It was late in the afternoon of the following day that the doctor returned with Mrs. Van Rensselaer's sister, who established herself by the bedside with energy and competence. The doctor, noticing Dawn's wan look and sleep-heavy eyes, ordered her to go to bed at once or there would be two patients instead of one to look after. Mrs. Van Rensselaer he pronounced decidedly better.
Dawn, as she slipped away from the sick room, felt dizzy and faint with weariness. She reflected that she would probably contract the disease herself, and it might come upon her suddenly. She had read of many cases that died almost at once. The thought gave her no alarm. It would be good to go quickly. She went to her own room feeling that she had come almost to the end of things.
Her dress was torn and wet from much working with the hot water and flannels. Her face and hands were blackened with soot from the fire. Tired as she was she must freshen herself a little before going to sleep.
She bathed and dressed in fresh garments that she found hanging in her closet, and put on the little white frock she had worn the day before her marriage, smoothed her hair, and then, taking a pillow and some comfortables from the bed, she went downstairs. The thought had come to her that it would be good to get out to the arbor again. If she were to die, it would be as well there as anywhere.
As she passed down the garden walk, a rose thorn caught her white gown, and in freeing herself she noticed a spray of roses like those Charles had picked for her a year ago. Their fragrance seemed to touch her tired senses like healing balm.
After she had spread her comfortables on the floor of the little summer-house, she stepped back and broke off the spray of roses, and lay down with their cool leaves against her hot cheek. Breathing in their odor, she fell into a deep sleep, in which no dreams came to ruffle her peace.
She had not noticed when she lay down that the long, red rays of the sun were very low. The excitement through which she had lived, the lack of food, the unusual exertion and the sudden release from the necessity of doing anything, made her stupid with weariness. The sun slipped quickly down, and the cool darkness of the garden soothed her. A tiny breeze gave her new life, and she slept as sweetly as the sleeping birds in the trees over her head, while the kind stars looked down and kept watch, and the roses nestled close and spoke of him she loved.
In the village, pestilence stalked abroad and the shadow of death hovered, but in the garden there were quiet and peace and rest. And if the languid winds played a solemn dirge among the pines near the old house, they disturbed her not, safe sheltered among God's flowers with others of his beautiful, dependent creatures.
CHAPTER XXVII
Charles and Dan had stayed in Albany several days, questioning coach drivers and making enquiries at all the inns; but no one seemed to remember Dawn. It happened that the driver with whom she had left Albany had broken his leg the very day after, so he was not there to be questioned. Heartsick and despairing, the two young men did not know what to do. Even Rags was dejected, and whined at having to leave the boat. Somehow he seemed to think it would bring them to her if they but stayed by it long enough. He was for going back to New York when the boat went, and told the others so with a wise bark, but they heeded him not. He went about snuffing helplessly, and spent much time with his nose in his paws, one sad blinking eye open to a disappointing world.