“Nothing very serious,” she wrote, “only a heavy cold, the result of a drenching he received while riding with Darinda several miles out in the country. He sends his love, and says you are not to be alarmed, for he will soon be with you.”
That was the note, and I was not to be alarmed, nor was I. I was only conscious that a strange kind of feeling took possession of me, which I could not define, but which sent me to my room, where the bridal finery lay, and made me fold it up, piece by piece, and put it carefully away, with a feeling that it would never be worn. There was much sickness in our neighborhood that summer, and the morning after hearing of Archie’s illness I took my breakfast in bed, and after that day knew little of what was passing around me until the roses which were blossoming so brightly when Tom went away were fading on their stalks, and other and later flowers were blossoming in their place.
I had been very sick, Aunt Esther said, with the distemper, as they called the disease, which had desolated so many homes in our vicinity.
“What day is it? What day of the month, I mean?” I asked, feeling dazed and bewildered, and uncertain whether it was yesterday that I sat in the lane and cried for dear Tom, or whether it was long ago.
“It’s the tenth,” she said; and her voice shook a little, and she did not turn her face toward me but pretended to be busy with the curtains of the bed.
“The tenth?” I cried. “Tenth of July, my wedding-day! Do you mean that?”
“Yes,” she answered, softly; “it was to have been your wedding-day.”
“And Archie,” I continued; “is he better—is he here?”
Still her face was turned from mine, and her hands were busy with the curtain, as she replied:
“He is not here now, but he is better, much better.”