Tempest and Sunshine Part 40

This failed to quiet Bill, who kept on crying until Tiger made so many threatening demonstrations of anger, that Bill thought it was wise to leave before he got another tumble.

He had hardly disappeared when a loud voice called out, "Bravo, Tiger! You know how to fix 'em." Looking around, f.a.n.n.y saw her father, who had been a silent spectator of the scene, and now came forward laughing heartily at his would-be son-in-law. "Pretty well done, Suns.h.i.+ne," said he. "Let's see, how many offers does this make? Thar's Joe's one, the doctor's two; Yankee Carmeron's three; and lubberin' Bill Jeffrey's four, and you not quite eighteen. That'll do; that'll do!" Afterward, when Mr. Middleton wished to entertain his visitors with anything extra, he would rehea.r.s.e to them, with some exaggerations, Bill Jeffrey's proposal to f.a.n.n.y.

Glancing backward a few pages, we find we have omitted to repeat what happened among Dr. Lacey's blacks during the days when they were anxiously but vainly watching for the coming of their young master and his bride.

For a week Aunt Dilsey was unusually crusty, and all her attempts at cookery invariably failed, plainly showing her mind to be in a disturbed state.

"I don't keer," she would say, "if the cakes is all dough and the 'sarves all froth. They's good enough for her, any day." Then she would call out, "Get along you, Jack, pokin' your fingers into the 'la.s.ses cup; make yourself scarce in this kitchen, or I'll crack your head mighty nigh as hard as the new Miss will." Then she would scold Leffie, who, she said, "was of no more account than a burnt stick, now she was spectin' Rondeau.

Pity but the boat he come on wouldn't blow up and let 'em all into perdition together."

Leffie knew her mother didn't mean more than half what she said, but she chose to keep silent, hoping each morning that the close of the day would bring the long absent Rondeau. Thus, between scolding and fretting, cooking and sweating, Aunt Dilsey pa.s.sed the time until the day arrived on which, as she said, "they'd come if they ever did."

Mrs. Lacey, whose husband had not yet received his son's letter announcing the catastrophe, came out to superintend affairs and receive her new daughter. In the large, handsome dining room, the supper table was neatly spread, while Aunt Dilsey bustled about with the air of one who felt her time was short, but was determined to contest every inch of ground ere yielding it to another. She had condescended to put on her new calico gown (the one she proposed taking with her in a "handkerchief") and had even washed the grease and mola.s.ses from Jack's and the baby's face, telling the former that "he needn't mind about making up faces at the lady that night."

Claib had gone to the landing, and now Mrs. Lacey and the servants were gathered upon the upper piazza, waiting his return. Suddenly Dilsey, whose eyesight seemed wonderfully sharpened, exclaimed, "Thar, that's Claib. I could tell my old man if I should meet him at a camp meeting!"

Mrs. Lacey looked in the direction of the city and saw the carriage which Dilsey had pointed out. It proved to be Claib; and Leffie, who was rather near-sighted, strained her eyes to see if Rondeau, too, was on the box.

"Thar's n.o.body in that ar," said Dilsey. "Reckon the boat has run into the ground, or bust her riggin'; so, Leffie, you've put on your pink dress for nothin'."

The elder Mr. Lacey, was, however, in the carriage, and alighting, he advanced toward his wife and gave her the letter he had just received from his son. Mrs. Lacey read it, while the blacks crowded around Claib asking him scores of foolish questions, such as, "Was Marster George in the boat?

And why wasn't he thar? And when would he be thar?"

When Mrs. Lacey finished reading the letter she said to Leffie, who was still standing near, "Rondeau is well, and will be home in a few days."

"When's the new miss a comin'?" asked Aunt Dilsey.

"Not at all," was Mrs. Lacey's reply.

"Glad on't," said Dilsey, "for now Jack can spit as fur and as big spits as he wants to."

Nothing more was known by the blacks until many days after, when Rondeau returned home, and related the whole story with many embellishments. He omitted to tell of the whipping which Ike had given him, but spoke with unqualified contempt of the old house and everything belonging to it, except Miss f.a.n.n.y, who, he said, "Looked just like an angel, only a heap better."

"You ought to have seen her," said he, "that night when every thing was t'other side up; folks a yellin' like they was crazy, and one man was stark mad. Miss Julia lay on the floor, the blood pourin' out of her eyes and mouth by pails full; Miss Florence, she fainted, and they had to throw her out the window, gla.s.s and all, because there was so many low, ill-mannered n.i.g.g.e.rs crowded in the hall."

"I s'pose you's one of the n.i.g.g.e.rs?" said Aunt Dilsey.

"Why, yes," returned Rondeau; "but then I was helpin' and was tryin' to push them all back so I could get to marster, who was feelin' so bad that they sent for me, because n.o.body else could comfort him."

Here Rondeau began to fumble in his pocket, as if in search of something.

Having found it, he continued, "Marster got hold of her hand and grabbed off her wedding ring so quick that it broke her finger. Then he threw it from him and I picked it up. Here 'tis," said he, holding up a ring.

"That's a likely story," interrupted Aunt Dilsey "If they wasn't married, how came the ring on her finger?"

Rondeau saw he had stretched a trifle too much, but he answered, "Well, anyhow, he throwed it away, and I'm goin' to keep it till-till, you know when, Dilsey."

"Keep it till you're gray," said Aunt Dilsey. "Leffie ain't goin' to be married with no such flummery."

Here Leffie, anxious to change the conversation, asked, "What of Miss f.a.n.n.y?"

"Why, yes," answered Rondeau, "that's what I'm going to tell. Right in the middle of the fuss I heard something moving softly down the stairs, and I saw a thing all as white as snow. Her hair, which was about the color of Leffie's neck-real handsome-was hanging in long curls down her back. I thought it was an angel, and kinder touched her as she pa.s.sed, to see if she had wings. But the n.i.g.g.e.rs said, 'It's Miss f.a.n.n.y,' and next I heard 'twas all as still in the room, and marster was huggin' and kissin' her and cryin' over her. Then, when I tried to get nearer and see more, they crowded me into such a little spot that I didn't breathe again for a week."

"Why didn't you get out of the crowd then?" asked Dilsey.

"How could I?" answered Rondeau. "Lord, Dilsey, I'd like to have seen you there; but then there wouldn't have been room for anybody else, for the hall wouldn't more than hold you."

Here the conversation ended, but for a long time Rondeau carried on his arm the marks of Aunt Dilsey's finger and thumb.

CHAPTER XXIII

f.a.n.n.y'S ILLNESS LEADS TO HER FATHER'S REPENTANCE

From the gra.s.sy hillside and bright green plains of Kentucky the frosts of winter were gone. By the dancing brook and in the shady nooks of the quiet valleys, the warm spring sun had sought out and brought to life thousands of sweet wild blossoms, which in turn had faded away, giving place to other flowers of a brighter and gayer hue.

Each night from the upper balcony of her father's handsome dwelling f.a.n.n.y watched in vain for the coming of Dr. Lacey, whose promised return had long been delayed by the dangerous illness of his father. Over the wooded hills 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 the havoc made by cholera in the sultry climate of Louisiana reached f.a.n.n.y, fearful misgivings filled her mind lest Dr. Lacey, too, should fall a victim to the plague.

For herself she had no fears, though slowly but surely through her veins the fever flame was creeping, scorching her blood, poisoning her breath and burning her cheek, until her father, alarmed at her altered and languid appearance, inquired for the cause of the change. "Nothing but a slight headache," was the reply.

Next to the cholera, Mr. Middleton most feared the typhoid fever, several cases of which had recently occurred in the neighborhood, and fearing lest the disease might be stealing upon his darling, he proposed calling the physician. But this f.a.n.n.y would not suffer, and persisted in saying that she 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, shook her head, saying, "I knew 'twould be so. I always telled you we couldn't keep her long."

Dr. Gordon was finally called and p.r.o.nounced her disease to be typhoid in its worst form. Days went by, and so rapid was the progress of the fever that Mr. Middleton trembled lest of him it had been decreed: "He shall be childless." To f.a.n.n.y the thought of death was familiar. For her it had no terrors, and as her outward strength decayed, her faith in the Eternal grew stronger and brighter, yet she could not die without an a.s.surance that again in the better world she would meet the father she so much loved. For her mother she had no fears, for during many years she had been a patient, self-denying Christian.

At first Mr. Middleton listened in silence to f.a.n.n.y's gentle words of entreaty, but when she spoke to him of her own death, and the love which alone could sustain him then, he clasped her tightly to his heart, as if his arm alone could keep her there forever, saying, "Oh, no, you must not tell me that; you will not die. Even now you are better." And the anxious father did try to deceive himself into the belief that f.a.n.n.y was better, but when each morning's light revealed some fresh ravage the disease had made-when the flush on her cheek grew deeper and the light of her eye wilder and more startling, an agonized fear held the old man's heart in thrall. Many and many a weary night found him sleepless, as he wet his pillow with tears. Not such tears as he wept when Richard Wilmot died, nor such as fell upon the grave of his first-born, for oh, his grief then was naught compared with what he now felt for his Suns.h.i.+ne, his idol, his precious f.a.n.n.y. "I cannot, cannot let her die," was the cry which hourly welled up from the depths of that fond father's aching heart. "Take all, take everything I own, but leave me Suns.h.i.+ne; she mustn't, mustn't die."

Earnestly did f.a.n.n.y pray that her father might be enabled better to bear his affliction. But he turned a deaf ear alike to her and his gentle, enduring wife, who, bowed with sorrow, yet sought to soothe her grief-stricken husband. Sadly he would turn away saying, "It's no use talking. I can't be pious if they take f.a.n.n.y away. I can see why t'other one died. 'Twas to bring me to my senses, and show me how bad I used her; but f.a.n.n.y, my Suns.h.i.+ne, 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. Middleton detained him while he said, "Save her, doctor, save her, and you shall have all I'm worth." Impatiently he awaited the decision. It came, but alas, it brought no hope.

Mr. William Middleton, who had recently come from New Orleans, broke the news to his unhappy brother. Terrible was the anguish of Uncle Joshua, when he became convinced that he must lose her. Nothing could induce him to leave her room; and as if endowed with superhuman strength, he watched by her constantly, only leaving her once each day to visit the quiet grave, the bed of his other daughter, where now the long green gra.s.s was waving, and the summer flowers were blooming, flowers which f.a.n.n.y's hand had planted and the father's tears had watered.

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

For several hours f.a.n.n.y had turned uneasily upon her pillow, but she at last fell into a deep sleep. For a time her father sat quietly listening to the sound of her breathing, then arising, he softly drew aside the curtains and looked long and anxiously at her as she slept.

Suddenly lifting his hands he exclaimed, "Oh, G.o.d, save her, or help me to bear it if she dies." It was the first prayer which for long, long years had pa.s.sed 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 ashamed to pray. Falling on his knees, he tried to recall the words of prayer his mother had taught him, but one pet.i.tion alone came from his heart in that dark, midnight hour. "Oh, don't let f.a.n.n.y die, don't let her die, for who will comfort old Joshua when she is gone."

"The Saviour; He who once wept at the grave of Lazarus will be more to you than I ever was, or ever can be," said f.a.n.n.y.

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