Vashti Part 69

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

"Madam, are you aware that you breathe an infected atmosphere?--that this building is a.s.signed to small-pox cases? Pray do not cross the threshold."

The superintendent of the hospital laid aside his pipe, and advanced to meet the stranger whose knock had startled him from a _post-prandial_ doze.

"I am not afraid of contagion, and came to see the patient who was brought here yesterday from No. 139 Elm Street."

"Have you a permit to visit here?"

"Yes; you will find it on this paper, given me by the proper authorities."

"What is the name of the person you desire to see?"

The superintendent opened a book that lay on the table beside him, and drew his finger up and down the page.

"Maurice Carlyle."

"Ah, yes,--I have it now. Maurice Carlyle, Ward 3,--cot No. 7. Madam, may I ask,--"

"No, sir; I have no inclination to answer idle questions. Will you show me the way, or shall I find it?"

"Certainly, I will conduct you; but I was about to remark that a death has just occurred in Ward No. 3, and I am under the impression that it was the Elm Street case. Madam, you look faint; shall I bring you a gla.s.s of water?"

"No. Show me the body of the dead."

"This way, if you please."

He walked down a dim, low-vaulted pa.s.sage, and paused at the entrance of a room lined with cots, where the nurse was slowly pa.s.sing from patient to patient.

"Nurse, show this lady to cot No. 7."

Swiftly the tall figure of the visitor glided down the room, and placing her hand on the arm of the nurse, she said huskily,--

"Where is the man who has just died? Quick! do not keep me in suspense."

"There, to the right; shall I uncover the face?"

Under the blue check coverlet that was spread smoothly over the cot, the stiff outlines of a human form were clearly defined; and, when the nurse stooped, the stranger put out one arm and held him back, while her whole frame trembled violently.

"Stop! be good enough to leave me."

The attendant withdrew a few yards, and curiously watched the queenly woman, who stood motionless, with her fingers tightly interlaced.

She was dressed in a gray suit of some shining fabric, and a long gossamer veil of the same hue hung over her features. After a few seconds she swept back the veil, and, as she bent forward, a stray sunbeam dipped through the closed shutters, and flashed across a white horror-stricken face, crowned with cl.u.s.tering braids of silver hair.

She shut her eyes an instant, grasped the coverlet, and drew it down; then caught her breath, and looked at the dead.

It was a young, boyish face, horribly swollen and distorted, and coa.r.s.e red locks were matted around his brow and temples.

"Thank G.o.d, Maurice Carlyle still lives."

She involuntarily raised her hands towards heaven, and the expression of dread melted from her countenance.

Slowly and reverently she re-covered the corpse, and approached the nurse.

"I am searching for my husband. Which cot is No. 7?"

"That on your left,--next to the dead."

Mrs. Carlyle turned, and gazed at the bloated crimson ma.s.s of disease that writhed on the narrow bed, and a long shudder crept over her, as she endeavored to discover in that loathsome hideous visage some familiar feature--some trace of the manly beauty that once rendered it so fascinating.

The swollen blood-shot eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, and, while delirious muttering fell upon the ears of the visitor, she saw that his cheeks were somewhat lacerated, and his hands, partially confined, were tearing at the inflamed flesh.

She shivered with horror, and a groan broke from her pitying heart.

"What an awful retribution! My G.o.d, have mercy upon him! He is sufficiently punished."

Drawing her perfumed lace handkerchief from her pocket, she leaned over and wiped away the b.l.o.o.d.y foam that oozed across his lips, and lifting his hot head turned it sufficiently to expose the right ear, where a large mole was hidden by the thick hair.

"Maurice Carlyle! But what a fearful wreck?"

She covered her eyes with her hand, and moaned.

The nurse came nearer, and said hesitatingly,--

"Madam, surely he is not your husband? His clothes are almost in tatters, while yours are--ahem!--"

"Spare me all comments on the comparison. Can I obtain a comfortable, quiet room, in this building, and have him removed to it at once? You hesitate? I will compensate you liberally, will pay almost any price for an apartment where he can at least have silence and seclusion."

"We can accommodate you, but of course if the patient is carried from this ward to a private room, we shall be compelled to charge extra."

"Charge what you choose, only arrange the matter as promptly as possible. How soon can you make the change?"

"In twenty minutes, madam."

The nurse rang for an a.s.sistant, to whom the necessary instructions were given, and in the _interim_ Mrs. Carlyle leaned against the cot, and brushed away the flies that buzzed about the pitiable victims.

Two men carried the sufferer up a flight of steps, and ere long he was transferred to a large comfortable bed in an airy, well-furnished apartment.

The removal had not been completed more than an hour, when the surgeon made his evening round, and followed the patient to his new quarters.

He paused at sight of the elegantly dressed woman who sat beside the bed, and said, stammeringly,--

"I am informed that No. 7 is your husband, and that you have taken charge of his case, and intend to nurse him. Have you had small-pox?"

"No, sir."

"Madam, you run a fearful risk."