University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE BRIDAL DAY.

THE morning was breaking in the east,—a bright,
rosy morning, such as is usual in early September,—a
morning when the birds sang as gayly
among the trees as in the summer-time, and when the
dew-drops glittered on the flowers just as they had done
in the mornings of the past. All night the gas had
burned dimly in the sick-room across the street, and all
the night the sick man had prayed that he might be prepared
for what the future had in store, whether of joy
or sorrow. All night Jessie and Johnnie had slept uneasily,
dreaming, one of the Roman Forum, where he
repeated the speech made at his last exhibition, and the
other that she, instead of Dora, wore the bridal wreath
and stood at John Russell's side, and found it not so
very terrible after all. All night Squire Russell had lain
awake, with a strange, half sad, half delicious feeling of
unrest, which drove slumber from his pillow, but brought
no shadow of the storm gathering round his head. All
night, too, Dora,—but over the scene of agony, contrition,
remorse, terror, hope, and despair which her chamber

witnessed, we draw a veil, and speak only of the results.

With the dawn the household was astir, for the elaborate
breakfast was to be served before the ceremony,
which was to take place at half past seven. In the children's
room there was first the opening of sleepy little
eyes, as Clem called out, “Come, come, wake up. This
is your father's wedding-day.” Then there was a scampering
across the floor, a patter of tiny feet, a chorus of
birdlike voices, mingled occasionally with wrathful exclamations
as Ben's antagonistic propensities clashed
with those of Burt, who declared that “Aunt Dora was
going to be father's mother, too, as well as theirs.”
Then there were louder tones, and finally a fight, which
was quelled by Jessie, who appeared in dressing-gown,
with her brush in hand, and seemed in no hurry to finish
a toilet which she intuitively felt would be made for
naught.

Across the yard came Squire John from visiting Margaret's
grave, where he had left a tear and a bouquet of
flowers. Up the walk, from the front gate, came Robert
West, a look of determination on his handsome face,
which boded no good to the bridegroom-elect, who, guessing
at once that he was the doctor's brother, greeted him
cordially and bade him sit down till the breakfast was
announced. Up the same gravel walk came the woman
who was to dress the bride, and just as Robert West was

stammering some apology for being there unbidden, she
asked if Miss Freeman had come down.

Nobody had seen her yet; nobody had heard her
either, though Jessie had been three times to her door,
while Clem had been once, but neither could get an
answer.

“Would she be apt to sleep so soundly on this morning?”
Squire John asked, just as Jessie, who had again
tried the door, came running to the head of the stairs,
her brush in her hands, and her dressing-gown flying
back as she breathlessly explained to the anxious group
in the hall below how she was positive she had heard a
moan as if Dora was in distress.

“Burst the door,” the Squire ordered, his face white
as ashes, as he hurried up the stairs, followed by Robert
West.

Yes, there was a moan, a faint, wailing sound, which
met the ears of all, and half crazy with fear Squire
John pressed heavily against the bolted door until it
gave way, when he stood modestly back while Jessie,
stooping under his arm, darted into the room, exclaiming:

“Dora, O Dora! what's the matter? What makes
her so sick?” and she cast an appealing glance at her
companions, who stood appalled at the change a few
hours had wrought in Dora, the bride of that morning.

In her soiled garments, damp and wet, she had sat or

lain the entire night, but the burning fever had dried
them and stained her face with a purplish red, while her
eyes, bloodshot and heavy, had in them no ray of intelligence.
She was lying now upon the bed, her hands
pressed to her forehead, as if the pain was there, while
she moaned faintly, and occasionally talked of the light
on the wall which had troubled her so much.

“It would not go out,” she said to Jessie, who gently
lifted up the aching head and held it against her bosom.
“It was there all the night, and I know it burned for
him. Does he know how sick I am?”

A glance of intelligence passed between Robert West
and Jessie, for they knew that the light from Richard's
room had shone into Dora's through the darkness, and
this it was which troubled her. Squire John had no
such suspicions, and when she asked, “Does he know how
sick I am?” he bent over her tenderly, and smoothing
her brown hair, said, “Poor child, poor darling, I do
know, and I am so sorry. Is the pain very hard?”

At the sound of his voice Dora started, while there
came into her face a rational expression, and as he continued
to caress her, her lip quivered, her eyes filled with
tears, and she said, pleadingly, as a child would beg forgiveness
of an injured parent:

“Dear John, don't be angry, I could not help it. I
tried to come to you last night when everybody was
asleep and the clock was striking twelve. I tried to

come, but I could not find the way for the light on the
wall. I can't, I can't. The trunks are all packed too,
and the people are coming. Tell them I can't.”

“Poor little girl, never mind. I know you can't, and
it don't make one bit of difference, for I can wait, and
I will tell the folks how sick my Dora is,” John said,
kissing her softly. Then in an aside to Jessie, he added,
“She thinks I'll be disappointed because the wedding is
deferred, and it troubles her. There's the door-bell now.
I must go down to explain,” and he hurried away to
meet the guests, who were arriving rapidly, and who,
as they turned their steps homeward, seemed more disappointed
than the bridegroom himself.

Blessed Squire John! He was wholly unselfish, and as
in his handsome wedding-suit he stood bowing out his departing
guests, he was not thinking of himself, but of
Dora and how she might be served.

“Margaret believed fully in homœopathy,” he said to
the last lady, who asked what doctor he would call; “but
Dr. West is sick, and what can I do?”

“He might prescribe,” returned the lady, who was also
one of Dr. West's adherents. “You can tell him her
symptoms, and he can order medicine.”

“Thank you; I never thought of that. I'll go at once,”
John said; and bareheaded as he was, he crossed the
street, and was soon knocking at Mrs. Markham's door.

“The doctor's worse,” she said, in reply to his inquiry.

“He seems terribly excited, and acts as if he was possessed.”

“But I must see him,” Squire John continued. “Miss
Freeman is very sick, and he must prescribe.”

“Ain't there no wedding after all? Wall, if that don't
beat me!” was Mrs. Markham's response, as she carried
to Dr. West the message which roused him from the
hopeless, despairing mood into which he had fallen.

He had insisted upon sitting up by the window, where
he could watch the proceedings across the street, and as
Robert did not return, while one after another the invited
guests went up the walk into the house, he gave up all as
lost, and sick with the crushing belief, went back to his
bed, whispering sadly:

“Dora is not for me. But God knows best!”

He did not see the bridegroom coming to his door, but
when the message was delivered it diffused new life at
once.

“Yes, show him up; I must talk with him,” he said, and
a moment after Squire John stood before his rival, his honest
face full of anxiety, and almost bedewed with tears as
he stated all he knew of Dora's case. “If I could see her
I could do so much better,” Richard said; “but that is
impossible to-day, so I must send,” and with hands which
shook as they had never shaken before, he gave out the
medicine which he hoped might save Dora's life.

“If you were able to go,” the Squire said, as he stood

in the doorway, “I would carry you myself; but perhaps
it is not prudent.”

He looked anxiously at the doctor, who replied:

“If she gets no better, I'll come.”

And then as the door closed upon the Squire, he gave a
great pitying groan as he thought how trustful and unsuspicious
he was.

Holding fast to the medicine, and repeating the direction,
Squire Russell hastened back to the house, finding
that Dora had been divested of her soiled garments, and
placed in bed, where she already seemed more comfortable,
though she kept talking incessantly of the light on the
wall which would not let her sleep.

“It's perfectly dreadful, isn't it?” Jessie said to Robert,
who, ere going home, stepped to the door of Dora's
room. “I'm sure I don't know what to do. I wish Bell
was here.”

Dora heard the name, and said:

“Yes, Bell; she knows, she understands,—she said I
ought not to do it. Send for Bell.”

Accordingly Robert was furnished with the necessary
directions, and left the house for the telegraph office, just
as the Squire entered.

Johnnie was nearly frantic. At first he had seemed
to consider that his trip to Europe was prevented, and,
boy like, only was greatly disappointed; but when he was
admitted into the room and saw Dora's burning cheeks and

bright, rolling eyes, he forgot everything in his great distress
for her.

“Auntie must not die! Oh, she must not die!” he
sobbed, feeling a keener pang than any he had known
when they brought home his dead mother. Intuitively
he seemed to feel that his father's grief was greater than
his own, and keeping close to his side he held his
hand, looking up into his face, and whispering occasionally:

“Poor father, I hope she won't die!”

The father hoped so too, but as the hours wore on and
the fever increased, those who saw her, shook their heads
doubtingly, saying with one accord:

“She must have help soon, or it will come too
late.”

“Help from where? Tell me. Whom shall I get?
Where shall I go?” John asked, and the answer was
always the same. “If Dr. West could come, but I suppose
he can't!”

“He can! he shall!!” Johnnie exclaimed, as the house
seemed filled with Dora's delirious ravings. “Father and
that Mr. West can bring him in a chair! He shall!”
and Johnnie rushed across the street, nearly upsetting Mrs.
West in his headlong haste, and bursting upon Richard
with the exclamation, “She'll die! she is dying, and you
shall go! You must,—you will! We'll take you in this
big chair!” and Johnnie wound his arm around the doctor's

neck, while he begged of him to go and save Aunt
Dora.

At first the doctor hesitated, but when his brother also
joined in the boy's request, he said, “I'll go.”