That night, notwithstanding Jessie's illness was becoming more threatening each hour, Lottie, usually so kind-hearted, called me from the room to inquire if she could be spared for a day or two, and if I could lend her ten dollars. It was a great sum, she knew, but she'd pay it back faithfully; yes, if she had to sell the brooch and ear-rings that Miss Jessie gave her out of the dear lady's things.
Shall I own it? This hard-heartedness in Lottie gave me something like hope—the girl was sharp and courageous. She had thoughts which no one could fathom, and which she was evidently hoarding for the good of her benefactors. Still, I was left, in some degree, her guardian. Should I permit her to go off on some wild adventure, only from a forlorn hope that it might benefit her young mistress?
The strange girl did not put me to the test; but judging from my hesitation that I was about to refuse her the money, flew off, saying it was no matter, maybe she should change her mind after all.
The next morning, when I inquired for Lottie, she was gone.
Three days after she came back, looking very much depressed and so cross, except in the sick-room, that all the servants in the house were complaining of her temper.
She gave no explanation of her absence, except that, directly after her return, she gave me a New York paper—one that seldom reached our household—in which Mr. Lee's name was announced among the list of passengers in a steamer that had sailed the day after he left home.
All this time Jessie had been delirious, and knew nothing of the trouble that had swept half our household away. It was a mercy. Had she comprehended everything as I did, that delicate organism, so unused to suffering of any kind, must have given way with more lamentable consequences; as it was, the young life was scarcely kept afire in her bosom.
In her delirium, Jessie was always wandering off into the past, and her pure heart broke forth in a thousand sweet fancies, in which her father and mother were always the moving spirits. Strange enough, she never once mentioned Lawrence or Mrs. Dennison, even in her wildest moments; but once, when Lottie came into the chamber, holding a bottle of perfume such as Mrs. Dennison always used, the dear girl fell back on her pillow and fainted quite away.
The moment news of Jessie's illness got abroad in the neighborhood, old Mrs. Bosworth came to see us—the dear, old motherly lady—how gentle and kind she was! There seemed to be a charm in that plump hand, with the old-fashioned diamond-rings lighting up its whiteness; for when it had rested awhile on Jessie's forehead, the dear girl would drop into a soft slumber, and awake with less tremulous nerves and a clearer brain.
At last the fever burned itself out, and Jessie awoke to a consciousness of actual life. She was too weak for any powerful emotion; and when we were at last forced to admit that her father had gone, and that we had no means of communicating with him, she only heaved a feeble sigh, and, turning her head, lay, weeping softly, on her pillow, till the very exhaustion left her calmed.