 | CHAPTER XXXI. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" |  |
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
“MADAM, are you aware that you breathe an infected
atmosphere? — that this building is assigned to
small-pox cases? Pray do not cross the threshold.”
The superintendent of the hospital laid aside his pipe, and advanced
to meet the stranger whose knock had startled him from
a post-prandial doze.
“I am not afraid of contagion, and came to see the patient
who was brought here yesterday from No. 139 Elm Street.”
“Have you a permit to visit here?”
“Yes; you will find it on this paper, given me by the proper
authorities.”
“What is the name of the person you desire to see?”
The superintendent opened a book that lay on the table
beside him, and drew his finger up and down the page.
“Maurice Carlyle.”
“Ah, yes, — I have it now. Maurice Carlyle, Ward 3, — cot
No. 7. Madam, may I ask, —”
“No, sir; I have no inclination to answer idle questions.
Will you show me the way, or shall I find it?”
“Certainly, I will conduct you; but I was about to remark
that a death has just occurred in Ward No. 3, and I am under
the impression that it was the Elm Street case. Madam, you
look faint; shall I bring you a glass of water?”
“No. Show me the body of the dead.”
“This way, if you please.”
He walked down a dim, low-vaulted passage, and paused at
the entrance of a room lined with cots, where the nurse was
slowly passing from patient to patient.
“Nurse, show this lady to cot No. 7.”
Swiftly the tall figure of the visitor glided down the room,
and placing her hand on the arm of the nurse, she said
huskily, —
“Where is the man who has just died? Quick! do not
keep me in suspense.”
“There, to the right; shall I uncover the face?”
Under the blue check coverlet that was spread smoothly over
the cot, the stiff outlines of a human form were clearly defined;
and, when the nurse stooped, the stranger put out one arm and
held him back, while her whole frame trembled violently.
“Stop! be good enough to leave me.”
The attendant withdrew a few yards, and curiously watched
the queenly woman, who stood motionless, with her fingers
tightly interlaced.
She was dressed in a gray suit of some shining fabric, and a
long gossamer veil of the same hue hung over her features.
After a few seconds she swept back the veil, and, as she bent
forward, a stray sunbeam dipped through the closed shutters,
and flashed across a white, horror-stricken face, crowned with
clustering braids of silver hair.
She shut her eyes an instant, grasped the coverlet, and drew
it down; then caught her breath, and looked at the dead.
It was a young, boyish face, horribly swollen and distorted,
and coarse red locks were matted around his brow and temples.
“Thank God, Maurice Carlyle still lives.”
She involuntarily raised her hands towards heaven, and the
expression of dread melted from her countenance.
Slowly and reverently she re-covered the corpse, and approached
the nurse.
“I am searching for my husband. Which cot is No. 7?”
“That on your left, — next to the dead.”
Mrs. Carlyle turned, and gazed at the bloated crimson mass
crept over her, as she endeavored to discover in that loathsome
hideous visage some familiar feature — some trace of the
manly beauty that once rendered it so fascinating.
The swollen blood-shot eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, and,
while delirious muttering fell upon the ears of the visitor, she
saw that his cheeks were somewhat lacerated, and his hands,
partially confined, were tearing at the inflamed flesh.
She shivered with horror, and a groan broke from her pitying
heart.
“What an awful retribution! My God, have mercy upon
him! He is sufficiently punished.”
Drawing her perfumed lace handkerchief from her pocket,
she leaned over and wiped away the bloody foam that oozed
across his lips, and lifting his hot head turned it sufficiently to
expose the right ear, where a large mole was hidden by the thick
hair.
“Maurice Carlyle! But what a fearful wreck?”
She covered her eyes with her hand, and moaned.
The nurse came nearer, and said hesitatingly, —
“Madam, surely he is not your husband? His clothes are
almost in tatters, while yours are — ahem! —”
“Spare me all comments on the comparison. Can I obtain a
comfortable, quiet room, in this building, and have him removed
to it at once? You hesitate? I will compensate you liberally,
will pay almost any price for an apartment where he can at
least have silence and seclusion.”
“We can accommodate you, but of course if the patient is carried
from this ward to a private room, we shall be compelled to
charge extra.”
“Charge what you choose, only arrange the matter as
promptly as possible. How soon can you make the change?”
“In twenty minutes, madam.”
The nurse rang for an assistant, to whom the necessary instructions
were given, and in the interim Mrs. Carlyle leaned
against the cot, and brushed away the flies that buzzed about the
pitiable victims.
Two men carried the sufferer up a flight of steps, and ere
long he was transferred to a large comfortable bed in an airy
well-furnished apartment.
The removal had not been completed more than an hour,
when the surgeon made his evening round, and followed the
patient to his new quarters.
He paused at sight of the elegantly dressed woman who sat
beside the bed, and said, stammeringly, —
“I am informed that No. 7 is your husband, and that you
have taken charge of his case, and intend to nurse him. Have
you had small-pox?”
“No, sir.”
“Madam, you run a fearful risk.”
“I fully appreciate the hazard, and am prepared to incur it.
Do you regard this case as hopeless?”
“Not altogether, though the probabilities are that it will terminate
fatally.”
“I have had too little experience to warrant my undertaking
the management of the case, and, while I intend to remain here,
I wish you to engage the services of some trustworthy nurse who
understands the treatment of this disease. Can you recommend
such a person?”
“Yes, madam; I can send you a man in whom I have entire
confidence, and fortunately he is not at present employed. If
you desire it, I will see him within the next hour, and give him
all requisite instructions about the patient.”
“Promptness in this matter will greatly oblige me, and I
wish to spare no expense in contributing to the comfort and
restoration of the sufferer. As I am utterly unknown to you,
I prefer to place in your hands a sufficient amount to defray all
incidental expenditures.”
She laid a roll of bills upon the table, and as Dr. Clingman
counted them, she added, —
“It is possible that I may be attacked by this disease, though
I have been repeatedly vaccinated; and if I should die, please
recollect that you will find in my purse a memorandum of the
agent and banker in New-York City.”
With mingled curiosity and admiration the physician looked
at the pale, handsome woman, who spoke of death as coldly
and unconcernedly as of to-morrow's sun, or next month's
moon.
“Madam, allow me to ask if you have no friends in this
city, — no relatives nearer than New York?”
“None, sir. It is my wish that our conversation should be
confined to the symptoms and treatment of your patient.”
Dr. Clingman bowed, and, after writing minute instructions
upon a sheet of paper left on the mantelpiece, took his departure.
Securing the door on the inside, Mrs. Carlyle threw aside
her bonnet and wrappings, and came back to the sufferer on the
bed.
Eight years of reckless excess and dissipation had obliterated
every vestige of manly beauty from features that disease now
rendered loathsome, and the curling hair and long beard were
unkempt and grizzled.
Leaning against the pillow, the lonely woman bent over to
scrutinize the distorted, burning face, and softly took into her
cool palms one hot and swollen hand, which in other days she
had admiringly stroked, and tenderly pressed against her cheek
and lips. How totally unlike that countenance, which, handsome
as Apollyon, had looked down at her on her bridal day, and
fondly whispered — “my wife.”
Memory mercilessly broke open sealed chambers in that
wretched woman's heart, and out of one leaped a wail that
made her tremble and moan, — “Oh, Evelyn, my wife, forgive
your husband.”
Slowly compassion began to bridge the dark gulf of separation
and hate, and as the wife gazed at the writhing form of her
husband, her stony face softened, and tears gathered in the large,
mournful eyes.
“Ah, Maurice! This world has proved a huge cheat to you
My husband, yet my bitterest foe, — my first, my last, my only
love! If I could recall one throb of the old affection, one atom
of the old worshipping tenderness and devotion, — but it has
withered; my heart is scorched and ashen, — and neither love
nor hope haunts its desolate ruins. Poor, polluted, downtrodden
idol! Maurice — Maurice — my husband, I have
come. Evelyn, your wife, forgives you, as she hopes for pardon
at the hands of her God.”
Kneeling beside the bed, with her snowy fingers clasped
around his, she bowed her head, and humbly prayed for his
soul, and for her own; and, when the petition ended, that peace
which this world can never give, — which had so long been
exiled, fluttered back and brooded once more in her storm-riven
heart.
Softly she lifted and smoothed the long tangled hair that
clung to his forehead, and tears dripped upon his scarlet face, as
she said; brokenly, —
“Till death us do part! Poor Maurice! Deserted and
despised by your former parasites. After long years, my vows
bring me back in the hour of your need. God grant you life,
to redeem your past, — to save your sinful soul from eternal
ruin.”
Suns rose and set, weary days and solemn nights of vigil succeeded
each other, and tirelessly the wife and hired nurse
watched the progress of the dreadful disease. Occasionally Mr.
Carlyle talked deliriously, and more than once the name of
Edith Dexter hung on his lips, and was coupled with tenderer
terms than were ever bestowed on the woman who wore his
own. Bending over his pillow, the pale watcher heard and
noted all, and a sad pitying smile curved her mouth now and
then, as she realized that the one holy love of this man's life
triumphed over the wreck of fortune, health, and hope, and
kept its hold upon the heart that long years before had sold
itself to Lucifer.
Sleeplessly, faithfully, she went to and fro in that darkened
room, whose atmosphere was tainted by infection, and
she was assured the patient would recover.
The apartment was so dimly lighted that Mr. Carlyle took
little notice of his attendants, but one afternoon when the nurse
had gone to procure some refreshments, the sick man turned on
his pillow, and looked earnestly at the woman who was engaged
in writing at a table near the bed.
“Mrs. Smith.”
Mrs. Carlyle rose and approached him.
“Are you Mrs. Smith, — my landlady?”
“No, sir. I am merely your nurse.”
“My nurse? What is the matter with me?”
“Small-pox, — but the danger is now over.”
“Small-pox! Where did I catch it? Am I still in Elm
Street?”
“No, sir; you are in the hospital.”
Shading his inflamed eyes with his hand, he mused for some
moments, and she saw a perplexed and sorrowful expression
cross his features.
“Is there any danger of my dying?”
“That danger is past.”
“What is your name?”
“Mrs. Gerome.”
“Stand a little closer to me. I find I am almost blind.
Mrs. Gerome? Your voice is strangely like one that I have
not heard for many years, — and it carries me back, — back —
to —” He sighed, and pressed his fingers over his eyes.
After a few seconds, he said, —
“Do give me some water. I am as parched as Dives.”
She lifted his head and put the glass to his lips, — and while
he drank, his eyes searched her face, and lingered admiringly
on her beautiful hand.
“Are you a regular nurse at this hospital?”
“I am engaged for your case.”
“I see no pock-marks on your skin; it is as smooth as ivory.
Shall I escape as lightly?”
“It is impossible to tell. Here comes your dinner.”
He caught her arm, and gazed earnestly at her.
“Is your hair really so white, or is it merely an illusion of
my inflamed eyes?”
“There is not a dark hair in my head; it is as white as
snow.”
While the nurse prepared the food and arranged it on the
table, Mrs. Carlyle hastily collected several articles scattered
about the apartment, and softly opened the door.
Standing there a moment, she looked back at the figure comfortably
elevated on pillows, and a long sigh of relief crossed
her lips.
“Thank God! I have done my duty, and now he needs me
no longer. Next time I see your face, Maurice Carlyle, I hope
it will be at the last bar, in the final judgment; and then may
the Lord have mercy upon us both.”
The words were breathed inaudibly, and, closing the door
gently, she hurried down the steps and in the direction of a
small room which Dr. Clingman had converted into an office.
As she entered, he looked up and pushed back his spectacles.
“What can I do for you?”
“A little thing, which will cost you no trouble, but will
greatly oblige me. Doctor, I have found you a kind and sympathizing
gentleman, and am grateful for the delicate consideration
with which you have treated me. Mr. Carlyle is beyond
danger, and I shall leave him in your care. When he is sufficiently
strong to be removed, I desire that you will give him
this letter, which contains a check payable to his order. There,
examine it, and be so good as to write me a receipt.”
Silently he complied, and when she had re-enclosed the check
and sealed the envelope she placed it in his hand.
“Dr. Clingman, is there any other place to which small-pox
cases can be carried? To-day I have discovered some symptoms
of the disease in my own system, and I feel assured I shall be
ill before this time to-morrow.”
“My dear madam, why not remain here?”
“Because I do not wish to be discovered by Mr. Carlyle, and
die, alone and unknown.”
“If you will trust yourself to me, and to a faithful female
nurse whom I can secure, I promise you, upon my honor as a
gentleman, that I will allow no one else to see you, living or
dead. My dear madam, I beg you to reconsider, and remain
where I can watch over, and perhaps preserve your life. I
dreaded this. You are feverish now.”
Wearily she swept her hand across her forehead, and a dreary
smile flitted over her wan features.
“My life is a worthless, melancholy thing, useless to others,
and a crushing burden to me; and I might as well lay it down
here as elsewhere. I accept your promise, Dr. Clingman, and
hope you will obtain a room in the quiet and secluded portion
of the building. If I should be so fortunate as to die, do not
forget the memorandum in this purse. I leave my body in your
care, my soul in the hands of Him who alone can give it rest.”
But God knows best;
And I have prayed, — but vain has been my prayer, —
For rest — for rest.”
| CHAPTER XXXI. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" | |