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.”