Yes, there was a moan, a faint, wailing sound, which met the ears of all, and half crazy with fear Squire John pressed heavily against the bolted door until it gave way, when he stood modestly back while Jessie, stooping under his arm, darted into the room, exclaiming:
“Dora, O Dora! what’s the matter? What makes her so sick?” and she cast an appealing glance at her companions, who stood appalled at the change a few hours had wrought in Dora, the bride of that morning.
In her soiled garments, damp and wet, she had sat or lain the entire night, but the burning fever had dried them and stained her face with a purplish red, while her eyes, bloodshot and heavy, had in them no ray of intelligence. She was lying now upon the bed, her hands pressed to her forehead, as if the pain was there, while she moaned faintly, and occasionally talked of the light on the wall which had troubled her so much.
“It would not go out,” she said to Jessie, who gently lifted up the aching head and held it against her bosom. “It was there all the night, and I know it burned for him. Does he know how sick I am?”
A glance of intelligence passed between Robert West and Jessie, for they knew that the light from Richard’s room had shone into Dora’s through the darkness, and this it was which troubled her. Squire John had no such suspicions, and when she asked, “Does he know how sick I am?” he bent over her tenderly, and smoothing her brown hair, said, “Poor child, poor darling, I do know, and I am so sorry. Is the pain very hard?”
At the sound of his voice Dora started, while there came into her face a rational expression, and as he continued to caress her, her lip quivered, her eyes filled with tears, and she said, pleadingly, as a child would beg forgiveness of an injured parent:
“Dear John, don’t be angry, I could not help it. I tried to come to you last night when everybody was asleep and the clock was striking twelve. I tried to come, but I could not find the way for the light on the wall. I can’t, I can’t. The trunks are all packed too, and the people are coming. Tell them I can’t.”
“Poor little girl, never mind. I know you can’t, and it don’t make one bit of difference, for I can wait, and I will tell the folks how sick my Dora is,” John said, kissing her softly. Then in an aside to Jessie, he added, “She thinks I’ll be disappointed because the wedding is deferred, and it troubles her. There’s the door-bell now. I must go down to explain,” and he hurried away to meet the guests, who were arriving rapidly, and who, as they turned their steps homeward, seemed more disappointed than the bridegroom himself.
Blessed Squire John! He was wholly unselfish, and as in his handsome wedding-suit he stood bowing out his departing guests, he was not thinking of himself, but of Dora and how she might be served.
“Margaret believed fully in homœopathy,” he said to the last lady, who asked what doctor he would call; “but Dr. West is sick, and what can I do?”