University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

From the grassy hillside and bright green plains of Kentucky,
the frosts of winter were gone. By the dancing brook
and in the shady nooks of the quiet valleys, the warm spring
sun had sought out and brought to life thousands of sweet
wild blossoms, which in turn had faded away, giving place
to other flowers of a brighter and gayer hue.

Each night from the upper balcony of her father's handsome
dwelling Fanny watched in vain for the coming of
Dr. Lacey, whose promised return had been long delayed by
the dangerous illness of his father. Over the wooded hills
the breath of summer was floating, hot, arid, and laden
with disease. Death was abroad in the land, and as each
day exaggerated rumors of the havoc made by cholera in
the sultry climate of Louisiana reached Fanny, fearful misgivings
filled her mind, lest Dr. Lacey, too, should fall a victim
to the plague.

For herself she had no fears, though slowly but surely
through her veins the fever flame was creeping, scorching
her blood, poisoning her breath and burning her cheek, until
her father, alarmed at her altered and languid appearance,
inquired for the cause of the change. “Nothing but a slight
headache,” was the reply.

Next to the cholera Mr. Middleton most feared the Typhoid

fever, several cases of which had recently occurred in
the neighborhood, and fearing lest the disease might be stealing
upon his darling, he proposed calling the physician.
But this Fanny would not suffer, and persisted in saying that
she was well, until at last she lay all day upon the sofa, and
Aunt Katy, when her favorite herb teas failed of effecting
their wonted cure, shook her head, saying, “I knew 'twould
be so. I always telled you we couldn't keep her long.”

Dr. Gordon was finally called, and pronounced her disease
to be Typhoid in its worst form. Days went by, and
so rapid was the progress of the fever that Mr. Middleton
trembled lest of him it had been decreed, “He shall be childless.”
To Fanny the thought of death was familiar. For
her it had no terrors, and as her outward strength decayed,
her faith in the Eternal grew stronger and brighter, yet she
could not die without an assurance that again in the better
world she would meet the father she so much loved. For
her mother she had no fears, for during many years she had
been a patient, self-denying Christian.

At first Mr. Middleton listened in silence to Fanny's gentle
words of entreaty, but when she spoke to him of her own
death and the love which alone could sustain him then, he
clasped her tightly to his heart, as if his arm alone could
keep her there for ever, saying, “Oh, no, you must not tell
me that; you will not die. Even now you are better.” And
the anxious father did try to deceive himself into the belief
that Fanny was better, but when each morning's light revealed
some fresh ravage the disease had made;—when the
flush on her cheek grew deeper, and the light of her eye
wilder and more startling, an agonizing fear held the old
man's heart in thrall. Many and many a weary night found
him sleepless, as he wet his pillow with tears. Not such
tears as he wept when Richard Wilmot died, nor such as fell
upon the grave of his first-born, for oh, his grief then was

naught, compared with what he now felt for his Sunshine, his
idol, his precious Fanny. “I cannot, cannot let her die,” was
the cry which hourly welled up from the depths of that fond
father's aching heart. “Take all, take every thing I own,
but leave me Sunshine; she musn't, musn't die.”

Earnestly did Fanny pray that her father might be enabled
better to bear his affliction. But he turned a deaf ear
alike to her and his gentle, enduring wife, who, bowed with
sorrow, yet sought to soothe her grief-stricken husband.
Sadly he would turn away, saying, “It's of no use talking.
I can't be pious, if they take Fanny away. I can see why
t'other one died. 'Twas to bring me to my senses, and show
me how bad I used her; but Fanny, my Sunshine, what has
Josh done that she should leave him too. Oh, it's more than
I can bar.”

At Dr. Gordon's request a council of physicians in Frankfort
was called. As the one who came last was about to
enter her room, Mr. Middleton detained him, while he said,
“Save her, Doctor, save her, and you shall have all I'm
worth.” Impatiently he awaited the decision. It came, but
alas, it brought no hope.

Mr. William Middleton, who had recently come from
New Orleans, broke the news to his unhappy brother. Terrible
was the anguish of Uncle Joshua, when he became
convinced that he must lose her. Nothing could induce him
to leave her room; and as if endowed with superhuman
strength, he watched by her constantly, only leaving her
once each day to visit the quiet grave, the bed of his other
daughter, where now the long, green grass was waving, and
the summer flowers were blooming, flowers which Fanny's
hand had planted and the father's tears had watered.

One night they were alone, the old man and his child.
For several hours Fanny had turned uneasily upon her pillow,
but she at last fell into a deep sleep. For a time her

father sat quietly listening to the sound of her breathing,
then arising he softly drew aside the curtains, and looked long
and anxiously at her as she slept.

Suddenly lifting his hands he exclaimed, “Oh, God, save
her, or help me to bear it if she dies.” It was the first
prayer which for long, long years had passed his lips, but it
had a power to bring back the olden feeling, when a happy
boy, he had knelt at his mother's side, and was not ashamed
to pray. Falling on his knees, he tried to recall the words
of prayer his mother had taught him, but one petition alone
came from his heart in that dark, midnight hour. “Oh,
don't let Fanny die, don't let her die, for who will comfort
old Joshua when she is gone.”

“The Saviour; he, who once wept at the grave of Lazarus,
will be more to you, than I ever was, or ever can be,”
said Fanny.

In her sleep she dreamed that her father prayed. She
awoke and found it true. “Come nearer to me, father,” said
she. He did so, and then among his thick gray locks she
laid her thin white hand and prayed.

It was a beautiful sight, and methinks the angels hovered
round as that young disciple, apparently so near the portals
of Heaven, sought to lead her weeping father to the same
glad world. Her words were soothing, and o'er his darkened
mind a ray of light seemed feebly, faintly shining. Before
the morning dawned, he had resolved that if there still was
hope for him he would find it. Many a time during the
succeeding days he prayed in secret, not that Fanny might
be spared, but that he might be reconciled to God. His
prayer at length was answered, and Uncle Joshua was a
changed man. He showed it in every thing, in the expression
of his face and in the words he uttered. For his Sunshine
he still wept, but with a chastened grief, for now he
knew that if she died, he should see her in Heaven.

Where now was Dr. Lacey? Knew he not of the
threatened danger? At his father's bedside, where for many
days his place had been, he had received from Mr. William
Middleton a letter announcing Fanny's illness, which, however,
was not then considered dangerous. On learning the
contents of the letter, the elder Mr. Lacey said, turning to his
son, “Go, George, go; I would not keep you from her a moment.”
The Doctor needed no second bidding, and the first
steamer which left New Orleans bore him upon its deck,
anxious and impatient.

Fast the days rolled on, and they who watched Fanny,
alternately hoped and feared, as she one day seemed better
and the next worse. Of those days we will not speak. We
hasten to a night three weeks from the commencement of
her illness, when gathered in her room were anxious friends,
who feared the next day's sun would see her dead. Florence,
Kate, and Mrs. Miller were there, with tearful eyes and saddened
faces. Frank Cameron, too, was there. Business,
either real or fancied, had again taken him to Kentucky, and
hearing of Fanny's illness he had hastened to her.

She had requested to be raised up, and now, leaning
against her Uncle William, she lay in a deep slumber. In
a corner of the room sat Uncle Joshua, his head bowed
down, his face covered by his hands, while the large tears
fell upon the carpeting, as he sadly whispered to himself,
“It'll be lonesome at night; it'll be lonesome in the morning;
it'll be lonesome every whar.”

Florence stood by him, and tried by gently smoothing
his tangled hair, to express the sympathy she could not
speak. Suddenly there was the sound of fast-coming wheels,
and Kate, thinking it must be Dr. Gordon, whom they were
each moment expecting, ran out to meet him. Nearer and
nearer came the carriage, and as Kate was peering through

the darkness to see if it were the expected physician, Dr.
Lacey sprang quickly to her side.

In Frankfort he had heard that Fanny could not live, and
now he eagerly asked, “Tell me, Mrs. Miller, is she yet
alive?”

Kate replied by leading him directly towards the sick
chamber. As he entered the room Uncle Joshua burst into
a fresh flood of tears, saying as he took the Doctor's offered
hand, “Poor boy! poor George. You're losing a great
deal, but not as much as I, for you can find another Fanny,
but for me thar's no more Sunshine, when they carry her
away.”

Dr. Gordon now came, and after feeling her pulse and
listening to the sound of her breathing, he said, “When she
wakes from this sleep I think the matter will be decided.
She will be better or worse.”

And he was right, although the old clock in the hall told
the hour of midnight ere she roused from the deep slumber
which had seemed so much like the long last sleep of death.
Her first words were for “water, water,” and as she put up
her hand to take the offered glass, Dr. Gordon whispered
to Dr. Lacey; “She is better, but must not see you to-night.”

In a twinkling Mr. Middleton's large hand was laid on
Dr. Lacey's shoulder, and hurrying him into the adjoining
room, he said, “Stay here till mornin', and neither breathe
nor stir!”

Dr. Lacey complied with this request as far as it was possible,
though never seemed a night so long, and never dawned
a morning so bright as did the succeeding one, when
through the house the joyful tidings ran, that the crisis was
past, and Fanny would live.

In the course of the morning, Fanny asked Kate, who
alone was attending her, if Dr. Lacey were not there?

“What makes you think so?” said Kate.

“Because,” answered Fanny, “I either heard him, or
dreamed that I did.”

“And if he is here, could you bear to see him now?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” was the eager answer, and the next moment
Dr. Lacey was by her side.

Intuitively Kate left the room, consequently we have no
means of knowing what occurred during that interview, when
Dr. Lacey as it were received back from the arms of death
his Fanny, whose recovery from that time was sure though
slow. Mr. Middleton, in the exuberance of his joy at having
his Sunshine restored, seemed hardly sane, but frequently
kept muttering to himself, “Yes, yes, I remember,—I'll do
it, only give me a little time;” at the same time his elbow
moved impatiently, as if nudging off some unseen visitor.
What it was that he remembered, and would do, was not
known for several days, and then he informed his wife, that
when at first he feared lest Fanny should not live, he had
racked his brain to know why this fresh evil was brought
upon him, and had concluded that it was partly to punish
him for his ill-treatment of Julia when living, and partly because
that now she was dead he had neglected to purchase
for her any grave-stones; and I promised, said he, “that if
she was spar'd, I'd buy as nice a grave-stun as I would if
'twas Sunshine.” Three weeks from that time there stood
by the mound in the little grave-yard a plain handsome
monument, on which was simply inscribed, “Julia, aged
twenty.”

One after another those who had been with Fanny during
her illness departed to their homes. Frank Cameron
lingered several weeks in Frankfort. Florence, too, was there
with some relatives. Now, reader, if you value our friendship,
you will not accuse him of being fickle. He had loved
Fanny long and faithfully, but he knew the time was coming

when ne would see her the wife of another. What wonder
was it then, if he suffered his eye occasionally to rest admiringly
upon Florence Woodburn's happy face, or that he frequently
found himself trying to trace some resemblance
between the dark hazel of Florence's eyes and the deep blue
of Fanny's!

With woman's quick perception Florence divined Frank's
thoughts, and although she professed herself to be “terribly
afraid of his presbyterian smile and deaconish ways,” she
took good care not to discourage him. But she teased him
unmercifully, and played him many sorry tricks. He bore
it all good-humoredly, and when he started next for New-York
he had with him a tiny casing, from which peeped the
merry face of Florence, looking as if just meditating some
fresh mischief.

And what of Florence? Why, safely stowed away at the
bottom of her bureau-drawer, under a promiscuous pile of
gloves, ribbons, laces, and handherchiefs, was a big daguerreotype;
but as Florence guarded that drawer most carefully,
always keeping the key in her pocket, we are unable to say
any thing certain upon the subject. Up to this day we don't
know exactly whose face it was, that led Florence to the
drawer so many times a day, but we are safe in saying, that
it looked frank enough to be Frank himself!

Here for a time we leave her, and return to Mr. Middleton's,
where Fanny was improving each day. Dr. Lacey
watched her recovery anxiously, fearing continually lest
some new calamity should happen to take his treasure from
him. Owing to the protracted illness of his father it became
necessary that he should go back to New Orleans; but as
soon as possible he would return, and then,— Fanny could
have told you what then, and so too could we, but we prefer
keeping you in suspense.