Chapter XXIII

by Mary Jane Holmes

　　FANNY'S ILLNESS LEADS TO HER FATHER'S REPENTANCE

　　From the grassy hillside and bright green plains of Kentucky the frosts ofwinter were gone. By the dancing brook and in the shady nooks of the quietvalleys, the warm spring sun had sought out and brought to life thousandsof sweet wild blossoms, which in turn had faded away, giving place toother flowers of a brighter and gayer hue.

　　Each night from the upper balcony of her father's handsome dwelling Fannywatched in vain for the coming of Dr. Lacey, whose promised return hadlong been delayed by the dangerous illness of his father. Over the woodedhills the breath of summer was floating, hot, arid and laden with disease.Death was abroad in the land, and as each day exaggerated rumors of thehavoc made by cholera in the sultry climate of Louisiana reached Fanny,fearful misgivings filled her mind lest Dr. Lacey, too, should fall avictim to the plague.

　　For herself she had no fears, though slowly but surely through her veinsthe fever flame was creeping, scorching her blood, poisoning her breathand burning her cheek, until her father, alarmed at her altered andlanguid appearance, inquired for the cause of the change. "Nothing but aslight headache," was the reply.

　　Next to the cholera, Mr. Middleton most feared the typhoid fever, severalcases of which had recently occurred in the neighborhood, and fearing lestthe disease might be stealing upon his darling, he proposed calling thephysician. But this Fanny would not suffer, and persisted in saying thatshe was well, until at last she lay all day upon the sofa, and Aunt Katy,when her favorite herb teas failed of effecting their wonted cure, shookher head, saying, "I knew 'twould be so. I always telled you we couldn'tkeep her long."

　　Dr. Gordon was finally called and pronounced her disease to be typhoid inits worst form. Days went by, and so rapid was the progress of the feverthat Mr. Middleton trembled lest of him it had been decreed: "He shall bechildless." To Fanny the thought of death was familiar. For her it had noterrors, and as her outward strength decayed, her faith in the Eternalgrew stronger and brighter, yet she could not die without an assurancethat again in the better world she would meet the father she so muchloved. For her mother she had no fears, for during many years she had beena patient, self-denying Christian.

　　At first Mr. Middleton listened in silence to Fanny's gentle words ofentreaty, but when she spoke to him of her own death, and the love whichalone could sustain him then, he clasped her tightly to his heart, as ifhis arm alone could keep her there forever, saying, "Oh, no, you must nottell me that; you will not die. Even now you are better." And the anxiousfather did try to deceive himself into the belief that Fanny was better,but when each morning's light revealed some fresh ravage the disease hadmade--when the flush on her cheek grew deeper and the light of her eyewilder and more startling, an agonized fear held the old man's heart inthrall. Many and many a weary night found him sleepless, as he wet hispillow with tears. Not such tears as he wept when Richard Wilmot died, norsuch as fell upon the grave of his first-born, for oh, his grief then wasnaught compared with what he now felt for his Sunshine, his idol, hisprecious Fanny. "I cannot, cannot let her die," was the cry which hourlywelled up from the depths of that fond father's aching heart. "Take all,take everything I own, but leave me Sunshine; she mustn't, mustn't die."

　　Earnestly did Fanny pray that her father might be enabled better to bearhis affliction. But he turned a deaf ear alike to her and his gentle,enduring wife, who, bowed with sorrow, yet sought to soothe hergrief-stricken husband. Sadly he would turn away saying, "It's no usetalking. I can't be pious if they take Fanny away. I can see why t'otherone died. 'Twas to bring me to my senses, and show me how bad I used her;but Fanny, my Sunshine, what has Josh done that she should leave him too?Oh, it's more than I can bar."

　　At Dr. Gordon's request a council of physicians in Frankfort was called.As the one who came last was about to enter her room, Mr. Middletondetained him while he said, "Save her, doctor, save her, and you shallhave all I'm worth." Impatiently he awaited the decision. It came, butalas, it brought no hope.

　　Mr. William Middleton, who had recently come from New Orleans, broke thenews to his unhappy brother. Terrible was the anguish of Uncle Joshua,when he became convinced that he must lose her. Nothing could induce himto leave her room; and as if endowed with superhuman strength, he watchedby her constantly, only leaving her once each day to visit the quietgrave, the bed of his other daughter, where now the long green grass waswaving, and the summer flowers were blooming, flowers which Fanny's handhad planted and the father's tears had watered.

　　One night they were alone, the old man and his child.

　　For several hours Fanny had turned uneasily upon her pillow, but she atlast fell into a deep sleep. For a time her father sat quietly listeningto the sound of her breathing, then arising, he softly drew aside thecurtains and looked long and anxiously at her as she slept.

　　Suddenly lifting his hands he exclaimed, "Oh, God, save her, or help me tobear it if she dies." It was the first prayer which for long, long yearshad passed his lips, but it had a power to bring back the olden feeling,when a happy boy, he had knelt at his mother's side, and was not ashamedto pray. Falling on his knees, he tried to recall the words of prayer hismother had taught him, but one petition alone came from his heart in thatdark, midnight hour. "Oh, don't let Fanny die, don't let her die, for whowill comfort old Joshua when she is gone."

　　"The Saviour; He who once wept at the grave of Lazarus will be more to youthan I ever was, or ever can be," said Fanny.

　　In her sleep she dreamed that her father prayed. She awoke and found ittrue. "Come nearer to me, father," said she. He did so, and then among histhick gray locks she laid her thin white hand and prayed.

　　It was a beautiful sight, and methinks the angels hovered round as thatyoung disciple, apparently so near the portals of heaven, sought to leadher weeping father to the same glad world. Her words were soothing, ando'er his darkened mind a ray of light seemed feebly, faintly shining.Before the morning dawned he had resolved that if there still was hope forhim he would find it. Many a time during the succeeding days he prayed insecret, not that Fanny might be spared, but that he might be reconciled toGod. His prayer at length was answered, and Uncle Joshua was a changedman. He showed it in everything, in the expression of his face and in thewords he uttered. For his Sunshine he still wept, but with a chastenedgrief, for now he knew that if she died he would see her in heaven.

　　Where now was Dr. Lacey? Knew he not of the threatened danger? At hisfather's bedside, where for many days his place had been, he had receivedfrom Mr. William Middleton a letter announcing Fanny's illness, which,however, was not then considered dangerous. On learning the contents ofthe letter, the elder Mr. Lacey said, turning to his son, "Go, George, go;I would not keep you from her a moment." The doctor needed no secondbidding, and the first steamer which left New Orleans bore him upon itsdeck, anxious and impatient.

　　Fast the days rolled on, and they who watched Fanny alternately hoped andfeared, as she one day seemed better and the next worst. Of those days wewill not speak. We hasten to a night three weeks from the commencement ofher illness, when gathered in her room were anxious friends, who fearedthe next day's sun would see her dead. Florence, Kate and Mrs. Miller werethere, with tearful eyes and saddened faces. Frank Cameron, too, wasthere. Business, either real or fancied, had again taken him to Kentucky,and hearing of Fanny's illness, he had hastened to her.

　　She had requested to be raised up, and now, leaning against her UncleWilliam, she lay in a deep slumber. In a corner of the room sat UncleJoshua, his head bowed down, his face covered by his hands, while thelarge tears fell upon the carpeting, as he sadly whispered, "It'll belonesome at night; it'll be lonesome in the morning; it'll be lonesomeeverywhar."

　　Florence stood by him, and tried by gently smoothing his tangled hair toexpress the sympathy she could not speak. Suddenly there was the sound offast-coming wheels, and Kate, thinking it must be Dr. Gordon, whom theywere each moment expecting, ran out to meet him. Nearer and nearer camethe carriage, and as Kate was peering through the darkness to see if itwere the expected physician, Dr. Lacey sprang quickly to her side.

　　In Frankfort he had heard that Fanny could not live, and now he eagerlyasked, "Tell me, Mrs. Miller, is she yet alive?"

　　Kate replied by leading him directly toward the sick chamber. As heentered the room Uncle Joshua burst into a fresh flood of tears, saying ashe took the doctor's offered hand, "Poor boy! Poor George. You're losing agreat deal, but not as much as I, for you can find another Fanny, but forme thar's no more Sunshine, when they carry her away."

　　Dr. Gordon now came and after feeling her pulse and listening to the soundof her breathing, he said, "When she wakes from this sleep, I think thematter will be decided. She will be better or worse."

　　And he was right, although the old clock in the hall told the hour ofmidnight ere she roused from the deep slumber which had seemed so muchlike the long last sleep of death. Her first words were for "water,water," and as she put up her hand to take the offered glass, Dr. Gordonwhispered to Dr. Lacey: "She is better, but must not see you tonight."

　　In a twinkling Mr. Middleton's large hand was laid on Dr. Lacey'sshoulder, and hurrying him into the adjoining room, he said, "Stay heretill mornin', and neither breathe nor stir!"

　　Dr. Lacey complied with the request as far as it was possible, thoughnever seemed a night so long, and never dawned a morning so bright as didthe succeeding one, when through the house the joyous tidings ran that thecrisis was past, and Fanny would live.

　　In the course of the morning, Fanny asked Kate, who alone was attendingher, if Dr. Lacey were not there?

　　"What makes you think so?" asked Kate.

　　"Because," answered Fanny, "I either heard him or dreamed that I did."

　　"And if he is here, could you bear to see him now?"

　　"Oh, yes, yes," was the eager answer, and the next moment Dr. Lacey was byher side.

　　Intuitively Kate left the room, consequently we have no means of knowingwhat occurred during that interview, when Dr. Lacey, as it were, receivedback from the arms of death his Fanny, whose recovery from that time wassure though slow. Mr. Middleton, in the exuberance of his joy at havinghis Sunshine restored, seemed hardly sane, but frequently kept mutteringto himself, "Yes, yes, I remember--I'll do it, only give me a little time";at the same time his elbow moved impatiently, as if nudging off someunseen visitor. What it was that he remembered and would do, was not knownfor several days and then he informed his wife that when at first hefeared that Fanny should not live, he had racked his brain to know whythis fresh evil was brought upon him, and had concluded that it was partlyto punish him for his ill-treatment of Julia when living, and partlybecause that now she was dead he had neglected to purchase for her anygravestones. "And I promised," said he, "that if she was spar'd, I'd buyas nice a gravestun as I would if 'twas Sunshine." Three weeks from thattime there stood by the mound in the little graveyard a plain, handsomemonument, on which was simply inscribed, "Julia, aged twenty."

　　One after another those who had been with Fanny during her illnessdeparted to their homes. Frank Cameron lingered several weeks inFrankfort. Florence, too, was there with some relatives. Now, reader, ifyou value our friendship, you will not accuse him of being fickle. He hadloved Fanny long and faithfully, but he knew the time was coming when hewould see her the wife of another. What wonder was it, then, if hesuffered his eye occasionally to rest admiringly upon Florence Woodburn'shappy face, or that he frequently found himself trying to trace someresemblance between the dark hazel of Florence's eyes and the deep blue ofFanny's?

　　With woman's quick perception, Florence divined Frank's thoughts, andalthough she professed herself to be "terribly afraid of his Presbyteriansmile and deaconish ways," she took good care not to discourage him. Butshe teased him unmercifully, and played him many sorry tricks. He bore itall good-humoredly, and when he started for New York he had with him atiny casing, from which peeped the merry face of Florence, looking as ifjust meditating some fresh mischief.

　　And what of Florence? Why, safely stowed away at the bottom of her bureaudrawer, under a promiscuous pile of gloves, ribbons, laces andhandkerchiefs, was a big daguerreotype; but as Florence guarded thatdrawer most carefully, always keeping the key in her pocket, we are unableto say anything certain upon the subject. Up to this day we don't knowexactly whose face it was that led Florence to the drawer so many times aday, but we are safe in saying that it looked frank enough to be Frankhimself!

　　Here for a time we leave her, and return to Mr. Middleton's where Fannywas improving each day. Dr. Lacey watched her recovery anxiously, fearingcontinually lest some new calamity should happen to take his treasure fromhim. Owing to the protracted illness of his father, it became necessarythat he should go back to New Orleans; but as soon as possible he wouldreturn, and then--Fanny could have told you what then, and so, too, couldwe, but we prefer keeping you in suspense.