Chapter XXII: Dark Hours

“The ills of life--its sad distress,
Its many secret, unknown woes,
Its wrongs that seem without redress--
God knows!”

In the early twilight Mr. Essex brings his wife home in a close carriage, instead of the jaunty sleigh. There has been an accident, owing entirely to his own reckless driving.

The horses, angered by the goading of the lash, have run off, overturning the sleigh, and throwing the occupants out into a large snowdrift.

Essex has escaped unhurt (the devil takes care of his own, Charlton thinks bitterly), but Vivian is wet and chilled, and there is a sharp cut on her white temple. A physician, picked up on the way, bears them company, and his skillful fingers soon dress the wound. Then her maid puts her to bed, feverish and ill.

The physician’s face looks very grave as he turns to Essex.

“Mrs. Essex is threatened with a serious illness, the result of a deep cold,” he says frankly. “The symptoms, I fear, may develop into pneumonia by to-morrow. She must have the most careful attention, and I will see her again to-morrow morning.”

He leaves a prescription, and hurries away.

“Let us send for Eve. She will know how to care for our poor girl,” Charlton cries tremulously.

Eve comes directly, looking sweeter and more womanly by the sick-bed than she ever looked at ball or reception. In her way she is fond of her beautiful cousin, and looks sincerely anxious and troubled at her sad fate.

“Charlton,” she whispers. “I told you last night she would be sick--did I not?”

A heavy sigh is the only answer. Remorse is busy at the true, brotherly heart. He lingers sadly by the sick-bed, where Eve devotes herself assiduously to the invalid.

She is very ill--there is no question of that. Eve sees it all through the long night vigil. The fever rises higher and higher, and incoherent ravings break upon the still air of the night as Vivian dwells upon the events of the last few hours, murmuring mournfully of “the tempter, wine,” whispering the names of Earle and Charlton, and breathing now and then of some mysterious repentance. And then she is at Diana’s wedding, again whirling in the dance, panting, laughing, jesting with her partners. Ah, it is a terrible vigil, but the morning dawns at last, and with it comes the anxious physician.

His worst anticipations are more than realized. There are long days of illness, long days of watching and hoping, long nights of grief and despairing for the watches around that sick-bed, where Vivian lies raving in delirium, and repeating over and over in their remorseful hearing words that seem graven on her memory:

“Wine! wine! wine! Beware the curse of wine!”