University of Virginia Library

40. CHAPTER XL.
HOW NELLY FLOYD DISAPPEARS.

It was no mere faint into which Nelly Floyd had fallen. It
was swoon — it was trance! Her body lay insensible, but it
kept warm. Her pulse scarcely vibrated to the touch. It was
doubtful if she breathed. For eighteen hours did she lie in this
condition. A surgeon of the British army was brought up from
Monck's Corner to see her. He had never seen so curious or
remarkable a case. He studied it closely. The syncope seemed
perfect and general as prolonged, yet death did not ensue. The
economy of life was going on, but with an almost total suppression
of all external evidence of life — and how? There were
no tremors, no convulsions, no struggles, no breathings! To
all mere casual observation, Nelly Floyd was dead. But the
surgeon said she lived; but that nature, overtasked in many
ways, and suffering from peculiar mental as well as physical
conditions, required a peculiar process of recuperation.

Meanwhile, Sherrod Nelson gave the poor girl every attention
which it was in his power to bestow. He recognised her
as the special favorite of his mother; as one whom his only
sister had passionately loved; as one whom he had himself
studied with curious eyes and a loving interest, as a creature of
great sweetness of soul, and of very remarkable powers. He
procured a good old woman of the neighborhood as a nurse.
He himself watched by her couch for hours, as a sympathizing
attendant. The surgeon shared his watch, studying the case
with all the interest equally of science and humanity. Sherrod
Nelson wrote to his mother, in Florida, giving her all the particulars.

He wrote while Nelly lay lifeless before his eyes.
His account was copious, as far as he knew. The picture he
drew was sufficiently pathetic. Already had he conceived the
idea of sending the girl on to his mother, in Florida, should she
recover from her swoon.

It was nearly sunset of the next day before she did show
signs of consciousness. Then her eyes opened to the light.
She looked around her. She spoke only a few words, but these
were intelligible.

“I know,” she said — “I know.”

What did she know? The surgeon was present at the moment.
He ordered her nourishment. She ate a little gruel —
then sank away into sleep once more, or stupor, murmuring
feebly as she did so, “I know all now!”

“She needs nourishment, and soothing. Let there be no
noise. Watch her closely. As she awakes, supply her with
a little gruel — a little only at a time, but give it whenever she
awakes. She is docile, and that is fortunate.”

For twelve hours more they watched her, feeding her thus
whenever she awoke to any consciousness. She always submitted
— always ate a little, and again seemed to sink back to
sleep. A little wine was mingled cautiously with her gruel. It
strengthened her. After a few more hours, she opened her
eyes, and appeared to scan the apartment. The old woman
who nursed her was alone present, and she began to prattle
with the usual eloquence of feminine antiquity. But Nelly
waved her hand, palm outward, as if commanding silence; and
the nurse, though much wondering at the bad taste of her patient,
to whom she was disposed to deliver all the news of the
precinct, was perforce hushed by the action into stillness.

Finding her patient thus doing well, and ill — finding that
she had a distaste for that peculiar sort of eloquence with which
she was specially gifted — the old woman left her for a while,
and went out, seeking companionship among the soldiers who
were quartered in the kitchen, and better prepared to do justice
to her gifts of speech. There she found supper and scandal
in equal quantity, and, relishing both sorts of food, she lingered,
perhaps, rather longer away from her patient than was
altogether prudent for a nurse to do — but which, by-the-way,

a nurse is rather apt to do — and when she got back to the
chamber, was confounded to find Nelly sitting up.

“To-bed — to-bed again!” cried the dame. “What'll the
doctor say? You'll git your death! You ain't fit to be setting
up after the long swound you've hed” — and she put forth her
hands to second her words; but Nelly was docile, and at once
submitted, without offering resistance.

“Ah! you'll do! That's right. Only jest mind what's told
you, and what the doctor says, and what I says; and I reckon,
in a month, or five or six weeks, you'll be able to go about
agin.”

“A month!” murmured Nelly to herself. “A month! It
must be done long before.”

“What's that you're a-saying, my gal?”

“Nothing, mother! nothing.”

“She calls me mother! She hain't got quite back into her
senses yit.”

And the girl lay quiet, and slept, or seemed to sleep again;
and was aroused only at certain periods, with a suggestion of
gruel. The next day, Sherrod Nelson came with the surgeon.
Nelly heard his voice as he entered the room. She shut her
eyes, and lay quite still. The surgeon soon had his finger upon
her wrist.

“She's a-sleeping yit,” said the nurse, “she does hardly anything
but sleep, except when I routs her up to take her gruel.
But in the night, I jist went out for a minute, and when I comes
back, I sees her a setting up by the window. I had her back
again, I tell you, in the twink of a musquito.”

“Ah! she got up, did she?” said the surgeon. “Did she
say anything?”

“Something to her ownself. I could jist hear her buzzing a
little with her mouth shet.”

“She'll do. The pulse is feeble, but even, and the skin is
growing less rigid. I do not perceive any signs of pressure on
the brain. The functions are going on naturally. But we must
avoid noise, and forbear all provocation to excitement. Twenty-four
hours will free her, if she keeps on thus, of all doubtful
symptoms. But she has had a terrible shock, and the forces of
nature, for awhile, were all driven in. They are rallying now.

The shock required that the faculties should all be respited, for
awhile, or recuperation would have been impossible. You
know her, then, Captain Nelson?”

“Know her almost as a sister. She lived with my sister
Bettie, and myself, for years, like a sister. She was a pet of
my mother. A poor orphan-girl, whom my mother fostered at
first from charity, and afterward from love. She was always a
strange, wild creature — all impulse — yet always gentle, even
when most wild — full of fondness for all of us; and why she
left us I know not. There was no reason for it, that any one
could see. My mother wept bitterly to part with her, and
Bettie, my sister, grieves even to this hour. There is some
mystery about the poor girl, and it had much to do with her
quitting us. Several times my mother sought to find her; but
she seems to have hidden from us. The war, besides, made
search difficult, particularly as we were loyalists, and were
driven out for two years. But we will not lose her now. I
have written to my mother, who is in Florida still, to say that I
will get her down to Charleston as soon as she is able to travel.
Now that we have her, she shall not escape us. She shall be
one of us again. Poor girl, what has she not endured. Look
at her garments. How strange! How squalid; yet a more
sensitive creature — a more delicate — does not live. A creature
of wonderful character and talent. I may say, in fact, a genius.”

“But not a beauty, captain.”

“Perhaps not! and yet, I have seen her when she was perfectly
beautiful even to my eyes, and my standards are rather
exacting. When animated, she is brilliant, if not beautiful;
but — now — burnt by the sun, and chafed by the wind — poor,
badly clothed — perhaps, half-starved all the time, it is only
wonderful that she preserves so much of her former sweetness
of countenance. You should see her eye when she is in health
and heart. Now!”

“Could this miserable young man have been her brother?”

“Such was certainly her speech; but I doubt the connection.
She had probably known him from boyhood, and she was always
of a nature to attach herself—”

“Stay!” said the surgeon, with hand upon his lips, and in a
whisper. “She stirs.”

They had spoken beside her bed, and, though in very low
tones, yet the wakeful senses of the girl had caught up every
syllable. She had writhed more than once during that conversation.
She could endure it no longer. She showed signs of
awakening, and the surgeon motioned to Nelson to leave the
room. He, himself, only lingered to feel the pulse of his patient
once more, and to see if her eyes would open. But they
did not. She was conscious that Nelson had gone out, and now
lay quiet.

The surgeon soon followed the young captain of loyalists, and
joined him where he waited, in the court without.

“She is again quiet,” said the surgeon, anticipating the question
of the young man, “she will do now, I think. To-morrow,
we shall find her a great deal better.”

And they walked off together. Sherrod Nelson was busily
employed all day, but the image of Nelly Floyd was present to
his fancy all the while.

“Yes,” he said, thinking to himself, “Nelly was beautiful.
She will be so again when restored to health, and once more in
the dwelling of my mother. Why did she leave it? We all
loved her.

“Yes! I loved her. But—”

Sherrod Nelson hardly yet saw into his own heart. He had
lived a little too much, perhaps, in that sort of world which is
apt to obscure one's heart from one's own scrutiny. He had
lived in a conventional world — one of fashion — was himself
something of “a glass of fashion and a mould of form;” was
wealthy, and, so, the “observed of all observers” — was petted
by the young women, and, occasionally pressed. Had been as
near to seizure by some of the desperate of the sex, as ever
young Adonis before. But his world, out of his mother's household
had been a sophisticating one, and so a cooling, hardening,
and selfishly-exacting, not self-sacrificing world. The
army was a bad school, also, in which to train the sensibilities;
and, in spite of the somewhat peculiar simplicity and naturalness
of all the influences of home, Sherrod Nelson was no
longer a person to obey the calls of the heart to the exclusion
of all other voices. He had seen Nelly's beauty — felt it —
admired her spirit, grace, sweetness, talents; but — Nelly was

an orphan — sprang from unknown people — nay, from people
too well known — and, Sherrod Nelson had lost some of his
independence of soul, in his sophistication. Convention is a
rare subduer of real courage, at least, in certain provinces where
we need it most.

Nelly Floyd had made a deep and vivid impression upon
Sherrod Nelson; but, who is Nelly Floyd?

“It would never answer!” the young man muttered to himself
with a sigh, as he thought of her.

Yet, how nearly had he approached the verge of that precipice,
which, had he passed — what would the world say? No!
with all his real virtues, affections, and natural strength, he
could never brave that voice of vulgar fashionable opinion.

Lose caste! no! no! He was right. “It would never answer
for him!”

And such also was the conclusion of Nelly Floyd.

Sherrod Nelson, step by step, had approached, with his own,
so nigh to the heart of Nelly Floyd — nay, had so nearly
spoken out, from his own, to her heart, that the girl started up
into sudden consciousness of the true relations between them.
She saw all — all in a moment. She saw into her own heart, if
not his. But she fancied that she saw into his also. And,
with these discoveries — with this consciousness — seeing to the
remotest consequences — she suddenly said to Lady Nelson:—

“I must go!” and, without giving any adequate reason — but
showing fully, by her distress and tears, that she felt the necessity
to be urgent, she went.

Here is a brief history, but it contains volumes. She went
— and Nelly Floyd never met with Sherrod Nelson till the moment
when she encountered him as her brother's executioner.

“But I have her now!” he repeated. “She shall not escape
me again!” And satisfied on this score, he proceeded to his
military duties, still meditating the fate of the girl and how he
should dispose of her.

Had he now any purpose of defying convention — of showing
to the world that his faith in her beauty and her gifts was superior
to the requisitions of society and caste? We know not.
We fear not. He, perhaps, simply meditated restoring her to a
more fit social condition. Enough, that, with some exultation,

he repeated to himself, more than once, throughout the
day:—

“I will not lose her now!”

But he knew not Nelly's strength, or pride, or sensibility.
That night old Mrs. Withers, the nurse, went forth, as usual,
when she got a chance, to the kitchen which the soldiers occupied,
to enjoy, as before, her scandal and supper. She left
Nelly Floyd “in her swound,” as she called it. When she got
back, after a two hours' recess, the bird had flown — the couch
was empty — though still warm. Nelly Floyd was nowhere to
be found. In the morning it was discovered also, that Aggy,
the pony, had disappeared about the same time with his mistress.
They must have gone together. Yet how had she found
the horse? How, in her weakness contrived to saddle, mount
him and ride away? It was shown that she had done this.

All was consternation. Sherrod Nelson was in a passion of
excitement. He could have torn Mrs. Withers to pieces.
Search was made about the neighboring woods, but fruitlessly;
and that very day, vexed, worried, and apprehensive, the young
man was compelled to march his command up to Eutaw, where
Stewart had already arrived with the grand army.

“Where was Nelly Floyd?”

“Had she fled a maniac? What a horrid thought!”

Yet that horrid thought was the companion of our young
captain of loyalists during, and long after, all that dreary march!

“Howling in the woods, great God! — A maniac!” he shuddered
at the picture. It might, indeed, be true.

At that moment, and with that fear filling all his fancy, Sherrod
Nelson felt that Ellen Floyd was more dear to him than all
the world of fashion. But the terrible sway of that conventional
realm in which he had been trained! It needs every now and
then, some terrible event to shock it back into humanity!