 | CHAPTER XV. Westward ho! |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
Showing how one enemy drives away another.
The situation of Rainsford caused great perplexity
to Leonard Dangerfield. He could not
think of leaving him until all was decided, and
his stay would occasion anxiety to his family,
unless he accounted for his absence. How to
do this he did not know; and in the mean
time the patient grew worse. The delirium of
fever seemed to have superseded the derangement
under which he had previously laboured;
and his incoherent talk assumed a new character
and direction. His exclamations were rather
plaintive than otherwise, and his wild wanderings
seemed to have finally settled down
into one leading impression, that of a lover deserted
by his faithless mistress. Leonard had
caused him to undergo a lustration, and clothed
him decently from the wardrobe of the worthy
landlord, who good naturedly acquiesced, while
he shrugged his shoulders, and looked his wonder
that so much care should be taken of a mad
beggar.
The second day of Rainsford's illness Leonard
was most disagreeably surprised by the arrival
of the rest of the party, who came to see
what had become of him.
“We thought you had lost yourself instead
of finding your pocket-book,” said Virginia,
here, Leonard? and why did you not write or
send?”
Leonard was taken by surprise; he had no
excuse or explanation ready; and his hesitation
appeared so plain, that like a discreet sister she
looked her wonder, and said nothing. What
a pity Mrs. Judith Paddock had not been there
to profit by her example!
The young man took the earliest opportunity
of apprizing his parents of the discovery and
situation of Rainsford; and various were the
plans proposed and rejected for the purpose of
getting Virginia away from this dangerous vicinity
without exciting her suspicions. But
while this consultation was going on, accident
had saved them the trouble of devising schemes
of concealment. Virginia having been certified
that the room she had formerly occupied was
vacant, and in the situation she left it, had
retired thither with her waiting-maid, a little
ebony damsel, of whose attendance we have
hitherto said nothing, presuming it was not
necessary to advertise the reader that our heroine
had actually such an appendage. While
sitting there, her attention was caught by a
voice in the next room, which made her start
and shudder. It was one she imagined familiar
to her ear, dear, still dear to her heart, and it
uttered strange incoherent rhapsodies that bespoke
a disordered mind. She listened again,
but all was silent; and she imagined herself
mistaken. But again its incoherent ravings, or
rather moanings, met her ear so distinctly, that
she could no longer doubt.
“Hark! what dat? who dat, missee?” cried
the maid, fearfully.
Virginia did not answer; an irresistible impulse
came over her; she started up, rushed
to the place whence the voice proceeded; and,
careless at this moment of all considerations
but one, opened the door, and entered the sick
man's room. The quick ear of affection had
recognised the voice, and the quick eye of affection
at the first glance distinguished the altered
features of the poor wanderer. But he did not
know her. He lay on his back on the pillow,
with his eyes glaring upwards on vacancy, and
his lips moving as if unconsciously, sometimes
uttering disjointed talk, at others without producing
any sounds save low, inarticulate whispers.
Virginia neither shrieked, nor wept, nor
fainted; she stood like an image of despair
gazing on the flushed face, glazed eye, and haggard
features of the poor invalid, without uttering
a word, or stirring a finger. At length, he
seemed to notice her, and, waving his hand,
said, in his usual plaintive voice,—
“Go away, go away; I don't want to have
any thing more to say to you. What's your
name? ah! old Virginia. I was willing to lose
my soul for your sake, and you repaid me by
breaking my heart. Go away; there's no use
in plaguing me any more.”
“Rainsford—Dudley Rainsford—don't you
know me?” at length she said, in a voice which
might have cast out seven raging fiends.
“O yes, I know you of old; once I might
have loved such a deceitful face and sweet
voice, but I hate all women now; they have
brought me into the world to be miserable, and
another sent me out of it howling.”
Virginia covered her face and wept; for the
sound of his voice seemed to unlock the springs
of grief that before were closed.
“Ay, ay, you may well weep; but what does
that signify? The rain is of no use in the desert
where nothing will grow; and I have heard
of a cruel, deceitful animal—I forget its name,
but I believe it's woman—that always sheds
tears when it is going to tear its victim to
pieces. Yes, yes, yes—” and here he began
again his low, indistinct, disjointed cogitations.
This painful scene was interrupted by the
entrance of Mrs. Dangerfield, who had gone
into Virginia's room, and, not finding her there,
sought her where she was to be found. Without
uttering a word to disturb the invalid, she
took her hand, looked in her face with an eye
of anxious, affectionate authority, and led her
out of the room, without being observed by
Rainsford.
The moment they were in private the mother
besought, nay, commanded the daughter to accompany
her immediately to St. Louis, and
spare herself the unnecessary pain of being
present, or so near him, at the period now fast
approaching when Rainsford's sufferings were
about to be brought to a close. She could be
of no service, and would only be laying up
recollections that would for ever blast her happiness
and destroy the repose she might yet
attain. The physician, she stated, had already
and he must die.
“Then let me stay here and pray for him,
dear mother,” said Virginia.
“You can do that as effectually absent as
present.”
“But why cannot I wait on him, sit by his
bedside, and see that nothing, nothing that human
care, that human aid, that affection and
gratitude can perform to sooth his last hours
is wanting?”
“My dear daughter, recollect you are not Mr.
Rainsford's wife.”
“True, mother; but if not here, we shall be
united hereafter. I know the forms of the world
forbid such things; but here, in this remote region,
among strangers whom I shall never see
again, and who will never see me; in the presence
of you, my father, and Leonard, if sanctioned
by your consent, who shall dare to say
that in such a situation, and under such circumstances,
I should do wrong to obey the impulse
of my heart and my reason? Mother, dear
mother, I must see him, I must be with him
when he dies.”
“Good heavens! Virginia, why?”
“I have heard that when Providence takes
to itself an immortal soul, just when the light
is to be extinguished for ever in this world,
the reason, which has been obscured or shattered
by sickness and suffering, is almost always
restored for a little while before the final separation.
I must be with him then. I conjure
you, as you value my peace, my life, to let me
be with him then, that he may know I did not
call me once more his dear Virginia. The
recollection of that will be something to dwell
upon, and I shall remember him, not as a wayward,
wandering maniac, but a kind, rational,
dear friend, whose last look recognised, whose
last word blessed me. Wilt thou oblige me,
dear mother?”
“Your weak state of health and tenderness
of heart, my daughter, will sink under such a
trial. I dare not trust you.”
“Mother, none better know than you, for
your own life has proved it so, that neither
strength, nor youth, nor nerves, nor sinews, no:
even Samson himself, though he bore the city
gates upon his shoulders, is half so strong, so
enduring as true affection. The weakest woman,
animated by this, can encounter fatigues,
loss of rest, absence of food, yes, every privation
of life, with a faith and perseverance to which
men can never arrive. For her husband or her
offspring she is invincible so long as hope is
kept alive in her heart.”
“But what hope can you have, my daughter?
The doctor says there is nothing to hope.”
“Nothing from the doctor; but there is a
greater than he, and we know not yet his decision.
Mother, hear me! I know not how, or
when, or whence it came, but I have a conviction—no,
not a conviction, but a hope, which
almost approaches it—that the crisis is close at
hand, and that this fever is destined to produce
a great change in the mind of poor Rainsford.
It may be folly, it may be fanaticism; but I feel
as if I could save him, and I alone. My
aided by the blessing of Heaven, shall
yet restore him to his better self, and make him,
what he was intended to be, a bright example
of genius and virtue.”
“But if at last you are disappointed?”
“If so, so be it. If after doing all I can,
and fulfilling what I consider a solemn duty
dear to my reason and my affection for him
who not only saved my life, but who would
have devoted his own life to me had it been
permitted; should it please Heaven that I am
disappointed at last, you shall then see me
bear myself as becomes the daughter of such a
mother. My conscience will then be at peace,
and I have read that we can bear up against
any feeling but that of remorse.”
“My noble girl!” cried Mrs. Dangerfield,
clasping Virginia in her arms, “you shall be
gratified. I too will watch, all of us will watch
by turns or together; and may the hope you
cherish be prophetic!”
From this period the character of Virginia
assumed an almost sublime elevation, such as
is always the result of the steady, rational, persevering
pursuit of one great object. A serene,
unchanging, solemn self-possession governed
every moment of her life, and no one ever heard
her sigh, or saw her weep, or falter for a moment
in her attentions to Rainsford. When she
did not sit by the bedside of the sufferer, she
was ever near, hovering over him like a ministering
spirit, watching the expression of his
eye, the changes of his countenance, the motions
of his muscles, his breathing, and following
mind, to discover if any ray of reason broke
forth from the dark chaos of confusion. The
father and brother, though they did not exactly
approve her devotedness, could not help admiring
and lending their aid to this course of persevering
gratitude and affection; but they were
utterly hopeless of its consequences. The physician
had given it as his opinion that the condition
both of his mind and body previous to
the fever precluded all rational hope of Rainsford's
recovery. He shook his head more significantly
every time he came, and repeated his
assurances that the crisis of the disease would
be followed by immediate dissolution.
The usual state of the young man was that
of quiet as to bodily exertion, while his mind
seemed perpetually rambling, as appeared by
the motion of his lips and occasional mutterings.
But he neither raved, nor required force
to restrain him; and there was no apprehension
of any violence in his conduct. Thus
several anxious days passed away, accompanied
by increasing weakness on the part of Rainsford,
and decreasing hope on the part of his
friends.
“He cannot live,” said the mother; “he is
wasting away every hour. Be prepared, my
dear Virginia.”
“I am prepared, yet still I hope,” replied the
daughter.
On the fifteenth day, or rather night, for it
was far in the night, it happened that Virginia
was sitting in the sick man's room, with no
other companion than an old French nurse,
was, as usual, anxiously watching his every
look and motion, when all at once his low murmurings,
which day and night had continued
without intermission, ceased, and a dead, awful
silence, like that of the grave, succeeded. Virginia
snatched a light, and held it over his face.
His eyes were closed, and his countenance was
that of deathlike repose—of death itself—pale,
sunken, and motionless. She took his emaciated
hand; it was moist, and the pulse still
beat its low alarum. He was asleep, not dead.
“The hour is come!” thought Virginia; and,
seating herself again, watched, as a mother
watches the bed of her last and only offspring
when wearied nature, worn out with sickness
and pain, seeks a temporary reprieve in the
arms of sleep. For a considerable period he
neither stirred, nor spoke, nor breathed to the
listening ear of Virginia; and often in the dead
silence that reigned all around, within and without,
in the heavens and the earth, the conviction
came over her that now he must be dead.
But the unerring witness, the pulse, that still
continued its motion, told that the tide of life
was yet on its way to the ocean of eternity.
As thus she sat, fearing that every beat would
be the last, she felt a tremulous motion in his
fingers, his hand was drawn towards his head,
a sigh heaved from his breast, and he opened
his eyes. They did not glare as wont, but
gradually moved around the room, and rested
at last on the face of Virginia. He contemplated
it for a moment, passed his hand over his
voice,—
“I thought I saw Virginia, but she's gone.”
He looked again wistfully in her face, while
she remained motionless, scarcely breathing,
scarcely able to breathe, for the conflicting feelings
which now rushed on her heart almost
choked her.
“Virginia,” said he at length, “is it you?”
“Blessed be Providence! he knows me,” said
the soul of Virginia; but she could not answer.
“I thought so; it is nothing; a dream—or”
—here he closed his eyes again, and sunk into
another deathlike sleep which lasted an hour or
more. Again he awoke as before, and again he
saw the same white vision bending over him.
“Virginia,” whispered he, for his strength
admitted of no more, “is it you, or am I again
cheated with a dream or a shadow?”
“It is I,” replied the young maiden, scarcely
knowing whether she ought to answer him or
not.
He tried to raise himself on his elbow to
look at her, but his strength failed him, and he
again sunk into a doze.
The day was now dawning; the watchful
nurse, who usually slept on her post, like many
others, for it is the anxiety of affection alone
that can keep the eyes wide open night after
night, now awoke; and Virginia, motioning
her towards where she sat, whispered her to go
and summon the physician, who had requested
to be called, in the event of any change in his
patient. He came while Rainsford was still
asleep, and Virginia expressed in a whisper her
of recovery.
“My dear young lady, never believe it,” replied
he in the same tone; “it is the precursor of
the last sleep; indeed it is doubtful whether he
will ever wake. But if he does it will be but
for a few hours, and then—”
“Cannot you do something for him, doctor?”
“Nothing; all human aid is vain. It is useless
for me to attend here any more. I can do
nothing for him. There—he's gone now—his
pulse is stopped—no—there it is again—one—
two—three—but it's all in vain—let him die in
peace—I can do nothing more—good morning.”
And he departed without ceremony.
“Then I will try,” thought Virginia, who remembered
having heard many instances of persons
recovering after having been given over
by the doctors. Nature, indeed, seems often to
do wonders when left to herself; or it may be
that Providence interposes in these cases sometimes,
to remind us how idle is all dependence
on the presumptuous ignorance of man.
He had scarcely gone when Colonel Dangerfield
appeared at the door, accompanied by a
venerable old man. Virginia motioned them
not to enter, and went softly out to apprize them
of the state of the patient, and the decision of
the doctor.
“Will you permit me to see him?” said the
old man, in a French accent. “My profession
is rather the cure of souls than of bodies; but
the nature of my calling, and the vicissitudes
of my life have made it necessary that I should
I presume, if he awakes at all, awake in the
possession of his reason. In that case I may
pray with him, if I can do nothing more.”
“I feel grateful for your kindness, but this
young gentleman is not a Catholic.”
“Well, never mind,” said Father Jacques, as
he was called; “we may pray together for all
that. Though we may differ in some things,
there are others of a thousand times greater
consequence, in which we all agree. I am
a native of France, but have lived long in this
mild and tolerant land, and have not been
scourged into bigotry by persecution, or seduced
into it by the power of persecuting others. I,
at least, cannot do him harm, and may be of
service. Permit me to see him, I entreat you.
There is no other clergyman in this part of
the country.”
The good man received the permission, and
entered the room where Rainsford was now
lying, awake, and in possession of his senses,
but so weak that he held on life but by a
single hair. Though he had spoken lightly
of his skill, Father Jacques had the benefit of
general learning, aided by long experience as a
missionary among white men and red men;
and was indeed far superior to many professed
and practising physicians. He saw at once
that all that was to be combated now was
weakness of body and mind. The disease had
left them both free from every thing but that.
He prescribed various little remedies for the
purpose of keeping the spark alive, until nature
had time to rally and resume her functions.
and death, time and eternity; and during that
period it is not too much to say that he owed
his life to the perpetual, the intense cares of
Virginia. She never left him; she it was that
poured the restoratives of the good Father
Jacques, drop by drop, into his mouth; she it
was that marked every movement indicating
pain or uneasiness; she it was that placed his
pillow, or his head; and she it was that, raising
herself above the petty affectations that spoil the
gentlest of all beings, woman, shrunk from
nothing which she thought might conduce to
his ease or administer to his recovery. He
sometimes attempted to speak to her, to thank
her—but she stopped him at once, by declaring
that if he persisted she would leave him. But
though he spoke not, his eye followed her
wherever she went, and his heart was almost
bursting with gratitude and love.
As he continued to gather strength, Virginia
gradually began to absent herself, or only to
visit his chamber in company with her mother.
He reproached her for it, and almost wished he
were dying again, that he might have more of
her society. Relieved in some measure from
her intense anxiety, she took an opportunity of
inquiring of Leonard the particulars of the discovery
of Rainsford. He spared her the relation
of the most affecting and revolting part,
and contented himself with merely stating that
he came there in a high fever and delirium, no
one knew from whence. During the progress
of his recovery, which was slow and lingering,
the good Father Jacques, who had been let into
to see him almost every day, conversing with
him on the subject of mental maladies, without
intimating his knowledge that it could have
any particular application to him. He mingled
a rational philosophy with a rational religion;
took frequent occasion to warn him against the
indulgence of a belief in presentiments, which
added to actual misfortunes all the miseries of
anticipation, without enabling us to avoid or
mitigate them; and above all against the spirit
of fanaticism, the fruitful source of mental
horrors unutterable. The force of calm, dispassionate
reason, and unaffected piety, combined,
is almost irresistible. Father Jacques
neither puzzled him with metaphysics, nor disputed
points of faith, but dwelt on topics of
practical philosophy, and practical religion,
such as all rational beings can comprehend.
The difference between this rational old man,
and the fiery-headed preacher of the terrors of
the bottomless pit was, that the one goaded the
apprehensive nervous being to madness, the
other soothed him into a firm reliance in the
mercies of the Supreme Being.
The good priest saw with honest pleasure
the effect produced on the mind of his patient
by the course he was pursuing, and was delighted—for
there was that about the mind and
manners of Rainsford which conciliated and attracted
almost all with whom he associated—to
discover that he had no distinct recollection of
any thing that occurred, from the time of his
first derangement to the period of his restoration.
He had a vague idea of having lost the
but Father Jacques insensibly led him into the
belief that this was nothing more than the effect
of the delirium, which was itself the consequence
of his fever. Thus he remained,
happily unaware of the incidents of the few
last months; and the recollection of the fate of
his family, together with the weight of the
dreadful presentiment of his own, yielded in a
great degree to the reasonings of the good and
wise old man, aided by the hope, and almost
the belief, that he had now fulfilled his destiny,
by his temporary alienation of mind. The period
which his fears had always rested upon, as that
in which the evil was to come upon him, was
now rapidly passing away, and he felt every
day more confident. The fact is, his mind was
now getting into a healthful state, and life, and
all that constitutes its ingredients, began to assume
an aspect entirely different from that
which they had presented for years past. The
fever, and its consequent treatment, had not only
entirely broken the habitual concatenation of
his ideas, but created, as it were, a new physical
man, with new feelings, thoughts, recollections,
and anticipations. Still there was at times a
certain dreamy consciousness, an indistinct
perception, which is as difficult to analyze as to
describe, and which prevented his ever making
any inquiries into the circumstances or the
reasons of his being where he was, when he
first came to his recollection.
| CHAPTER XV. Westward ho! | |