Doctor Vandyke :: :: University of Virginia Library

The occurrences of this terrible night
afterward became the topic of conversation
far and wide in the region around
Rivanna; and the point of most interest
seemed to be the exact hour of the night
at which the singular event—if there
were such—took place.

It was remembered that the party in
the drawing-room separated at about
eleven—the object having been to afford
Honoria time to make her preparations,
procure the water from the stream, and
be in readiness at midnight for the ordeal
of the dumb-cake. That she did make
every preparation, and, in spite of the
storm, reach the point where the three
streams met, and return with the bucket
of water, was soon ascertained—the
bucket was there, and one of the maids
had seen her pass through the grounds.
She had regained the house, it was ascertained,
some time before midnight;
and certainly had time to arrange her
night toilet, to perform the ceremony of
dipping the sleeve of her garment in the
water, and was ready to look into the
mirror at the moment when the great
clock in the hall below struck twelve.

And yet the horrible incidents of the
night must have taken place a considerable
time after midnight—perhaps
as late as one in the morning. There
was no means, it is true, of accurately
ascertaining this fact—that is to say, of
fixing the precise hour; but the young
ladies of the party were confident that
they had listened for sounds from Honoria's
room at midnight; were equally
certain that they had heard nothing; and
they had asserted that it was a considerable
time after midnight, and just as
they were retiring, when the piercing
shriek which startled them was heard
issuing from Honoria's apartment!

The shriek was followed by a heavy
fall. The whole party of young ladies,

clad in their white night-dresses, ran, in
undisguised alarm, to the chamber, and
there a piteous sight met their eyes. Honoria
was stretched upon the floor insensible,
and, when they raised her, her
companions gave a quick shudder; she
hung upon their arms so inert and lifeless,
that they thought her dead. Restoratives
were quickly applied, and
water dashed in the young girl's face, to
arouse her; but, for a long time, these
remedies had no effect. Meanwhile,
Lady Brand had been sent for, and hurried
to the chamber. As she ran to her
child, calling to her in agonized tones, a
faint color came to Honoria's cheeks; she
opened her eyes, gazed vacantly around
her, and then, clutching rather than simply
embracing her mother, cried in a
trembling and broken voice:

“O mother!—protect me! do not
leave me! protect me from that horror
—on my shoulder!”

As she spoke, she closed her eyes,
and with a frightful shudder clung to her
mother, as though for protection.

She was borne to bed immediately,
and Lady Brand requested the young
ladies to retire, and leave her to tend her
daughter. This they did with reluctance;
but the apartment was soon vacated
by all but Honoria, Lady Brand,
and her eldest daughter.

“Honoria has had some terrible
shock—Heaven knows what!” said Lady
Brand, supporting the trembling form
of the half-inanimate girl in her arms on
the bed. “What it was can be ascertained
afterward; what is necessary now
is a physician.”

“Oh, yes, yes, mamma!” exclaimed
her daughter, pale, and in tears.

“Do not disturb Colonel Brand; he
will be of no service. Send Cato—he is
trusty—on the best horse in the stables,
for Dr. Bond.”

The young lady hurried to arouse
Cato, who was soon in the saddle.

An hour afterward, Dr. Bond ar
rived—an elderly, solemn-looking gentleman,
who “hummed” between his
phrases, looked profound, and rounded
his periods with sonorous scientific
terms. He prescribed some trifle for
Honoria, assuring Lady Brand that the
young girl was “simply laboring under
a slight nervous disorder, partaking of
the character of, but not to be accurately
designated, at least at the present
moment, as hysteria; something had
doubtless disagreed with her, and subsequent
agitation on some subject, or, in
fact, on no subject, would amply account
for a slight attack which need occasion
no alarm—no alarm whatever, I assure
you, my dear madam.”

On the afternoon of the next day,
Honoria, who had passed the forenoon in
a condition of half-consciousness only,
began to grow animated, and had a magnificent
color.

“Look, doctor,” said Lady Brand
to Dr. Bond. “I think my daughter's
appearance indicates an access of fever.”

“Hum!” said Dr. Bond, clearing his
throat with extreme dignity, “it may be
that there is a slight—hum—inclination
to—as you say, madam—fever.”

And, with a profound air, the doctor
felt the young girl's pulse.

“I know it is fever,” said Lady Brand,
brusquely, and turning to Colonel Brand,
who was seated, still and solemn, in the
chamber, she exchanged a few words
with him in a low tone, after which she
left the apartment.

Descending the staircase rapidly,
Lady Brand was just passing through
the hall, when suddenly she found herself
face to face with a pale young man,
whose white lips said:

“What is the matter with Honoria,
aunt?”

Lady Brand seized his hand, and exclaimed:

“I will tell you, when you return,
Edmund. I intended to send Cato, but

you will not return without him, if you
have to drag him.”

“Drag him! drag whom?”

“Dr. Vandyke.”

Innis gazed with startled eyes at
Lady Brand.

“Yes, Dr. Vandyke!” she repeated;
“he must come at once, and see my
child; this stupid Dr. Bond will let her
die—”

“Die!—good Heavens! of what?”

“Of brain-fever.”

As she was speaking, Lady Brand
had hastened toward a desk in a corner
of the hall, which contained pen, ink,
and paper. Taking a sheet, she wrote
upon it:

“You said once that if I ever needed
you, you would come, travelling night
and day, if necessary. I need you now.”

Signing and directing this note, she
gave it to Innis.

“Bring the doctor back with you,
my son, and as soon as possible,” she
said; “I have an instinct in diseases, and
this of Honoria's is going to be critical.”

Innis scarcely waited to hear the
sentence finished. His thorough-bred,
fresh and in fine condition, stood at the
door; he was in the saddle in a minute,
and disappeared at full gallop in the
direction of Williamsburg.

It seemed to Lady Brand a century
since the departure of Innis, and she
counted the hours, day and night, with
feverish impatience — holding the hot
face of Honoria in her bosom—giving
her cooling draughts—striving to combat
the disease until the arrival of the person
for whom she had sent.

Dr. Bond had taken up his residence
at the hall, and still rounded his periods
with serene dignity, drank the colonel's
wine, and declared the case of Miss
Brand one which would readily yield
to treatment, unless another and more
threatening phase was superinduced upon
the present, which his diagnosis told
him was—

The voice droned on, and Lady
Brand did not even seem to hear it. It
was three in the morning, and she held
the hot hand of the girl, listening.

All at once she turned her head
quickly.

“He has come!” she said.

“To whom, madam, may I ask, do
you—hum—refer?” said Dr. Bond.

Lady Brand was already at the door,
a lamp in her hand; steps traversed the
hall, and then mounted.

“Well,” said a vibrating and metallic
voice, “how is she?”

And Dr. Vandyke came and grasped
the hand of Lady Brand; his long, gray
hair streaming around his face, in which
burned two piercing eyes; his long overcoat
covered with dust; his pipe-stem
legs, lost in huge riding-boots, clattering
as he walked.

“How is Honoria?”

“She is ill.”

“Worse?”

“Yes.”

This dialogue terminated with a nod
from Dr. Vandyke, who went into the
chamber, and up to the bed.

Dr. Bond was standing there in an
attitude of much dignity. An expression
of some surprise, and even hauteur,
mingled with the dignity.

“Hum,” he said, “I have the honor
of seeing Dr.—”

“Vandyke, at your service. How is
Miss Brand?”

This question was delivered with
business-like brevity, and the tone of it
contrasted strongly with that of Dr.
Bond.

The latter cleared his throat, and
commenced an imposing sentence; but
Dr. Vandyke, measuring his professional
brother at one glance, proceeded unceremoniously
to form his own opinion of
the sufferer's condition.

Lady Brand was at his side. After
some moments' silence:

“Well, doctor?” she said, anxiously.

Dr. Vandyke said, briefly:

“Well, madam?”

That was all; he did not look at the
lady.

“What do you think of Honoria?”

“She has brain-fever.”

“The attack is dangerous?”

“Hum—will you permit me, madam
—if I might venture to express an
opinion,” said Dr. Bond, with some hauteur,
“Miss Brand has already improved
under my treatment, and I do not regard
her case as critical in its character.”

Lady Brand bowed hurriedly, but
looked at Dr. Vandyke. This look was
unmistakable.

“You desire my opinion of Miss
Brand's condition, madam?” he said.

“Yes, doctor.”

He looked at her with a singular,
wistful glance, and muttered:

“You were always strong; superior
in brain and nerve to any woman I ever
knew—”

“Doctor!”

Lady Brand had begun to tremble
from head to foot.

“Speak, and speak plainly!” she
said.

“It is best. There is no more for me
to learn of this case. The crisis will
take place in three days. Honoria will
then be convalescent, or—do you think
you can stand the truth?”

“Yes—yes! Speak.”

“She will be dead!”

A low groan from the door-way came
like an echo to the words.

Dr. Vandyke looked round — his
steady gaze passing from the white face
of Lady Brand to the face of him who
had uttered the groan.

It was Innis who, leaning upon the
frame of the door, and gazing with eyes
wet with tears upon the sick girl, had
summed up as it were in this expression
of anguish the despair under which
it seemed to him his heart would
break.