I sat by her side, and lay my hand soothingly on her shoulder, saying—"Tell her, Jim, she is a brave woman and can bear the Lord's will. Tell her all."
The negro's face showed only too plainly that her worst fears were true. "Miss Rita—I'll tell you all. Be a good chile Miss Rita; jess be Mars Jack's wife, Miss Rita, an' I'll keep nothin' back."
"I will Jim—tell me the worst;" she uttered between choking sobs.
In a voice of intense grief and solemnity, Jim then said, "Be a good chile, Miss Rita; be de wife of de grandes' man what ever lived; Jim Madison never tole his marster an' mistis a lie. God is good, Miss Rita; his ways is unscrubable; he knows whats bes', for his chilluns. He wanted Mars Jack hisself; he done took him to his side. Mars Jack's drownded."
A wild shriek rang through the woods—a shriek of agony which caused the blood to run cold in my veins. The bereaved woman stared into vacancy, as though seeking her husband's form. She arose from her seat almost rigid, and without a word, fell in a dead swoon at our feet. So still did she lie and so long, that I feared she had passed away.
After a quarter of an hour, as it seemed to us, Mrs. Felden recovered a semi-consciousness—staring first at one of us and then at the other with piteously questioning eyes. When the horrible reality again dawned upon her awakening mind, the forest was filled with heart rending cries, silence only coming when she once more fainted away. I chafed her hands while Jim ran to the tents for camphor and brandy. We bathed her face and neck; fanned her; poured brandy between her parted lips—did all that suggested itself to our terrified minds. The swoon lasted so long that we had almost abandoned hope, when she breathed and opened her eyes—they were vacant.
She wept no more, but in low sweet tones murmured "Jack darling, don't be lonesome; I will come to you! Yes, Jack, I'll come."
These were repeated again and again, as we bore her to the tents and laid her on her bed. She immediately fell into a sleep lasting for hours, and only interrupted by sobs and moans. I watched by her bedside while Jim went off saying he had work on hand which must be done at once. When the poor lady awoke and looked into my face, I thanked the Giver of all, that she was herself again in mind, though her strength seemed quite broken.
Upon Jim's return she said in tones so calm, so gentle and so full of deep suffering, that they pained me almost as much as had her more active grief:
"Sit down Jim and tell me all about it. You said you would tell me all. You see I am calm. You see I can bear anything—everything bravely."