Sweethearts and Wives CHAPTER 15.
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"My dear child! I cannot think of seeing you start for New York alone!" Mrs. Ellis said, coming into the chamber of Grace some ten minutes after her niece had left her, and finding her engaged in hurriedly packing her trunk.
"Don't say a word, aunt," replied Grace, half impatiently. "I would be unworthy the name of a wife — if I hesitated for one moment!"
"But, my child — "
"In pity spare me any opposition, Aunt Mary; my duty is clear, and must be performed. I would go mad, if I remained here one moment longer than was required to make preparation for my journey."
"Then call upon Mr. Goodlow as soon as you reach Boston, and ask him, from me, to send some friend with you."
"If I have time to spare, I will send for him," Grace replied, half-abstractedly.
"Oh do, by all means; I cannot bear the thought of your going to New York alone."
Mrs. Ellis had never traveled a mile in her life, except under the escort of someone, and therefore, like a great many other ladies in the land, had a "dreadful idea" of traveling alone, even upon our great lines of public conveyance, where a lady is as safe from impertinence and insult, as in her own parlor. But Grace had a reason for venturing alone upon her journey, too strong for any vague apprehensions to find an entrance into her mind. In half an hour from the time when she left Mrs. Williams, she was seated alone in a closed carriage, the driver of which was urging his horses to a quick pace, and in the direction of Boston. A lonely ride of three hours gave her imagination full time for activity. But it mainly presented one vivid picture — her husband laid upon a sick bed, pale, emaciated, unconscious, and trembling on the brink of dissolution. Every act of opposition to him — every accusing thought, every cold word — came up from her memory as distinctly as if they had transpired but an hour before, until her very heart was wrung with agony.
"Oh, if he should not be alive!" she would sometimes murmur, sinking back in the carriage from the erect position, the very active intensity of her thoughts and feelings had caused her to assume, and giving herself up to violent fits of weeping. From these, her mind would gradually recover its tone, and then her imagination would again become busy withfearful images of pain and death.
Two hours had to be passed in Boston before the departure of the cars for New York. Immediately on her arrival, Grace sent for Mr. Goodlow. He met her with a serious face, although he strove hard to conceal any expression calculated to excite the alarm of the young wife.
"Oh sir! have you heard from my husband since you wrote yesterday?" she asked, eagerly, the moment he came in.
"I have, Mrs. Milnor; but do not unnecessarily permit yourself to become agitated."
"Was he better or worse?" was the quick interrogation, while her face became blanched.
"He was no worse, I believe; his fever was steadily progressing, but will not reach its climax for a day or two — so the physician writes me. I have ordered for him the best medical attendance, and the most careful and judicious nurse to be obtained in New York. Still, there is no one like a wife by the bedside of her sick husband; I am therefore encouraged to find you so promptly on your way to take that all-important station. Your reward will, I doubt not, be the happy restoration of your husband to health. But you must not go unattended; I will place you under the care of a friend who goes to New York this afternoon — one who has become much interested in your husband since his brief sojourn here, and who will not leave you until you are at his side."
"Oh, if I should not find him alive!" Grace said, weeping bitterly.
"Do not, my dear madam," urged Mr. Goodlow, "thus allow your mind to become paralyzed with fear — or you will unfit yourself for the duties which await you, and on the faithful performance of which rests, perhaps, the life of your husband. Be a true woman and a true wife; these require self-possession and calmness under circumstances of trial, like the one you are now summoned to pass through. You have promptly obeyed the call of duty; go on to the end, trusting in that divine Providence which controls every event for good — and you will have your reward."
Thus, for most of the time that Grace remained in Boston, did old Mr. Goodlow strive to bear up her troubled and desponding mind, though with little apparent success. Five o'clock at length came, and, under charge of the individual Mr. Goodlow had alluded to, the anxious wife took her departure for New York, where, after a sleepless night, she arrived about dawn on the next morning. As the boat touched the wharf, it was with difficulty that she could restrain herself from springing upon the shore, so eager was she to reach her husband. But her kind attendant, upon whose arm her trembling hand was resting, gently urged her to be calm, adding assurances that she would soon be with the object of her deep solicitude.
A few minutes after their arrival at the wharf, Grace entered a carriage, and was soon rolling up Broadway at a rapid speed. In a brief space of time, she was at the door of the American Hotel. As she was handed from the carriage, her heart almost ceased to beat, and she felt so faint that she could scarcely stand.
"How is Mr. Milnor?" asked the gentleman who had attended her, as he entered a parlor with Grace upon his arm. What a moment for the eager, anxious, trembling wife!
"The doctor has just left him."
"He is alive, then, thank Heaven!" ejaculated Grace, sinking upon a chair.
"Oh yes, ma'am," quickly returned the porter, who understood in a moment, the relation she bore to their sick guest; "but he is quite ill, though the doctor thinks not very dangerously so. He has just left, and said, in going away, that the most perfect quiet must be maintained in the portion of the house where he is. I mention this, madam, that you may feel the necessity of being composed when you meet him."
"Oh, I will be very calm," returned Grace, breathing more freely than she had done for many hours. "He is still alive! that has taken a load from my bosom. But let me go to him at once."
"Would it be prudent, madam?" the attendant respectfully suggested: "might not your unexpected presence so agitate his mind, as to do him a fatal injury?"
"Oh no! that cannot be," urged Grace.
"He is right," the gentleman who had accompanied her said. "First let the physician be sent for, and his advice taken. Be kind enough to despatch a waiter for him immediately."
This was done, and Grace was compelled to acquiesce, although with a feeling of great reluctance. It was half an hour before the physician came in. He readily gave his consent for Grace to see him at once, and become his constant attendant, but under the strictest injunction to remain calm.
"If I find that you do not control yourself while with him, I shall be compelled to forbid your attendance on him," he said, with professional firmness.
"Oh, I will be calm, sir, very calm! Do not fear for me," returned Mrs. Milnor, her voice affected with huskiness, and her whole frame trembling with nervous excitement.
"But, my dear madam, you are far from being calm at this very moment. You are losing your self-control rapidly."
"Oh, but take me to him, and I will be composed!"
The physician paused a moment, and then said,
"Come. But, as you value the life of your husband, force down your excited feelings."
"I will! I will!" and Grace moved a step in advance of the physician as they took their way to her husband's chamber.
"Remember!" he whispered, laying his hand upon her arm as they paused at the door.
"Do not fear about me."
The door was then slowly opened, and both passed in. The room was dark and still — so dark that it was some moments before the eyes of Grace could distinguish clearly any object. But she soon saw her husband lying upon the bed, his face partly turned away, apparently in a sound sleep; but the rays of light which struggled through the darkened window were too feeble to give a distinct view of his features, or to reveal fully the change that disease had wrought upon them.
"Does he sleep?" asked the physician, in a low whisper, as he kept his hand upon the arm of Mrs. Milnor.
The nurse replying in the affirmative, he whispered in the ear of Grace,
"Everything depends upon his being kept perfectly quiet now. It is the crisis of his disease."
He then explained to the nurse the relation of the stranger he had introduced to the sick room, and enjoined her to guard the young wife in the strictest way against any acts that might excite her husband's mind. He then went away.
By this time, the eyes of Grace had become so accustomed to the feeble light which prevailed in the room, that, as she stood bending over the unconscious body of her husband, she could perceive the fearful ravages which disease had made. His cheeks were sunken, and of a pale yellow hue; his eyes hollow, and his whole form wasted away, until the hot, dry skin clung to his very bones. She could not help shuddering, as, after a long, fixed, earnest gaze — she turned away to take off her cloak and bonnet, and prepare to wait and watch unweariedly by his bedside.
After a few hurried inquiries of the nurse in regard to the progress of the disease, and her husband's present state — she seated herself by his side, and laying her hand softly upon his, that burned with fever, watched his quickly-heaving chest, and the expression of suffering in his countenance, for nearly an hour. As he did not awake after the lapse of this time, she got up and walked quietly across the room to get something from her trunk, which a servant had brought in. As she did so, her eye rested upon a letter which lay upon a table. Taking it up quickly, she saw that it was her own letter, in which she had breathed out to him every tender thought in her heart, and made a full confession of her faults. But the seal was unbroken! It had arrived too late! Her husband did not know that she had seen and felt her error — did not know how tenderly she really loved him, despite herpride and self-will, nor how fully and freely she had poured out everything to him.
Unable to contain herself at this discovery, she sank into a chair and sobbed aloud.
"My dear madam!" said the nurse, coming instantly to her side, "this must not be! Remember the strict injunction of the doctor. Everything depends upon your remaining perfectly composed. Surely no one ought to feel this, more deeply than yourself."
"You are right," Grace replied at once, and in a firm voice, composing herself by a vigorous effort. "No one ought to feel this more deeply than myself. I ought not to require that anyone should remind me of my duty."
From that time, no matter how anxious and troubled, Grace maintained a perfectly calm exterior; but, in doing so, she had to use a degree of rational self-control beyond what she had ever been called upon to exercise.
It was near the middle of the day, before Mr. Milnor roused up from the state of torpor into which he had fallen, but not sufficiently to know his wife, who fixed her eyes intently upon his face, eager to be recognized, and sat thus, minute after minute, expecting each moment to see his countenance brighten, but in vain. Oh, how sick her heart felt as she turned away her eyes from his face with a sigh!
About the middle of the afternoon, the doctor came in again. He examined his patient long and carefully, making, as he did so, the minutest inquiries of the nurse. To the eager questions of Grace, he replied vaguely, yet encouragingly, in general terms.
"The crisis will be tonight," she overheard him whisper to the nurse. "You must watch him closely, and observe my directions with the strictest care."
This made her feel awful. "What if he should really die, after all!" she said to herself, shuddering; and then a multitude of distressing thoughts came crowding into her mind.
"The doctor thinks him very dangerous?" she said to the nurse, in a whisper, after the physician had gone.
"Not more so, than cases which daily recover," the nurse replied, evasively. "Still, he is very ill, and will require to be carefully treated. By the morning, we expect to find him better."
"Don't you think he will know me before night?"
"It is, perhaps, as well that he should not. Any excitement of mind will be injurious. I would think it far better if you would keep away from him until the morning. You do not look at all well, and I think you ought to endeavor to sleep."
"I cannot sleep. I have not closed my eyes since the night before last."
"Go and lie down, at least. You may fall away into sleep, and then you will be better able to bear the fatigue of watching by your husband's bedside. I can do all for him now that can possibly be done — far more than you can do."
"Will you call me if he should become worse?"
"Certainly I will. There is a bed behind that screen; come and lie down there;" and, as the considerate nurse said this, she took her by the arm and almost forced her to the bed, upon which she lay down, but with evident reluctance. In a little while, however, a drowsy feeling stole over her, and soon after she sank into a profound slumber.
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