Angel Agnes Part 1

Angel Agnes.

by Wesley Bradshaw.

May G.o.d protect you, reader of this book, from all manner of sickness; but above all, from that thrice dreaded pestilence, yellow fever. Of all the scourge ever sent upon poor sinful man, none equals in horror and loathsomeness yellow fever. Strong fathers and husbands, sons and brothers, who would face the grape-shot battery in battle, have fled dismayed from the approach of yellow fever. They have even deserted those most dear to them. Courageous, enduring women, too, who feared hardly any other form of sickness, have been terrified into cowardice and flight when yellow fever announced its awful presence.

Such was the state of affairs when, a short time ago, the startling announcement was made that yellow fever had broken out in Shreveport, Louisiana, and that it was of the most malignant type. At once everybody who could do so left the stricken city for safer localities, and, with equal prompt.i.tude, other cities and towns quarantined themselves against Shreveport, for fear of the spread of the frightful contagion to their own homes and firesides.

Daily the telegraph flashed to all parts of the land the condition of Shreveport, until the operators themselves were cut down by the disease and carried to the graveyard. Volunteers were then called for from among operators in the places, and several of these, who came in response to the call, though acclimated, and fanciedly safe, took it and died. Then it was that terror really began to take hold of the people in earnest. A man was alive and well in the morning, and at night he was a horrible corpse. The fond mother who thanked heaven, as she put her children to bed, that she had no signs of the malady, and would be able to nurse them if they got sick, left those little ones orphans before another bedtime came around. In some cases even, the fell destroyer within forty-eight hours struck down whole families, leaving neither husband, mother nor orphans to mourn each other, but sweeping them all into eternity on one wave as it were.

Then it was that a great wail of mortal distress rose from Shreveport--a call for help from one end of the land to another.

Business came to a stand-still, the ordinary avocations of life were suspended. No work! no money! no bread! Nothing but sickness! nothing but horror! nothing but despair! nothing but death! Alas! was there no help in this supreme moment? There was plenty of money forthcoming, but no nurses. Philanthropic men and women in near and also distant States, sent their dollars even by telegraph. But who would go thither and peril his or her life for the good of the city in sackcloth and ashes?

Praised be the name of that G.o.d who gave them their brave hearts, there were some who n.o.bly volunteered for the deadly but loving task.

To go was almost certain death to themselves--yet did they go. And most brave, most distinguished, most lovely among those devoted few, was Agnes Arnold, the subject of this little memoir.

We have on our t.i.tle page called her "Angel Agnes." That was what many a burning lip named her in the unfortunate city of Shreveport, as with her low, kind, tender voice, she spoke words of pious comfort to the pa.s.sing soul, and whispered religious consolation in the fast deafening ears of the dying. Many had called her Angel, because their dimming eyes had not beheld a friend's face since they took sick, till they saw hers. Let us not fill s.p.a.ce, though, with encomiums, but let this n.o.ble Christian creature's deeds be recorded to speak for themselves. So shall you, reader, do justice to the lovely martyr, whose form, together with that of her intended husband, sleeps in the eternal slumber far away in Louisiana.

AGNES VOLUNTEERS.

One day Mrs. Arnold, widow of the late well-known Samuel Arnold of this city, sat in the library of their elegant mansion up town, leading the daily papers.

It was shortly after breakfast, and presently Agnes, her adopted daughter, entered the room. The Arnolds had never had any children, save one, a girl, and she had died when she was three years old. While going to the funeral, Mrs. Arnold saw a poorly clad lady walking slowly along with a little girl so strikingly like her own dead child, that she was perfectly astonished,--so much so, indeed, that she called her husband's attention to the little one. Mr. Arnold himself was so surprised that he had the carriage stop, and, getting out, went and inquired the lady's name and address.

"For, madame," said he, as a reason for his doing such an apparently strange act, "your little daughter here is a perfect likeness of our own little Agnes, whose coffin you see in yonder hea.r.s.e. You must allow Mrs. Arnold and me to call upon you, though we are perfect strangers to you; indeed you must."

"Very well, sir," answered the strange lady, "I shall not, certainly under the circ.u.mstances, object."

Immediately after the funeral the Arnolds called at the residence of Mrs. Morton, whose husband had died more than a year before. She was obliged to take in plain sewing, and when she could do so, she gave occasional lessons in French to eke out a livelihood for herself and child. A very short interview resulted in Mrs. Arnold persuading the widow to take a permanent situation with her, as her seamstress. And from that date until her death, which took place five years later, the fortunate widow and her child lived with the Arnolds as full members of the family.

With an exquisite and grateful regard for the sensibilities and possible wishes of her benefactors, the mother of the child voluntarily changed its name from Mary to Agnes.

"I know you will approve of my doing so," said she, on the occasion of her daughter's birthday--the Arnolds made quite a time of it, decking the new Agnes in all the trinkets which had once belonged to the little Agnes, who was gone--"I know you will approve of my doing so, and I cannot think of any better way in which to express my grat.i.tude to you both."

Mr. and Mrs. Arnold were moved to tears by these words; in fact, so deep and genuine was their emotion that neither one spoke for some time. They did nothing but fondle and kiss the child they had adopted.

Thenceforward, instead of Mary Morton, the child was Agnes Arnold.

Years went by, and on the day we first introduced her she was twenty-two years old. Her own mother and Mr. Arnold had pa.s.sed away and were laid away to sleep in the dust close by the little Agnes of old. But like the ivy and the flowers which grew over all their graves, each advancing year made stouter and stronger the invisible ivy that bound Agnes' heart and Mrs. Arnold's heart together, and the same advancing year rendered sweeter and sweeter the fragrance of those unseen yet ever-present buds and blossoms, that created a perpetual summer in their minds and affections.

"Mother," said Agnes as she entered the library and drew up a chair close to Mrs. Arnold's, "I wish to ask your advice about the affair between George and me. Do you think I ought to take any more notice of him or Sophia?"

"Well, I scarcely can speak to you advisedly, Agnes, on such a matter," said Mrs. Arnold. "You are aware that my first and last thoughts are for your happiness. But, from what I know of the circ.u.mstances, I do not see that you can make any move either one way or another without sacrificing your feelings unjustly."

"I have kept back nothing from you, mother," replied Agnes; "you know all, just as well as I do myself."

"Then I think you did perfectly right, Agnes, darling. Your course has my emphatic approval. I can appreciate perfectly that it must cause you to feel wretchedly for some time; but the self-satisfaction it must eventually bring you, will gradually but surely overcome the first disappointment and regret, just as the ever-s.h.i.+ning sun pierces and dissipates the heaviest storm cloud."

"Well, mother, I will await the turn of events, and whichever way, whether for weal or for woe, I shall abide it. But should I lose George through this, I shall never risk a second such mental agony with any one else."

"Ah," smiled Mrs. Arnold, kissing Agnes, gayly, "young hearts like yours are not so brittle as to be easily shattered. Better fish in the sea, et cetera. You know the old adage--but there's the postman, dear; you run and get the letters he has."

Agnes did as her mother requested her, and in a few moments more re-entered the room with four letters in one hand, and one letter in the other. The single missive was directed to herself, in a chirography which she well knew. Giving the four to her mother, she sat down and opened her own. It was couched in cold, formal words, instead of gus.h.i.+ng sentences as usual, and to say that it chilled and crushed her is to say only the truth. When her mother had finished her's, Agnes handed this letter to her with the quietly spoken remark:

"That severs George and me forever in this world, mother. With a keen sword he has cut me off from him, like the gardener ruthlessly cuts the vine from the oak."

As she spoke, Agnes drew from her bosom a gold locket, and, springing it open, she gazed for a moment upon a handsome manly face which it contained. That was George's likeness.

"Till eternity George, till eternity--"

She did not finish the sentence in words; but the fond, artless, fervent kiss she imprinted upon the picture was such a one as is given to the dead lips of one we love, and are about to part with forever.

She snapped the lid shut again, replaced the closed trinket in her bosom, and said:

"Mother, all is over. I shall never open it again. But in case I die before you, I wish you to have this buried with me."

Mrs. Arnold tried to rally Agnes about this, her first disappointment of the heart, and had the satisfaction of presently seeing her quite merry. Suddenly Agnes, as she glanced over the newspaper, exclaimed:

"Mother, what a dreadful thing that yellow fever is! Did you read this? Whole families are being swept out of existence, and have no one to help or nurse them. It's frightful, and yet we boast of our Christianity. It's a sin and a shame!"

She continued to read the fearful despatches that had first attracted her attention, while her mother remained silent.

"Mother," she resumed, when she had finished, "I am going down to Shreveport."

"What do you mean, Agnes?" exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, glancing anxiously at her daughter.

"I am going down to Shreveport, to help to nurse those poor peris.h.i.+ng people."

"Agnes!"

"Yes, dear mother. I believe it to be my duty to go and do what little I can toward alleviating the distress of those stricken sufferers."

"Why, Agnes, dear, you would surely perish yourself."

"O no, mother, you forget how I waited on papa and you when you both had the fever down in New Orleans."

This was true. Several years before, while the Arnolds had been making a pleasure tour in the Southern States, they had been seized with the disorder, and but for the unflagging, heroic devotion of Agnes, they would most likely have perished.

"No, darling, I could never forget that were I to live a hundred years. It is because I do remember the horror of that time that I would not wish you to expose yourself to such another. Besides, what would I do without you?"

"That is the only subject that gives me any pain, mother; but then G.o.d would take care of you as well as of me, would he not?"

"Yes."

"I know it, mother. You have always taught me that, and I firmly believe it. G.o.d, who sees and notes the fall of even a sparrow, will not let me fall, except it be His gracious will. No, mother, I feel that I must go, and you must consent and give me your best blessing.