Chapter XXXVI: The Death Watch

He came, with that disheartening fear,
Which all who love beneath the sky
Feel when they gaze on what is dear—
The dreadful thought that it must die!
That desolating thought which comes
Into men’s happiest hours and homes,
Whose melancholy boding flings
Death’s shadow o’er the brightest things,
Sicklies the maiden’s bloom, and spreads
The grave beneath young lovers’ heads!—MOORE.

By the agency of the powerful medicines administered, Erminie’s high excitement was calmed. The beautiful, tossing arms were stilled, and lay lightly resting on the coverlet. The fiery flush died out of her cheeks, the terrible light softened in her eyes, and her lovely face, now-white and motionless as marble, lay reposing in perfect peace upon her pillow.

Elfie watched on one side of her bed, and Catherine on the other.

Major Fielding and Captain Ethel forbore to go out, even for a walk. In their keen anxiety for the patient, and their earnest desire to render assistance should their services be required, they remained in the library, reading or pretending to read, but really listening and watching for every sound and sight that could suggest anything relative to the condition of Erminie.

Dr. Burney came three times in the course of that day.

Major Fielding and his daughter asked the physician many questions concerning the nature of the sufferer’s illness, and the chances of her recovery, and they received answers from him which were intended to be encouraging, but which were really depressing.

Miss Rosenthal’s brain and nervous system were very much affected, he said. The disease was paroxysmal in its tendency. She was now composed, and if a reaction into fever and delirium could be prevented, she would do well.

This was all the satisfaction they could get from her medical attendant.

Ah, “if.”

Every means, short of drugging her into the sleep of death with sedatives and opiates, were taken to prevent a relapse into her fearful frenzy.

Elfie sat by the bed all night, and administered all the medicines with her own hands, and kept ice to the head and mustard to the feet and wrists of her patient.

But all this was in vain, or attended with only a partial success.

Towards midnight Erminie’s cheeks and lips began to flush; she moved restlessly, and muttered in her sleep.

Elfie renewed the medicine, the ice and the mustard, but with little effect.

The evil symptoms increased rapidly, and before morning Erminie was again, with blazing eyes and burning cheeks, raving and tossing in an agony of fever and frenzy.

In the extremity of terror Elfie dispatched first her father and then Captain Ethel, who were both watching the night out in the library, to fetch the physician.

But Dr. Burney happened to be with a lady patient whom he could not leave abruptly, and so it followed that the sun rose before he made his appearance by Erminie’s bedside.

A fearful, a terrible vision, met him there. The beautiful and angelic girl seemed to be turned into a raging and foaming demoniac; and it required the united efforts of Elfie and Catherine to hold her down on her bed.

Violent remedies had to be resorted to now to allay the frightful cerebral excitement—cupping, leeching and bleeding were tried in turn; and in reducing the sufferer to calmness, they almost reduced her to death.

And her medical attendant knew, and her anxious friend feared, that as the second attack of frenzy had been more violent than the first, so the third attack must be the most violent, and would probably end in death.

Thus the approaching night was anticipated in horrible dread.

Meanwhile Erminie lay in the collapse of exhaustion—pale and faded as a broken lily—without motion, speech, or color, almost without blood, breath, or life.

From time to time Elfie, weeping and watching, moistened the poor girl’s lips with a little melted ice.

Towards evening there seemed to be a change. Erminie moved and sighed. And then opened her eyes and breathed.

Elfie bent over her.

“Why——” began Erminie, and then she ceased.

Elfie bent lower, and softly inquired:

“What is that you say, dear?”

“Why—am I—” again commenced Erminie, with an effort; but again her voice failed for weakness.

“Why are you here in bed, do you mean to ask, dear?” suggested Elfie.

Erminie nodded.

“You over-exerted yourself and have had an attack of illness; but you are better now—much better, thank Heaven,” answered Elfie, cheerfully.

“How—bloodless—they—” panted Erminie, looking with surprise at her pale fingers, and speaking in the feeble and pointless way common with persons affected as she was, and breaking down before she finished her sentence.

“They were always very white, you know, dear, those fair fingers,” said Elfie, encouragingly.

“No—rosy—rosy-tipped—” murmured Erminie, who, when she had been well in mind and body, had been without the least vanity.

“So they will be again, dear. Never mind your fingers. Will you try to swallow a teaspoonful of this arrow-root?” coaxed Elfie.

Erminie, apparently only to please her nurse, nodded assent and opened her mouth like a bird to receive the atom of nourishment. But the effort was too much for her weakness, and when she had swallowed it she gulped, shuddered and shook her head in refusal of anything more.

After a little while she raised her eyes so wistfully to her nurse that Elfie bent down over her to hear what she might have to say.

“How—long—have——” breathed Erminie, faintly, breaking off.

“How long have you been ill, do you mean, dear? Only since the day before yesterday,” replied Elfie.

“What makes—so weak?” panted Erminie.

“Only your illness; but you are better now, and you will soon be strong again.”

“You—think—so?”

“I know so, dearest. But you must not fatigue yourself by talking so much. Try to sleep.”

And before Elfie had well spoken this advice, Erminie had dropped as suddenly into sleep as a stone falls into a well.

But this sleep was not quiet like the preceding one.

As evening approached the sleeper became restless: tossing her limbs about, rolling her head, and rolling her eyes, and muttering in approaching delirium.

But why should I repeat the horrors of that second night? It was but a reproduction of those of the first one.

Again desperate remedies were applied to meet violent symptoms. And again the frenzy was subdued to quietness, but the sufferer meanwhile brought nearly to dissolution. And her medical attendant might well have said, with the conqueror of old:

“Another such a victory and I am ruined.”

By noon next day Erminie lay in sleep or stupor, with scarcely a sign of life in her aspect, with scarcely a hope of life in prospect.

Elfie was forced to leave her for a few hours, that she—Elfie—might recruit herself with a bath and a nap.

But early in the afternoon the faithful girl was again by the bedside of her friend.

To her surprise she thought she saw symptoms of a favorable change.

Erminie was breathing softly. She opened her eyes, and seeing Elfie, tried to put out her hand.

Elfie took that pale hand and kissed it, and then stooped and kissed the still paler brow.

“Elfie!” breathed the sick girl.

“What is it, dearest?”

“Must I——_die_?”

“Nonsense, no, my dear, you are in no sort of danger.”

Erminie smiled sadly and turned away her eyes. Presently her lips moved as if she would have spoken, and Elfie stooped to hear.

“I want——”

“What, dear Erminie?”

“—My pastor—please.”

“I will send for him, dear Erminie.”

“Soon——now!” panted the sinking girl.

“Yes, now, dearest, you shall have him,” said Elfie, who beckoned to Catherine to take her place at the bedside; and then left the room to have the wish of her friend gratified.

Dr. Sales, the beloved and venerated pastor of the Rosenthal family had, since her father’s death, stood in a father’s position towards Erminie.

With the deepest distress he had heard of that good girl’s illness. He had called every day to see her or to ask after her.

He had not yet been permitted to make his presence known to her. But once or twice, while she lay in stupor, he had stood over her unconscious form, gazing anxiously down on her death-like face; or he had knelt beside her bed, praying silently for her recovery.

It was, therefore, without surprise that Elfie, when she went down stairs, found the pastor waiting in the hall.

“Oh, Dr. Sales, I am so glad to see you! I had just come down to send for you,” she eagerly exclaimed.

“How is our dear child this morning?” anxiously inquired the pastor.

Elfie burst into tears.

“Worse?” breathlessly demanded the old man.

“Oh, how can I tell you? Heaven only knows! Her last paroxysm of fever and delirium was less violent; but then such powerful depletives have been used; and it has left her weak almost unto death. But she is conscious now, and has asked for you.”

“Can you show me at once into her room?”

“Oh yes, come,” said Elfie, softly leading the way upstairs and into Erminie’s chamber.

Catherine still sat beside the bed fanning the sinking girl, who had again suddenly dropped into sleep or stupor;—it was impossible to say which.

“You will not disturb her?” whispered Elfie, anxiously.

“Certainly not. I will sit here quietly until she awakens or returns to consciousness,” replied the pastor, in a low tone.

At a sign from Elfie the girl Catherine arose and left the room. And the pastor seated himself in the vacant chair, and took the palm leaf and fanned Erminie, while he watched for her awakening.

And the room was very cool, shady, and quiet, and so the sleeper lay calmly reposing for nearly an hour, and then she softly opened her eyes and looked with a gentle, bewildered gaze upon the figure of the preacher seated by her bed.

“Do you know me, my child?” whispered the pastor.

She feebly moved her hand and smiled.

“You sent for me, dear child,” went on Dr. Sales.

She nodded, and then turned her eyes anxiously towards Elfie, who came and bent down to hear what Erminie should have to say.

“Something to give me—” Erminie panted and stopped.

—“Strength, do you mean, my dear?” inquired Elfie.

Erminie nodded.

Elfie poured out some liquid from a vial into a spoon and put it to her lips.

Erminie swallowed with difficulty, but seemed to be revived by the dose.

“Now, dear, go—and leave me—with my pastor—please,” she murmured.

And Elfie gave the purport of these words to the pastor, and then left the room.

Erminie turned her fading eyes upon the anxious face of her old friend.

He stooped over her to hear what she might wish to say.

“Dear friend, must I die?” she whispered.

“I pray not—I earnestly pray not, my child,” answered the pastor, with ill-suppressed emotion.

“But you believe that I must.”

“No, no—”

“Don’t try to deceive yourself or me, dear friend. You believe that I must die. All the others seem to know that I must. I see it in every face.”

“My child, my child, the Lord of Heaven and earth is also the Lord of life and death. He is able to save to the uttermost the body as well as the soul. Pray and believe and live,” said the pastor, trying to control his agitation.

“I would rather submit myself to His will. I do not fear death. But——”

Erminie paused, her strength failed, her senses wandered for a moment, her eyes filmed over, and her chin dropped.

Was it a swoon? Or was it death?

In great disturbance Dr. Sales poured some Cologne water upon a fresh handkerchief, and bathed her head and face, and held it to her nose, that she might inhale the reviving essence.

And in a few moments he had the comfort of seeing her draw a deep breath and open her eyes. She did not know that she had fainted, for she took up the sentence just where she had left it off.

“For the sake of others, I ought to know my condition, so as to arrange my affairs.”

“My child, you are fatiguing yourself too much. Let me entreat you to be quiet.”

“No; I must speak—while I can. I feel I have no strength to make any but a verbal will. And Justin is not here. And so—you will listen to me.”

“Speak on, then, dear child, but take your time—do not weary yourself.”

And with many pauses and rests between her words, Erminie spoke.

“You know, dear friend, the large property left me by my uncles?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if I die without a will, Justin, as my heir-at-law, will come into possession of the whole.”

“Certainly.”

“And I cannot make a will, but I know that I can trust my dear brother to execute my wishes as conscientiously as if they were expressed in the most legally drawn up testament that ever was framed.”

“Indeed you may, my dear,” replied the pastor, as he once more bathed her face and head in the reviving Cologne water.

“Well, please tell Justin, then, my last dying wishes.”

The doctor took out his note-book and pencil to assist his memory, if future need should be.

“I wish Justin to take one third of the whole of my property for himself, and to give a second third to Britomarte Conyers, whom I feel sure that he will eventually marry, and to give the remaining third—”

Dr. Sales wrote all this down in his note-book, and then looked up to see why Erminie did not continue. And he saw that she had again grown deadly faint.

“Oh, Father in Heaven! she is hastening her own death by all this effort,” cried the pastor, in deep distress, as he threw down his note-book and caught up a bottle of Cologne water and freely bathed her face, head and hands.

Again she rallied, smiled, and pointed to the note-book, mutely begging him to take it up and proceed with his work.

“My child, my child, you are too feeble for all this exertion. I must insist upon your resting for awhile,” said Dr. Sales.

“Rest—long rest—will come very soon. But now—I must go on,” persisted the sinking girl, pointing to the note-book.

Dr. Sales shook his head. Erminie turned on him an imploring look, and her eyes filled with tears.

“You cannot resist the prayer of the dying, and the most important part of my bequest is behind. The remaining third—”

Here, with a sigh, Dr. Sales took up his note-book.

—“The remaining third of my property I wish Justin to devote to the relief of the aged and indigent mothers left destitute by the death of their soldier sons.”

The pastor wrote this down and then looked up for further instructions.

“That is all,” said Erminie, simply.

Dr. Sales would willingly have inquired her reasons for making this bequest to the mothers rather than to the widows and orphans of the war; but he refrained from taxing her strength with an explanation.

She, however, saw the question in his face, and freely answered it.

“Every one thinks of the widows and orphans of the war. All the concerts and fairs got up for the sufferers by the war are for the widows and orphans. And this is right so far as it goes, for the widows and orphans must be cared for. But no one thinks of the aged and indigent mothers whose sons have fallen in battle. And this is all wrong; for these old mothers are perhaps the greatest sufferers of all. The widow may find another husband, and the orphan another father, but the desolate mother who has lost her son in battle finds never another to fill his place in the ‘aching void’ of her heart. Therefore will I try to relieve the wants, if I cannot comfort the hearts, of the mothers.”

These last words were almost inaudible, and before they were well uttered, the fair young saint had fainted quite away.

In the utmost distress Dr. Sales rang the bell, which brought Catherine and Elfie to the room.

All the three used their best efforts to restore the swooning girl.

And after some time these efforts were rewarded with success.

The excitement of her interview with Dr. Sales had been far too great for the strength of the sinking girl.

She recovered from her swoon of exhaustion, but it was only to pass into a state of nervous restlessness, that speedily progressed into feverish delirium and arose to raging frenzy.

Another awful night with the sufferer tried all the endurance of her attendants.

It was late in the morning before the raving madness subsided and the patient sank into a fatal coma.

The visit of the physician in the forenoon left not a hope in the world for her life.

The minister came and prayed by her bedside, but she heard him not.

She lay in a stupor that every one felt must end in death.

“And her brother has not arrived!” exclaimed Elfie, wringing her hands.

“But she has left her last words for him with me,” said Dr. Sales.

The physician went away, feeling certain that at his next visit he should see the white crape badge upon the door that should warn him a bright young life had left the earth.

The minister remained in the room, watching with Elfie beside the death-bed, and praying God for strength for all to bear the approaching, overwhelming bereavement.

The house was kept very quiet—very unreasonably so, since nothing on earth could now disturb the calm dreamer on the bed. But nevertheless it _was_ kept so very quiet. Straw was laid before the line of garden wall fencing the road, to deaden even at that distance the sound of passing vehicles. The door-knocker was muffled and the wires of the bells were cut. Locks and hinges were oiled. And every man and woman in the place wore list slippers, and moved in silence and murmured in whispers.

Very, very still was the place. So that there was no warning of the approaching traveller, until the door of the sick room softly opened and Catherine crept in and whispered to Elfie:

“Mr. Justin has come.”

With the old familiar household servants Colonel Rosenthal was still Mr. Justin.

Elfie started up, and signing to Catherine to take her place, slipped out of the room and down stairs and passed into the library, where she naturally expected to find Justin.

He was pacing silently up and down the floor. On her entrance he turned quickly and demanded eagerly:

“How is she? How is she?”

“Oh, Justin!” exclaimed Elfie, dropping into a chair and bursting into tears.

“Dead? dead?” cried Justin, breathlessly, starting towards her and seizing her hand.

“Not yet! not yet! Oh, Justin!”

“But—dying?”

Elfie nodded her head and burst into heavier sobs.

Justin threw himself into a chair, covered his face with his hands and groaned in anguish.

And so they remained a few moments—Elfie sobbing heavily, Justin struggling for composure.

At length Elfie arose and with a still heaving bosom went to her companion and said:

“You had better see her now—while—while she—while she still lives.”

“Is she conscious?” groaned Justin.

Elfie shook her head.

“Oh, how—_how_ did she take this fatal fever?” inquired Justin, as he arose to follow his conductor.

“How? Can you doubt? By her unremitted devotion to the soldiers in the hospitals. Oh, Justin, Justin! If ever yet a young saint won a crown of martyrdom, your sister will. She visited the fever wards that every one else except surgeons and nurses avoided. She ministered to scores of the fever-stricken, and comforted and saved many. But now, you will see the end.”

As Elfie murmured these last words they reached the door of Erminie’s chamber, which had been left standing open for the freer ventilation of the room.

“Come in,” said Elfie, leading the way.

Justin, with a depressed and reverend bearing, followed Elfie up to the bedside of his sister.

Dr. Sales and Catherine were in attendance, but both silently made way for the afflicted brother, who now stood gazing upon the wreck of his beautiful only sister.

There she lay, still, white, cold and almost lifeless as marble.

Justin’s great frame shook with the terrible storm of sorrow that he could not wholly repress.

For a few moments the venerable pastor held back in respect to the sacredness of the brother’s grief. Then he went slowly to the side of Justin, took his hand, and said:

“You know how much I feel with you. My grief and sense of loss is scarcely less than your own. But we know also where to look for strength to endure.”

Justin wrung the pastor’s hand in silence, and then sunk down in the chair that some friendly hand had placed for him.

Leaving the three faithful guardians by the bedside of the sinking girl, Elfie went down to have all manner of comforts and refreshments prepared for the newly arrived brother. And then, when she had made everything ready, she returned to the chamber of Erminie, and whispered to Justin that his dressing-room was prepared, and that his luncheon would be put upon the table as soon as he should be ready to eat it.

More for the purpose of getting away to indulge his sorrow in solitude than for any other reason, Justin arose and left the chamber.