University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE DARK HOUR.

Dr. Kennedy had been to Buffalo, and taken the smallpox,
so his attending physician said, and the news spread
rapidly, frightening nervous people as they never were
frightened before. Nellie had been home for a week or
two, but at the first alarm she fled, rushing headlong
through the hall and down the stairs, unmindful of the
tremulous voice, which cried imploringly, “Don't leave
me, daughter, to die alone!”

Hannah followed next, holding the camphor bottle to
her nose, and saying to John when he expostulated with
her, “I reckon I'se not gwine to spile what little beauty
I've got with that fetched complaint.”

“But, mother,” persisted John, “may be its nothin'
but vary-o-lord after all, and that don't mark folks, you
know.”

“You needn't talk to me about your very-o-lord,” returned
Hannah. “I know it's the very-o-devil himself,
and I wont have them pock-ed marks on me for all the
niggers in Virginny.”

“Then go,” said John, “hold tight to the camphire,
and run for your life, or it may cotch you before you git
out of the house.”

Hannah needed no second bidding to run, and half an
hour later she was domesticated with a colored family,
who lived not far from the Hill. Thus left to themselves,

Louis and John, together with the physician, did what
they could for the sick man, who at last proposed sending
for Mande, feeling intuitively that she would not desert
him as his own child had done. Silent, desolate and forsaken
the old house looked as Maude approached it, and
she involuntarily held her breath as she stepped into the
hall, whose close air seemed laden with infection. She
experienced no difficulty in finding the sick room, where
Louis' cry of delight, John's expression of joy, and the
sick man's whispered words, “God bless you, Maude,”
more than recompensed her for the risk she had incurred.
Gradually her fear subsided, particularly when she learned
that it was in fact the varioloid. Had it been possible to
remove her brother from danger, she would have done so,
but it was too late now, and she suffered him to share her
vigils, watching carefully for the first symptoms of the
disease in him.

In this manner nearly two weeks passed away, and the
panic stricken villagers were beginning to breathe more
freely, when it was told them one day that Maude and
Louis were both smitten with the disease. Then indeed
the more humane said to themselves, “Shall they be left
to suffer alone?” and still no one was found who dared to
breathe the air of the sick room. Dr. Kennedy was by
this time so much better, that Louis was taken to his
apartment, where he ministered to him himself, while the
heroic Maude was left to the care of John. Every thing
he could do for her he did, but his heart sunk within him
when he saw how fast her fever came on, and heard her,
in her sleep, mourn for her mother, to hold her aching
head.

“She mustn't die,” he said, and over his dark skin the

tears rolled like rain, as raising his eyes to the ceiling, he
cried imploringly, “Will the good Father send some one
to help?”

The prayer of the weak African was heard; and, ere
the sun went down, a man of noble mien and noble heart
stood at the maiden's bedside, bathing her swollen face,
pushing back her silken curls, counting her rapid pulses,
and once, when she slept, kissing her parched lips, e'en
though he knew that with that kiss, he inhaled, perhaps,
his death! James De Vere had never, for a day, lost
sight of Maude. Immediately after her return he had
written to the physician, requesting a daily report, and
when, at last, he learned that she was ill, and all alone, he
came unhesitatingly, presenting a striking contrast to the
timid J. C., who had heard of her illness, and, at first,
dared not open the letter which his cousin wrote, apprising
him of Maude's affliction But when he reflected that he
could be re-vaccinated, and thus avert the dreaded evil,
he broke the seal, and read, commenting as follows; “Jim
is a splendid fellow, though I can't see why he takes so
much interest in her. Don't I have confounded luck
though? That will first, the five thousand dollars next,
and now the small pox, too. Of course she'll be marked,
and look like a fright. Poor girl! I'd help her if I could,”
and, as the better nature of J. C. came over him, he added,
mournfully: “What if she should die?”

But Maude did not die; and at the expiration of ten
days, she was so far out of danger, that James De Vere
yielded to the importunity of his mother, who, in an
agony of terror, besought him to return. When first he
came to her bedside, Maude had begged of him to leave
her, and not risk his life in her behalf; but he silenced her

objections then, and now when he bade her adieu, he
would not listen to her protestations of gratitude.

“I would do even more for you if I could,” he said.
“I am not afraid of the varioloid, and henceforth I shall
think gratefully of it for having dealt so lightly with
you.”

So saying, he turned away, feeling happier than he
could well express, that Maude had not only escaped from
death, but that there would be no marks left to tell how
near the ravager had been. Scarcely had the door closed
on him, when, emboldened by his last words to ask a
question she greatly wished, yet dreaded to ask, Maude
turned to John and said, “Am I much pitted?”

Rolling up his eyes, and wholly mistaking her meaning,
John replied, “I ain't no great of a physiognomer, but
when a thing is as plain as day, I can discern it as well as
the next one, and if that ar' chap hain't pitied you, and
done a heap more'n that, I'm mistaken.”

“But,” continued Maude, smiling at his simplicity, “I
mean shall I probably be scarred?”

“Oh, bless you, not a scar,” answered John, “for don't
you mind how he kep' the iled silk and wet rags on yer
face, and how that night when you was sickest, he held
yer hands so you couldn't tache that little feller between
yer eyes. That was the spunkiest varmint of 'em all, and
may leave a mark like the one under yer ear, but it won't
spile yer looks an atom.”

“And Louis?” said Maude, “is he disfigured?”

“Not a disfigurement,” returned John, “but the ole
governor, he's a right smart sprinklin' of 'em, one squar'
on the tip of his nose, and five or six more on his face.”

Thus relieved of her immediate fears, Maude asked

many questions concerning Louis, who she learned had
not been very sick.

“You can see him afore long I reckon,” said John, and
in a few days she was able to join him in the sitting room
below.

After a little Hannah returned to her post of duty, her
beauty unimpaired and herself thoroughly ashamed of
having thus heartlessly deserted her master's family in
their affliction. As if to make amends for this she exerted
herself to cleanse the house from every thing which could
possibly inspire fear on the villagers, and by the last of
August, there was scarce a trace left of the recent scourge,
save the deep scar on the end of the doctor's nose, one or
two marks on Louis's face, and a weakness of Maude's
eyes, which became at last a cause of serious alarm.

It was in vain that Louis implored his father to seek
medical aid in Rochester, where the physicians were supposed
to have more experience in such matters. The doctor
refused, saying, “'twas a maxim of his not to counsel
with any one, and he guessed he knew how to manage
sore eyes.”

But Maude's eyes were not sore—they were merely
weak, while the pain in the eyeball was sometimes so intense
as to wring from her a cry of suffering. Gradually
there crept into her heart a horrid fear that her sight was
growing dim, and often in the darkness of the night
she wept most bitterly, praying that she might not be
blind.

“Oh, Louis,” she said to her brother one day, “I would
so much rather die than to be blind, and never see you
any more—never see the beautiful world I love so much.
Oh, must it be? Is there no help?”

“James De Vere could help us if he were here, answered
Louis, his own tears mingling with his sister's.

But James De Vere had left Hampton for New Orleans,
where he would probably remain until the winter, and
there could be no aid expected from him. The doctor
too, was wholly absorbed in thoughts of his approaching
nuptials, for Maude Glendower, failing to secure the
wealthy bachelor, and overhearing several times the remark
that she was really getting old, had consented to
name the 20th of October for their marriage. And so the
other Maude was left to battle with the terrible fear which
was strengthened every day.

At length J. C. roused not so much by the touching
letter which she wrote him, as by the uncertain hand-writing,
came himself, bringing with him a physician, who
carefully examined the soft black eyes, which could not
now endure the light, then shaking his head, he said
gravely, “There is still some hope, but she must go to the
city, where I can see her every day.”

J. C. looked at Dr. Kennedy, and Dr. Kennedy looked
at J. C., and then both their hands sought their pockets,
but came out again—empty! J. C. really had not the
ready means with which to meet the expense, while Dr.
Kennedy had not the inclination. But one there was,
the faithful John, who could not stand by unmoved, and
darting from the room, he mounted the woodshed stairs,
and from beneath the rafters drew out an old leathern
wallet, where, from time to time, he had deposited money
for “the wet day.” That wet day had come at last—
not to him, but to another—and without a moment's hesitation,
he counted out the ten golden eagles which his
purse contained, and, going back to Maude, placed them

in her hand, saying: “Go to Rochester, Miss Maude. I
saved 'em for you, for I wouldn't have the light squenched
in them shinin' eyes for all the land in old Virginny.”

It was a noble act, and it shamed the paler faces who
witnessed it, but they offered no remonstrance, though
Maude did, refusing to accept it, until Louis said: “Take
it, sister—take it, and when I'm twenty-one I'll give to
him ten times ten golden eagles.”

The necessary arrangements were quickly made, and
ere a week was passed, Maude found herself in Rochester,
and an inmate of Mrs. Kelsey's family; for, touched with
pity, that lady had offered to receive her, and during her
brief stay, treated her with every possible attention.
Nellie, too, was very kind, ministering carefully to the
comfort of her step-sister, who had ceased to be a rival,
for well she knew J. C. De Vere would never wed a penniless
bride and blind!