Dr. Sevier. George Washington Cable
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it came to her mind that the Doctor might be considering his own interests, and she added, in a whisper:—
“Dey pay me.”
She changed places with the husband, and the physician and he passed down the stairs together in silence.
“Well, Doctor?” said the young man, as he stood, prescription in hand, before the carriage-door.
“Well,” responded the physician, “you should have called me sooner.”
The look of agony that came into the stranger’s face caused the Doctor instantly to repent his hard speech.
“You don’t mean”—exclaimed the husband.
“No, no; I don’t think it’s too late. Get that prescription filled and give it to Mrs. ——”
“Richling,” said the young man.
“Let her have perfect quiet,” continued the Doctor. “I shall be back this evening.”
And when he returned she had improved.
She was better again the next day, and the next; but on the fourth she was in a very critical state. She lay quite silent during the Doctor’s visit, until he, thinking he read in her eyes a wish to say something to him alone, sent her husband and the quadroon out of the room on separate errands at the same moment. And immediately she exclaimed:—
“Doctor, save my life! You mustn’t let me die! Save me, for my husband’s sake! To lose all he’s lost for me, and then to lose me too—save me, Doctor! save me!”
“I’m going to do it!” said he. “You shall get well!”
And what with his skill and her endurance it turned out so.
CHAPTER IV.
CONVALESCENCE AND ACQUAINTANCE.
A man’s clothing is his defence; but with a woman all dress is adornment. Nature decrees it; adornment is her instinctive delight. And, above all, the adorning of a bride; it brings out so charmingly the meaning of the thing. Therein centres the gay consent of all mankind and womankind to an innocent, sweet apostasy from the ranks of both. The value of living—which is loving; the sacredest wonders of life; all that is fairest and of best delight in thought, in feeling, yea, in substance—all are apprehended under the floral crown and hymeneal veil. So, when at length one day Mrs. Richling said, “Madame Zénobie, don’t you think I might sit up?” it would have been absurd to doubt the quadroon’s willingness to assist her in dressing. True, here was neither wreath nor veil, but here was very young wifehood, and its re-attiring would be like a proclamation of victory over the malady that had striven to put two hearts asunder. Her willingness could hardly be doubted, though she smiled irresponsibly, and said:—
“If you thing”—She spread her eyes and elbows suddenly in the manner of a crab, with palms turned upward and thumbs outstretched—“Well!”—and so dropped them.
“You don’t want wait till de doctah comin’?” she asked.
“I don’t think he’s coming; it’s after his time.”
“Yass?”
The woman was silent a moment, and then threw up one hand again, with the forefinger lifted alertly forward.
“I make a lill fi’ biffo.”
She made a fire. Then she helped the convalescent to put on a few loose drapings. She made no concealment of the enjoyment it gave her, though her words were few, and generally were answers to questions; and when at length she brought from the wardrobe, pretending not to notice her mistake, a loose and much too ample robe of woollen and silken stuffs to go over all, she moved as though she trod on holy ground, and distinctly felt, herself, the thrill with which the convalescent, her young eyes beaming their assent, let her arms into the big sleeves, and drew about her small form the soft folds of her husband’s morning-gown.
“He goin’ to fine that droll,” said the quadroon.
The wife’s face confessed her pleasure.
“It’s as much mine as his,” she said.
“Is you mek dat?” asked the nurse, as she drew its silken cord about the convalescent’s waist.
“Yes. Don’t draw it tight; leave it loose—so; but you can tie the knot tight. That will do; there!” She smiled broadly. “Don’t tie me in as if you were tying me in forever.”
Madame Zénobie understood perfectly, and, smiling in response, did tie it as if she were tying her in forever.
Half an hour or so later the quadroon, being—it may have been by chance—at the street door, ushered in a person who simply bowed in silence.
But as he put one foot on the stair he paused, and, bending a severe gaze upon her, asked:—
“Why do you smile?”
She folded her hands limply on her bosom, and drawing a cheek and shoulder toward each other, replied:—
“Nuttin’ ”—
The questioner’s severity darkened.
“Why do you smile at nothing?”
She laid the tips of her fingers upon her lips to compose them.
“You din come in you’ carridge. She goin’ to thing ’tis Miché Reechin.” The smile forced its way through her fingers. The visitor turned in quiet disdain and went upstairs, she following.
At the top he let her pass. She led the way and, softly pushing open the chamber-door, entered noiselessly, turned, and, as the other stepped across the threshold, nestled her hands one on the other at her waist, shrank inward with a sweet smile, and waved one palm toward the huge, blue-hung mahogany four-poster—empty.
The visitor gave a slight double nod and moved on across the carpet. Before a small coal fire, in a grate too wide for it, stood a broad, cushioned rocking-chair, with the corner of a pillow showing over its top. The visitor went on around it. The girlish form lay in it, with eyes closed, very still; but his professional glance quickly detected the false pretence of slumber. A slippered foot was still slightly reached out beyond the bright colors of the long gown, and toward the brazen edge of the hearth-pan, as though the owner had been touching her tiptoe against it to keep the chair in gentle motion. One cheek was on the pillow; down the other curled a few light strands of hair that had escaped from her brow.
Thus for an instant. Then a smile began to wreath about the corner of her lips; she faintly stirred, opened her eyes—and lo! Dr. Sevier, motionless, tranquil, and grave.
“O Doctor!” The blood surged into her face and down upon her neck. She put her hands over her eyes, and her face into the pillow. “O Doctor!”—rising to a sitting posture—“I thought, of course, it was my husband.”
The Doctor replied while she was speaking:—
“My carriage broke down.” He drew a chair toward the fireplace, and asked, with his face toward the dying fire:—
“How are you feeling to-day, madam—stronger?”
“Yes; I can almost say I’m well.” The blush was still on her face as he turned to receive her answer, but she smiled with a bright courageousness that secretly amused and pleased him. “I thank you, Doctor, for my recovery; I certainly should thank you.” Her face lighted up with that soft radiance which was its best quality, and her smile became half introspective as her eyes dropped from his, and followed her outstretched hand as it rearranged the farther edges of the dressing-gown one upon another.
“If you