University of Virginia Library

Telegram to Dora Freeman, Morrisville.

“`Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly
live.

“My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to
some one, and so I come to you, my journal, to pour out
my grief. Margaret is dead; and all around, the gay
world is unchanged; the song and the dance go on the
same as if in No.— there were no rigid form, no pale
Margaret gone forever,—no wretched husband weeping
over her,—no motherless little children left alone so
early.

“It was seven when we reached Saratoga, and I
stepped from the car into the noisy, jostling crowd which
Judge Verner pushed hither and thither in his frantic
efforts to find his baggage, and secure an omnibus. How
sick of fashionable life it made me, to see the throng
upon the sidewalks and in front of the hotels, as we drove
along the streets, and how anxiously I looked up at all

the upper windows as we stopped before the Clarendon,
saying to myself, `Is this Margaret's room, or that?'

“I knew there was a group of men on the piazza, and
remembering how curiously new-comers are inspected, I
drew my veil before my face and was following Judge
Verner, when Jessie suddenly exclaimed, `Perfectly
splendid!' and the next moment my hand was grasped
by Dr. West. He was waiting for us, he said; he expected
us on that train, and was staying downstairs to
meet us.

“`And Margaret?' I asked, clinging to his arm, and
throwing off my veil so I could see his face.

“`Your sister is very sick,' he replied, `but your coming
will do her good. She keeps asking for you. I arrived
yesterday, starting as soon as I received your
brother's telegram. Johnnie is nearly distracted, and
nothing but my telling him I was sure you would prefer
to have him remain at home, was of the least avail to
keep him from coming with me.

“All this he told me while we waited in the reception-room
for the keys to our apartments.

“`It is very crowded here,' he said, `but by a little
engineering I believe you are all comfortably provided
for. Your room especially,' and he nodded to me, `is
the most desirable in the building.'

“I did not then know he had given it up to me, going
himself into a little hot attic chamber. Kind, generous

Richard, you are a great comfort to me these dreadful
days. As he had said, my own room was every way desirable,
but I only gave it at first a hasty glance, so anxious
was I to get to Margaret. She knew I had come,
and was asking continually for me. How sadly she was
changed from the Margaret who stood upon the piazza and
said good-by one morning last June. The long curls were
all brushed back, and the blue eyes looked so large, so unnaturally
bright, as they turned eagerly to me, and yet I
liked her face better than ever before. There was less
of self stamped upon it, and more of kindly interest in
others.

“`Dora, darling sister,' was all she said, as she wound
her arms about my neck, but never since my childhood
had she called me by so endearing a title, and I felt springing
up in my heart a love mightier than any I had ever
felt for her, while with it came a keen remorse for the
harsh things written against my dying sister.

“I knew she was dying; not that instant, perhaps, but
that soon, very soon, she would be gone, for there was
upon her face the same pinched look I had seen on father
and Robin just before the great destroyer came.

“`Dora,' she whispered at last, `I am so glad you are
here. I was afraid I might never see you again, and I
wanted so much to tell you how sorry I am for the past.
I did not make your home with me as happy as I might.
Forgive me, Dora. I worried you and John so much.

He says I never did, but I know better. I've thought it
all over, lying here, and I know you cannot be so sorry
to have me die as I should if it were you.'

“I tried to stop her,—tried to say that I had been
happy with her,—but she would not listen, and talked on,
telling me next of the little life which had looked for
half an hour upon this world, and then floated away to
the next.

“`I called it Dora for you,' she said, `for something
told me that I should die, and I thought you might love
baby better if she bore your name. But I am glad she
died; it makes your burden less: for Dora, you will be
my children's mother,—you will care for them.'

“I thought of Dr. West, and the year which divided
us, but I answered, `Yes, I will care for the children;'
and then, to stop her talking, I was thinking of leaving
her, when Jessie's voice was heard in the hall, speaking
to the chamber-maid.

“`Who is that?' Margaret asked, her old expression
coming back and settling down into a hard, unpleasant
expression, when I replied:

“`That's Jessie Verner. The family came with me,
or rather I came with them. You know her; she was
here a few weeks since.'

“`The dreadful girl! Why, Dora, she whistles, and
romps with the dog, and talks to the gentlemen, and goes
down the sidewalk hip-pi-ti-hop, and up the stairs two at

a time; and joked with John about being his second wife
right before me! Actually, Dora, right before me!' and
Margaret's voice was highly indicative of her horror at
this last-named sin of Jessie's.

“`It was better to joke before you than when you were
absent. Jessie is at least frank and open-hearted,' I said,
but Margaret would not hear a word in her favor, so deeply
prejudiced had she become against the young girl, who
half an hour later inquired for her with much concern,
and asked if she might see her.

“`I did not know,' I said, `I'd ask.'

“`Never, Dora, never!' and Margaret's lips shut firmly.
`That terrible girl see me! No, indeed!' and in
this she persisted to the last, Dr. West telling Jessie that
he did not think it best for her to call on Mrs. Russell,
as it might disturb her.

“That night, tired as Jessie was, she danced like a top
in the drawing-room, meeting many acquaintances, and
winning a host of male admirers by her frankness and
originality. Next morning I counted upon her table as
many as six bouquets, the finest of which she begged me
carry Margaret, with her compliments.

“Margaret was weaker this morning than she had been
the previous night, but her eyes lighted up with a gleam
of pleasure when I appeared with the flowers, and she involuntarily
raised her hand to take them.

“`Miss Jessie sent them,' I said, and instantly they
dropped from Margaret's grasp, while she exclaimed:

“`That dreadful girl? Put them out of my sight.
They make me sick. I can't endure it!'

“So I put the poor discarded flowers away in the children's
room, and then went back to Margaret, who kept
me by her the live-long day, talking of the years gone by,
of our dead parents, and finally of the rapidly coming
time when she would be dead like them. Then she spoke
of Johnnie and the little boys at home, and gave to me
messages of love, with sundry injunctions to mind whatever
I might tell them. Remembering Johnnie's letter,
in which he had expressed so much contrition for the
saucy words said to her when he did battle for me, I told
her of his grief and his desire that I should do so. Margaret
was beautiful then, with the great mother-love
shining out upon her face, as with quivering lip she bade
me tell the repentant boy how she forgave him all the
past, and only thought of him as her eldest-born and
pride.

“`And, Dora, when I'm dead, cut off some of my curls,
and give the longest, the brightest to Johnnie.'

“I assented with tears, and received numerous other directions
until my brain was in a whirl, so much seemed
depending upon me.

“Hovering constantly over and around her was brother
John, doing everything so clumsily and yet so kindly,

that Margaret did not send him from her until the day
was closing. Then as I came back to her after a short
absence, during which I had gone with Bell and Jessie to
the Congress Spring, she said to him softly:

“`Now leave me with Dora.'

“He obeyed silently, and I fancied there was a flush
upon his cheek as he closed the door upon us. All
thought of that, however, was forgotten in Margaret's
question:

“`Dora, are you engaged?'

“How I started, standing upon my feet, so that from
the window I saw Dr. West leaning against a tree, and
talking to Jessie, who sat with Bell upon the piazza. I
thought she referred to him, and I answered her no,
wondering the while if it was a falsehood I told her.

“`I am glad,' she said, reaching for my hand. `When
I heard he was at his sister's in Morrisville, I thought it
might end in an engagement, particularly as he admired
you so much when he visited us last summer.'

“I knew now that she was talking of Lieutenant Reed,
and that no suspicion of my love for Dr. West had ever
crossed her mind, and so I listened, while she continued:

“`I told you last night that you must be my children's
mother, and you promised that you would. Tell me so
again, Dora. Say that no one else shall come between
you, and if, in after years, children of your own shall

climb your lap, and cling about your neck, love mine still
for your dead sister's sake. Promise, Dora.'

“For an instant there flashed upon my mind a thought,
the reality of which would prove a living death, and in
that interval I felt all the sickening anguish which would
surely come upon me were I to take her place in everything.
But she did not mean that. She could not doom
me to such a fate, and so when she said to me again
faintly, oh! so faintly, while the perspiration stood on her
white lips, and her cold hand clasped mine pleadingly,
`Promise, Dora, to be my children's mother.'

“I answered, `Yes, I will care for and be to them a
mother.'

“`You make me so happy,' she replied; `for, Dora,'
and her dim eyes flashed indignantly, `you may say it
was all in a jest, but I know that dreadful whistling girl
meant more than half she said. She fancied John, and
sometimes I thought he fancied her. Dora, I should rise
out of my grave to have her there, in my room, riding in
my carriage, sporting my diamonds, and using my dresses,
the whistling hoyden!'

“I shed tears of repentance over Margaret's dead body
for the merry laugh I could not repress at the mere idea
of her being jealous of Jessie Verner, who was only eighteen
years of age, while brother John was almost forty.
My laugh disturbed her, and so I forced it back, going at

her request for John, who, when next we met alone,
stroked my hair kindly, saying to me:

“`You are a good girl, Dora, to make Madge so easy
about the children.'

“Again that torturing fear ran like a sharp knife through
every nerve, and hurrying on to the farther end of the
long hall, I sat down upon the floor and wept bitterly as
I thought, `What if Margaret did mean that I should
some time be his wife. Am I bound by a promise to do
so?'

“From the busy street below came up a hum of voices,
among which I recognized the clear, musical tones of Dr.
West, while there stole over me a mad desire to fly to
him at once, to throw myself into his arms and ask him
to save me from I knew not what, unless it were the
white-faced sister going so fast from our midst. And
while I sat there crouching upon the floor, Jessie came
tripping down the hall, her bright face all aglow with
excitement, but changing its expression when she saw
and recognized me.

“`Poor Dora!' she whispered, kneeling beside me and
pressing her warm cheek against my own; `I am so sorry
for you. It must be dreadful to lose one's sister. Why,
only this afternoon, when I was talking and laughing
with those young men downstairs, whom I can't endure,
only I like to have them after me, I was thinking of you,
and the tears came into my eyes as I tried to fancy how

I should feel if Bell were dying here. Death seems more
terrible, don't it, when it comes to such a place as this,
where there is so much vanity, and emptiness, and
fashion? I have been saying so to Dr. West, who talked
to me so Christian-like. Oh! I wish I was as good as
Dr. West! I should not then be afraid to lie where
your sister does, and go out from this world alone in the
night, leaving you all behind. Is she afraid, do you
think?'

“I did not know, and I answered only with a choking
sob, as I gazed up into the clear evening sky, where the
myriads of stars were shining, and thought of the father
and mother already gone, wondering if we should one
day all meet again, an unbroken family. For a long time
we sat there, I listening while Jessie talked as I had not
thought it possible for her to talk. There was more to
her even than to Bell I began to realize, wishing Margaret
might live to have her prejudice removed. But
that could not be. Even then the dark-winged messenger
was on his way, stealing noiselessly into the crowded
house and gliding past the gay throng, each one of which
would some day be sent for thus. Up the winding stair he
went and through the upper halls until Margaret's room
was reached, and there he entered. Dr. West was the
first to detect his presence, knowing he was there by the
peculiar shadow cast by his dark wing upon the ghastly
face and by the fluttering of the feeble pulse; and

Margaret knew it next, and asked for me and the children.

“I was sitting with Jessie at the window, watching the
glittering stars, when a step came hurriedly towards us,
and Dr. West's voice said to me, pityingly:

“`Dora, your sister has sent for you. I believe she
is dying.'

“I had expected she would die,—had said I was prepared
to meet it; but now when it came it was a sudden
blow, and as I rose to my feet I uttered a moaning cry,
which made the doctor lay his hand on my head, while,
unmindful of Jessie's presence, he passed one arm round
my waist, and so led me on to where the husband and
the children wept around the dying wife and mother.
The waltzing had commenced in the parlor below, and
strain after strain of the stirring music came in through
the open windows, making us shudder and grow faint,
for standing there, with death in our midst, the song and
the dance were sadly out of place. For a moment I
missed the doctor from my side, and afterwards I heard
how a few well-chosen words from him had sufficed to
stop the revellers, who silently dispersed, some to the
other hotels, where there was no dying-bed, some to the
cool piazzas, where in hushed tones they talked together
of Margaret, and others to their rooms, thinking, as Jessie
had done, how much more terrible was death at such
a place as this, than when it came into the quiet bedchamber

of home. And the great hotel was silent at
last, every guest respecting the sorrow falling so heavily
on a few, and even the servants in the kitchen catching
the pervading spirit, and speaking only in whispers as
they kept on with their labor. And up in Margaret's
room it was quiet, too, as we watched the life going out
slowly, very slowly, so that the twinkling lights were
gone from the many windows, and the nuns in the convent
across the street had ceased to tell their beads ere
the chamber-maid in our hall leaned over the bannisters,
and whispered to a chamber-maid below, `The lady is
dead.'

“There had been a last word, and it was spoken to
me, ringing in my ears for hours after the stiffening
limbs were straightened, and the covering laid over the
still, white face of her who said them.

“`Remember your promise, Dora,—your promise to
your dead sister.'

“Yes. I would remember it, as I understood it, I
said to myself, hugging little Daisy in my arms, and
soothing her back to the sleep which had been broken
that her mother might kiss her once more. And while
I cared for Daisy, Jessie cared for Margaret, just as she
had for Robin. Jessie was a blessing to us then, and we
could not well have done without her. Bell, though ten
years older, was helpless as a child, while her young sister
ordered all, thought of all, even to the bereaved husband

sobbing so long by the side of his lost wife. In
the gray dawn of the morning, as I passed the room, I
saw her standing by him, and knew she was comforting
him, for her small hand was smoothing his hair as if he
had been her father. Involuntarily I looked to see if
from the dead there came no sign of disapprobation; but
no, the wife was lying there so still, while Jessie comforted
the husband.

“They have put Margaret in her coffin; it is fifteen
hours since she died, and to-morrow we shall go with her
back to the home she left a few weeks since, and whither
a telegram has preceded us telling them of our loss.
Jessie would gladly accompany me, but I do not think it
best, neither does Bell, and so she will remain behind,
and visit me in the winter with her sister. I shall need
her then so much, for the world will be doubly lonely,—
Margaret gone, and the California sun shining down on
Richard. Do I love him now? Yes, oh yes, and I am
not ashamed to confess it here on paper, while more than
once I have wished so much to tell it to him,—wished he
would ask me again what he did by Anna's grave, and I
would not answer angrily, jealously as then. I would
say to him:

“`Wait, Richard, a little time till Margaret's children
are a few years older, and then I will be yours, caring
still for the little ones as I promised I would.'

“But he gives me no chance, and talks with Jessie
and Bell far more than he does with me. He is going
with us to Beechwood, and then in a few weeks' time he
too, will be gone, and I left all alone. Oh, if he would
but give me a right to think of, and talk of him as of
one who was to be my husband, that terrible something
would not haunt me as it does, neither should I ask myself
so constantly:

“`Did Margaret mean anything more than that as a
mother I should care for her children?”'