriage, and enter a Northern field.

He was now happy in hope, and although he loved his work among the lowly, his heart was so full of broad sympathy that no special conditions were needed to call it forth. He was fitted to be an apostle of love to all men. While others required sad conditions to awaken their sympathies and set them to work, Thomas Gordon saw in every man something to arouse kindly interest and call forth the look, the word, or the hand, of sympathy, encouragement or help.

The summer came on, and while his

work became more absorbing, he at the same time became less fitted for it. The work, which ordinarily seemed to go itself, needed now to be pushed; and his labor began to tell on him. His rest was not so sweet and refreshing as formerly; and there was a strange, confused feeling in his head at times; and now and then tell-tale pains would dart through his limbs.

These with other symptoms were telling the story of Savannah's fearful malaria. Secretly the poison had distributed throughout his system with all the strategy of a relentless foe preparing for a general attack; and it seemed to have proportioned its forces to the robustness of his physique. The attack came with its inevitable chill and its burning fever which rapidly gallopped from intermittent to remittent and finally assumed the dangerous typhoid form.

Mr. Gordon's home was in the household of an elderly widow, whither he had been advised to go for the twofold purpose of securing quiet for himself, and that the pay might be some help to her. The first part of this purpose was hardly accomplished, for Mrs. Chamomile was a tireless talker, and her conversation was not always satisfying or soothing.

When she saw her boarder becoming sick, she was secretly pleased with the thought that it would bring her into greater prominence, especially as she prided herself upon her skill as a nurse.

After Mr. had been compelled to take to his bed, and before the fever had assumed a malignant form, the doctor, who was experienced in such diseases, saw reason to apprehend a serious attack and counseled particular care and quiet. He, however, never lost hope of his patient's ultimate recovery.

The deacons from the church, calling, were comfortably assured by the physician that the sick man's chances for getting well were good; and although he was very sick he believed he would survive the run of the fever and would then recuperate perhaps quite rapidly — owing, of course, to his splendid constitution.

After departure of the doctor Mrs. Chamomile said:

"Ah, my brothers; you can't place too much confidence in what the doctor says. Doctors always say their patients are going to get well. I tell you I have been nursing sick people for a good many years, and you can't fool me. I tell you Brother Gordon is a mighty sick man, and if he ever gets out of that bed alive it will be a miracle. No, indeed, he is not likely to get well; and yet I shall do all I can, and if he can be saved anywhere he can be

saved here; for you know he can't get any better nursing in Savannah than I can give him."

The deacons took Mrs. Chamomile's account of the sick man's condition with some allowance, but nevertheless that thought it best to write to his family in the North that Mr. Gordon was seriously and dangerously ill, at the same time putting in their letter all the comforting assurances that the doctor had given them.

In reply to their letter, Mrs. Wilson, a devoted sister of the minister, was at his bedside just as soon as traveling conveniences could bring her there. Mrs. Chamomile did not look with pleasure upon this movement, regarding it as in a measure intruding upon her special prerogative as a nurse. And then, also, Mrs. Chamomile was a Southern woman, and although she could conquer her prejudices

in the presence of the affable Mr. Gordon, she could not always succeed so well when talking with his sister. She regarded Mrs. Wilson with stories of her own great deeds and descriptions of her own great virtues and high standing as a nurse and a lady — always ending with a long dissertation upon the sacrifices she had made on behalf of "Brother Gordon," and how she had now brought him out of danger, rescuing him from an almost certain death, and finally saying: "If it hadn't been for me, you would never have seen your brother alive when you got here. No, indeed, you might never have been here time enough to have seen him in his coffin; but you might never seen him alive. When you got here the trouble was all over; he had passed the crisis. He has got nothing to do now but to get well."

Mrs. Wilson received all this meekly,

and watched her brother day by day until the fever left and convalescence fairly set in. Poor Mrs. Chamomile saw her monopoly broken and her manners daily became more contemptuous toward Mrs. Wilson and less gracious even toward Mr. Gordon.

The climax was reached one bright morning when a carriage containing two ladies of dignified and refined appearance drove up to the gate. They alighted — the one elderly but so thoroughly bred that her presence was sufficient to command the highest respect, the other young and beautiful. Their countenance showed the serious character of their mission.

Mrs. Vanross and her daughter had arrived in answer to a note addressed them by Mrs. Wilson. The good sister had decided to take her brother home by steamer from Savannah to New York; and

having learned from him the full story of his love, she had dared address a note to Mrs. Vanross, informing her of the condition of Mr. Gordon, and of her intention of taking him North, quite possibly not to return soon if at all.

The note was carefully worded, and as Mrs. Vanross received it and read it she called Lavinia and said very quietly:

"Veeny, here is some news for you."

"What is it, ma? Who is the letter from?" betraying a deeper interest than she intended.

"It is a letter from Mr. Gordon's sister," replied her mother with forced calmness. "It seems that he is sick in Savannah, and his sister has come to take him home."

Mrs. Vanross then partly read the letter aloud and finally handed it to her daughter. It did not invite the ladies to come and see the sick man, but it opened the way

for a volunteer visit; and Lavinia saw enough in the letter to lead her to the feeling that her sick lover desired to see her. True to her real nature she arose to a sublime womanhood.

"I shall go to him to-night. The boat sails at four o'clock."

Mrs. Vanross remonstrated for a moment; but Lavinia's dark eyes were already overflowing, and looking her mother full in the face she said with all the sad emphasis of her soul:

"Oh, mamma, I must go or die; I cannot help how it looks, or what people say; I must go."

It was this sincere assertion, disclosing the thoroughly concentrated devotion of her tropical nature that led to the series of events which terminated as we have seen with the arrival of the two ladies at Mrs. Chamomile's residence.

The meeting between the ladies and Mrs. Wilson was cordial; and although there were no formal introductions they all recognized one another and were soon at ease together. Mrs. Wilson was a most devoted sister, and thoroughly admired her manly brother; and she was most agreeably impressed by the appearance and kind and polished manners of the visitors, contrasting as they did with the disagreeable and almost repulsive manners of Mrs. Chamomile.

It was hard for Mrs. Wilson to decide which one of the strange ladies delighted her the more — the mother with her quiet dignity and grace of manner, or the daughter with her astonishing beauty. She read at once in the eyes and the tender expression of countenance of Lavinia, the story of a love that dared assert itself, and to which she seemed entirely subject. In a moment

their hearts beat as one, for they both loved the same hero and were so related to him that they could not become rivals. Already they were sisters. The salutations being over and a few words of explanation interchanged, Mrs. Wilson tripped lightly upstairs and in a cheerful manner told the sick man of the arrival of the ladies, arranging at the same time that they should follow almost immediately so there should be no suspense. As Mrs. Vanross entered the room and looked upon the face of the sick man, so altered and so thin, she with difficulty restrained herself from betraying surprise in her countenance; but Lavinia, who came in a step behind her, hastened directly to the bedside, happy only to see and be near her lover. The sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and parched lips were not noticed — it was enough that she saw him and that he was still alive. Her thought, her purpose and her prayers were that he should get well. Her intense spirit seemed to take hold of him and bid him to look out upon life and upward to health through her strong faith and hope. Her visit was indeed an angel visit.

So far everything had progressed smoothly. Mrs. Chamomile was out and at this very moment was relating with contemptuous laughter all that had passed between the sick man and his sister since the latter had arrived, adding to her story from her evil imagination whatever she thought would heighten the effect or further elevate herself in the estimation of her listeners. She was now playing the role of martyr-general of the community, who had been burdened by the sick man and his sister as no lone woman had ever been burdened before.

During her absence the doctor had also

called, and finding the ladies so agreeable had tarried perhaps longer than his professional duties strictly required, and when Mrs. Chamomile returned well laden with food for talk, she was not a little confused to find her parlor open and Mrs. Wilson with the two strange ladies and the doctor all seated within, engaged in earnest conversation. She was not pleased. Ever since Mrs. Wilson's arrival she had been careful to have her feel that she was an alien and a stranger; and to emphasize this impression she had been very careful not to offer her anything that could be construed as an invitation to the freedom of her house. Mrs. Wilson saw this and had thoroughly respected the landlady's wishes; but this morning she thought it absolutely necessary to assume something like the authority of the mistress of the house and had so acted. Consequently she had invited the ladies to seats in the parlor, and had presented the doctor to them, and all were in pleasant mood as Mrs. Chamomile entered.

Mrs. Wilson introduced the ladies pleasantly, and Mrs. Chamomile did her best to make a favorable impression upon her visitors, but could not hide her aversion toward Mrs. Wilson. The doctor was remarking: "I am sure the disease is thoroughly over now; and all that he needs is to regain his strength. I do not apprehend any relapse, although no one can speak with certainty in such matters. It will be necessary to be very careful of his diet for some time. But I think the change of air will do him good. The northern air is so much more bracing than ours that I shall expect to hear that he is building up rapidly."

"Why doctor," broke in Mrs. Chamomile,

"are they going to take Mr. Gordon away?"

Mrs. Wilson did not wait for the doctor to reply but answered at once pleasantly: "Yes, Mrs. Chamomile; I am going to take him home with me."

"When?" almost shrieked Mrs. Chamomile her eyeballs glaring like those of an enraged tigress. The Vanross ladies observed her attitude and were almost frightened; but they managed to preserve their composure. Mrs. Wilson understood it all, and answered quietly:

"Tomorrow morning at 9 o'clock."

"Humph," replied Mrs. Chamomile; "Does the doctor say he may go? Does he know how bad he was last night? Why, doctor, he did not sleep a bit hardly all night; and he had quite a fever this morning."

"Ah," said the doctor, "he does not

appear to have any fever now, and he seems to be slowly but surely mending. While he is still very weak, yet I think it better for him to go North at once."

Mrs. Chamomile had a kind of superstitious reverence for the doctor, and in his presence she managed to subside promptly, but it was with a clearly defined mental reservation. As soon as the doctor had taken his departure, her tone was immediately reversed.

Mr. Gordon had been snatched from the grave through her great skill and care, and now he and his ungrateful sister were leaving her with scant pay and no thanks.

This was about the feeling she entertained and she was not at all careful to conceal it.

Her manner toward Mrs. Wilson became so offensive that the visitors were pained, and took their departure at their earliest

convenience, and when the carriage came to take the sick man to the steamer it was a welcome relief.

Embarking upon the steamer they breathed a sigh of relief and after a pleasant passage of little over three days landed in New York City, and were rapidly transferred to their home up the State. Despite the favorable predictions of the doctor, and the excellent care received, Mr. Gordon continued in a low state of health all summer, and it was quite late in the fall before he began to manifest his usual vigor.

Meantime, Mrs. Chamomile continued to tell the story of his sickness and of her nursing, generally delivering herself about as follows:

"Now there was Mr. Gordon — he would have been dead, sure, if it hadn't been for me. I tell you it's all in the nursin' — I always bring my patients through. Mr.

Gordon had first-class treatment, if I so say it myself. They may well thank me for having him alive now. I done that much good anyhow; I saved his life. The nursin' is everything."