Angel Agnes Part 4

No actress ever trod the stage on whose features the emotions of pleasure and regret portrayed themselves at once, as on the face of Agnes when heard these words.

"Would you rather have had us permit his entrance?" asked the doctor.

"For my own satisfaction and curiosity I would rather have had it so, Doctor. But for his sake, no; a hundred times no."

"Ah, Miss Arnold, heart disease is sometimes worse than Yellow Jack,"

remarked the doctor half-seriously.

"Yes, yes, it is always so," said Agnes earnestly.

"I am surprised he allowed you to come here, Miss Arnold."

The doctor was evidently deeply interested in his wonderful and beautiful nurse, and the artificial twinkle he forced into his gray eyes could not mask his sincerity from Agnes, who answered:

"Doctor, Mr. Harkness was my intended husband; but a jealous and mischievous young lady, who envied me I suppose, managed, through deceit, to estrange us. And so"--

Agnes did not know how to finish the sentence. She studied what words to utter in conclusion, until the pause became painfully awkward, seeing which the doctor with much consideration said:

"I can guess Miss Arnold, what you would say, and I fear there has been too much haste on both your parts for each other's happiness.

But Mr. Harkness evidently has for yourself at least a powerful sentiment of something stronger than mere friendly affection, to leave the other young lady and come hither into the midst of such a deadly peril as Yellow Fever. He has found out the deception, and has, I suppose, come like a man, to tell you so and ask your forgiveness."

"That must be it, Doctor, that must be it," replied Agnes with much warmth, "that's his disposition, I know. He has a n.o.ble disposition."

After a short further conversation the physician left, with the same request as before, for Agnes to remain until he sent her a message where to go next.

This was not long delayed, as in about half an hour or so a message came for her to go to a house a few squares away, where a whole family had just been taken down with the disorder.

Bidding her two patients farewell, Agnes hastened away to the new scene of duty.

AN UNEXPECTED PATIENT.

The good and beautiful girl, upon arriving at the stricken home, at once set herself to the heavy task she was called on to perform, with cheerful alacrity; but it was the worst case she had yet had. Indeed, it would have been utterly impossible for her to get through, but for the fact that there was an old negress employed by the family, and who, having had the fever last year, was not afraid of it.

Silver, odd as it may seem, was the name of this negress, and she proved herself to be quite as sterling as her name implied. She was also quite intelligent, and carried out all of Miss Arnold's directions to the letter.

Yet, for all this, one of the patients, a little girl of six years, died. Agnes was exceedingly pained to lose the little darling; but the wonder was that it lived and stood the attack of the fever as long as it did, for it had been already suffering several days before with an acute summer complaint.

The rest of the family all recovered, and Miss Arnold received their most grateful thanks. Truly they hardly knew what method to take to show her how grateful they really were. They were pretty well off in worldly matters, but their kind Angel Agnes was twice as wealthy as they, so that neither money nor anything which money could buy was of any use to her.

"I will tell you what you may do to express your grat.i.tude for what little good I have, under the blessing of G.o.d, been able to render you. Help your poorer neighbors immediately around you here. There are scores and scores of families who are actually starving, as well as sick. Give them all the a.s.sistance you can. Rich people can take care of themselves, but the poor cannot."

This was faithfully promised, and, we may add, just as faithfully performed.

During the next ten days Agnes was kept continually busy, night and day, in her arduous and dangerous duties. But by strict adherence to her original design and method, she kept herself in perfect health and spirits, and in the midst of her labors and anxieties she found time to send daily messages to her mother.

On the succeeding Monday, while nursing a poor woman in the northern part of the city, a note was brought to her by the dead-wagon man--the same genius with whom Agnes had had the encounter.

"Missus Agonyess," said he, trying to p.r.o.nounce her name correctly, as he remembered the correction--an effort which betrayed him into a double error--"I wuz asked to fetch this here letter to you. It wuz giv to me by a black feller who's a nussin' in the little hospital. A young man guv it to him last night, and promised to give him his gold watch ef he'd find you out and git it to yer."

"Hospital--young man--gold watch!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Agnes in a disjointed way, as she took the letter.

A glance at the handwriting was sufficient, and her face grew deadly white as she opened and read:

"Agnes--Angel Agnes, I hear they call you--and they may well call you that--darling, I found out the trick by which we were estranged. I was foolish, I was wrong to treat you so. And when I learned you had come here into this pest-hole, I was crazy with anxiety for fear you would take the fever and die. I did not know how I _did_ love you till then. G.o.d forgive me, guilty wretch that I am, for driving you to such a desperate piece of romance. I came here to tell you how sorry I was, and to ask you to take me bask to my old place in your heart. But now I am afraid it is too late. I have been hanging around the town a week or longer, trying to get in on some train. Not succeeding in my object this way, I have been obliged to walk in by night, concealing myself in the daytime, and walking forward again in the darkness. Thus I have eluded them, and got in. But so far I have been unable to find you, and now I fear it too late, for I am sick with the fever in the hospital.

"I have given myself up to die, for they are not especially kind or attentive to me, as they think I ought to have stayed away, and not come in and added to their labors, as they have more of their own sick than they can attend to.

"O Agnes, what I would give just to see you before I die, just to hear your voice! But this is a judgment upon me for the way I have treated you. Perhaps you are dead too. If so, then I shall meet you very soon in the other world. If you are not dead, and you get this letter, then, for the sake of the olden times, don't hold any malice toward me, but forgive me in my grave. I have given my watch and some money to the nurse here, to get him to give you this letter. I would like you, to buy it from him and send it, if possible, to mother, for it belonged to my father. Good by, Agnes, good-by. Meet me in heaven.

George."

The tears were running down the pale face of Miss Arnold, and the dead-wagon man was in a perfect fever of excitement, but he did not speak till she raised her eyes from the letter, when he spluttered out:

"Lor' bless you, Missus Agonyness, I hope there ain't no Yaller Jeck in that there letter. But you looks orful sick."

"I want to go to where you got this letter at once."

"All right, Missus Agonyness, I'll drive slower nor usual, and go back on my route, an' you ken foller the wagon. I'd let yer ride, but there aint room."

Next door there was a Sister of Mercy nursing, and Agnes asked her to look in at her patient till she could return herself, and then she set out for the hospital where George was lying sick.

Soon arriving there, she went immediately to the nurse and ordered him to give her the gold watch George had given him, which he did very quickly. Then she ordered the nurse to take her instantly to the bedside of the young man. This he did with reluctance, evidently because he was ashamed of the way in which the patient was being treated. Leading Agnes to the darkest end of a small room in which were a number of sick, he showed her George Harkness.

Poor fellow! in a sort of stupor, there he lay doubled up like a ball on the bare floor in a hot, close corner.

Agnes was enraged, but there was no time to waste in quarrelling or scolding.

"Bring that man this moment into the best room you have; put him into bed, and fetch the following things. I will stay and nurse him."

There was an imperiousness and determination about her tones that caused Agnes to be obeyed instantly, and in a few minutes Harkness was laid upon the bed. There was no prudish finicking about Agnes. Taking pen-knife from her pocket, she ripped the boots off George's feet, pulled off his socks, and in less than three minutes more was laving his feet and legs to the knees in hot mustard water.

Fully half an hour did she continue her exertions with the sick man before he recovered his senses sufficiently to recognize her. As he did so, he started up, and gazed a long time at her--like one in a dream.

"George, do you know me? I am Agnes," said she, in a very soft, but trembling voice.

He reached his hands along the bed-clothes to take hers, apparently to ascertain if she and he were still in the flesh, or were spirits of the other world. There was magic in the warm eager pressure of her hand, for instantly Harkness appeared to gain his full senses.

"Agnes! Agnes! have you found me? Thank G.o.d for this. I am so glad to see you before I die. It takes the thorn out of my pillow, and puts felicity into my heart to see you again. I know by this you have forgiven me."

"Hush, George, there's nothing to forgive. Do not talk, you are too sick. I have come to nurse you. And, with G.o.d's help, you shall soon be well again. With G.o.d's help--there, dear, you are all the world to me!"

There was an intensity of love in the whispered words that thrilled George's heart. Agnes's lips touched his ear as the last accents were breathed, so low that he alone could hear them.

"Thank you, O, my darling, my Angel. Twenty fevers shall not kill me now," said George, but in a very weak voice.

Brave heart, George! Loving heart, Agnes! But fate willed otherwise. You were to be united, but not then, not then; not until you both had crossed the mysterious river which has but one tide, and that ever flowing in at Eternity's gates, but never returning.