Litchfield enquirer., 1880-08-19


mother will die after her. There won't be
time to put stone over James's grave before
Maggie aud | are lying beside him in the new
| cemetery at Dalton" She laid her face to
J the wall, and burst into an agony of tears
Leave us, Mr.. Carew, leave US, before the
fever takes you, and you die, too
TO Carew's vigorous nature this paroxysm
OF helpless grief came as a call to action that
made him instantly the master of his ewn
l better be of use? Where's Dr. Edmond
son p .E ...
Gone back to Dalton. He says he'll send
us nurse if he can ind one"
Il must see him. Sit by your daughter,
| please, till return. You don't mind being
left alone in the house with her and-and-"
1t was now broad daylight. Mrs Wolfe,
well understanding Carew's half-spoken mean
ing, could, therefore, with sufficient conf
dence, answer, mo" The artist added
| few words of encouragement and consolation.
md FASTENED off
The Doctor will-o'- the-wisp fitting from
patient to patient, had secured no nurse, and
had little hope of obtaining one. ''The few
women in Dalton fit to be trusted with the
care OF fever patient have their hands more
than full already. If you could go over to
| Ulverstone, though, for me, Mr. Carew-"
''To Lancaster, if you like, Doctor"
DIR. Edmondson scrubbed few words, ad-
dressed them, and gave Carew the necessary
| directions. r... ..-.
The July days crept slowly past, success
| sion of blazing Moons and sultrv evenings that
parched and cracked the Furness fields into
| CHASTITY similtude to those cheeks and lips on
which rested a still fiercer breath than that of
the sun-the burning kiss of fever. Day by
| day the furnace-like atmosphere aided doubt
| full reports from the sick-room to Cypress Ca
| rev with more cruel fears concerning Marga-
| ret. Now that he no longer saw her, and
| could not in deicacy venture further that to
| the threshold of the chamber where she how.
| cred between life and death, the full extent of
the impression this singular girl had made
upon him was gradually revealed. He wrought
fcverishly and assiduously at his picture. that
10y painting her pure, serious face as 1t ap-
peared in health, he might distract lis mind
from the thought of it when flushed with the
delirium of fever.
The pear tree that, when the artist opened
his window, nodded before him branches laden
with ripening fruit, stretched other branches
toward the chamber window of the sick girl.
When both easements stood open for the heavy
| summer air to enter words spoken in the one
room struck on the ears of listener 10 the
other. Leaning out toward the pear tree,
| Carew had already caught on several occasions
| the voice of Margaret Wolfe, weak from ILL
| ness, and too indistinct for his ear to separate
Its faint accents into words
He was leaning thus in the early morning of
the first Of August, drinking in deep draughts
of fresher air than had famed his cheek for
weekspast. and rejoicingin the cool breeze that
sang softly among the leaves of the patch of
woodland opposite. Rain had fallen in the night
| the first shower for nearly a month-and all
ln., ,c,,J 49,,
| Smiling August dawn. CareW, bis artists
imagination quickened by the beauty of the
scene before HIM, half believed that the god
dess Of the morning, sweet Aurora was her.
self in presence. ., -...
''She is come to cool your parched lips with
her kisses, my poor Margaret"
4 laugh, dissonant and mirthless, Jared on
| the ears of the young painter as he murmured
| this fancy to himself. 1t was difficult to real
| ize that it came from the lips he apostro-
| phiZed.
| take the casket from me! Oh mother, what
hundreds Of pearls and rubies there are in it 1!
| Well sell them in London, and buy the old
house again, and have as much land as we had
| before father began to drink. Lady Dorothy
doesn't like the plan, she says. There's her
| ghost behind the others. Oh, how pretty size
| s-what lovely blue eyes, and what an lnno-
| cent face for woman that was so wicked
Hers is just the hair to twist strings of pearls
in. Take the casket-take it-for fear the
ghosts should be too strong for me. There's
more of them rising-hundreds of them-the
rooms full eff their faces Oh what horrible
creatures! Keep them off, mother; don't let
them come near the bed. Where's Mr.. Car
?-he would drive them away. Oh, moth
er, their cold hands are touching me! Oh,
help, help!"
With the girls scream ringing in his ears,
Carew hurried out of the room and house. He
painted nothing that day; the exquisite men,
tai pain occasioned by Margaret's delirium had
untitled him to handle the brush. A weary
time spent among the Abbey ruins gave place
to a sleepless night; and when, on the follow
| ing morning, he attempted, by way of break
ing the painful monotOny of his thoughts, to
resume his picture. the result was so unsats-
factory that he cast the brush from him in
despair. The three succeeding days were
among the most painful that CareW had ever
spent.
On the fourth, an hour or two after he had
risen, there came light tap at his room door.
Opening it, he found himself confronted by
Mrs Wolfe's frightened face and desparing
eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Carew, she walled, "my child's
dying! The doctor says she may pass away
without waking FROM the stupor she's in.
Come, and see her once again before she
dies"
Carew had never more than confused and
| misty recollection of the minutes that follow
ed. He remembered dimly somewhat large
room, airy and fresh and cool, as BELTS the
chamber in which science and affection con-
tend with the demon offever. The exhausted
nurse had retired to her own room to rest !;
but from the pillows of the bed there looked
F,.t l, std cf. ni.r Co.
beautiful in its strange stiffness than it had
been in the serene seriousness of health. The
eyes were closed; it seemed the face of one
dead. -,-. ,s.s .e., l-- e.1a sas
The great grief that already wrapped her
| with its shadow had impaired to the mother
| a self restraint and dignity that in ordinary
seasons were foreign to her nature. She burst
into no loud paroxysm of weeping nor did
| the anguish stamped upon her features find
expression in multiplied complaints. For the
| first few minutes that the pair stood there all
Mrs Wolfe said was, There's death in her
face, you see, MIR. Carew. Gods taking from
me my daughter"
81 want you to paint her for me" she went
| on presently. ''There never was such face
| as hers In Furness and now she's dying, she's
more beautiful than ever. Paint her, Mr..
| Carew: give me a picture of her sweet face,
that when she's gone from me / may have
| something to look on that will remind me of
her, and keep me from going mad" ~
Carew, unable to trust his voice, silently
signed assent. He fetched his sketching mate
rails, and fell quietly to work Mrs. Wolfe,
after watching him for while in silence. felt
her grief rising chokingly in her throat, and
went away to her own room to sob and
pray.
The August day stole on, still and breath
less, as if the wind, and the birds in the
woods, and the very leaves and waters had all
hu he'd themselves in recognition of the pres
ence of death. About the time when the
| western sky was flushed with fever of sun
set, and shadows like coffin pals were trailing
across grass and woodland, Carew laid down
his brush, and looked from the imaged face
that had grown beneath his skillful fingers to
| that other face shrouded by curtain and