IRENE'S ILLNESS

"Do you see any change, Hiram?"

"None for the better."

Mr. Huntingdon dropped his head upon his hand again, and Dr. Arnold resumed his slow walk up and down the carpet. The blue damask curtains had been looped back from the western window, and the broad band of yellow belting in the sky threw a mellow light over the bed where lay the unconscious heiress of the grand old Hill. Fever rouged the polished cheeks usually pure as alabaster, and touched the parted lips with deeper scarlet, lending a brilliant and almost unearthly beauty to the sculptured features. Her hair, partially escaping from confinement, straggled in crumpled rings and folds across the pillow, a mass of golden netting; and the sparkling eyes wandered from one object to another, as if in anxious search. The disease had assumed a different type, and instead of raving paroxysms, her illness was characterized by a silent, wakeful unconsciousness, while opiates produced only the effect of increasing her restlessness. A week had passed thus, during which time she had recognized no one; and though numerous lady friends came to offer assistance, all were refused permission to see her. Mr. Huntingdon was utterly ignorant of the duties of a nurse; and though he haunted the room like an unlifting shadow, Dr. Arnold and Nellie took entire charge of the patient. The former was unremitting in his care, sitting beside the pillow through the long winter nights, and snatching a few hours' sleep during the day. Watching her now, as he walked to and fro, he noticed that her eyes followed him earnestly, and he paused at the bedside and leaned over her.

"Irene, what do you want? Does my walking annoy you?"

No answer.

"Won't you shut your eyes, my darling, and try to sleep?"

The deep, brilliant eyes only looked into his with mocking intentness. He put his fingers on the lids and pressed them gently down, but she struggled, and turned away her face. Her hands crept constantly along the snowy quilt as if seeking for something, and taking them both, he folded them in his and pressed them to his lips, while tears, which he did not attempt to restrain, fell over them.

"You don't think she is any worse, do you?" asked the father, huskily.

"I don't know anything, except that she can't lie this way much longer."

His harsh voice faltered and his stern mouth trembled. He laid the hands back, went to the window and stood there till the room grew dusky and the lamp was brought in. As Nellie closed the door after her, the doctor came to the hearth, and said sharply—

"I would not be in your place for John Jacob Astor's fortune."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that, if you have any conscience left, you must suffer the pains of purgatory for the manner in which you have persecuted that child."

"In all that I have ever done I have looked only to her good, to her ultimate happiness. I know that she——"

"Hush, Leonard! hush! You are no more fit to be a father than I am to be a saint! You have tyrannized and fretted her poor innocent soul nearly out of her ever since she was big enough to crawl. Why the d—l could not you let the child have a little peace? There are ninety-nine chances to one that she has come to her rest at last. You will feel pleasantly when you see her in her shroud."

His hard face worked painfully, and tears glided down the wrinkled cheek and hid themselves in his grey beard. Mr. Huntingdon was much agitated, but an angry flush crossed his brow as he answered hastily,—

"I am the best judge of my family matters. You are unjust and severe. Of course I love my child better than anybody else."

"Heaven preserve her from such love as you have lavished on her! She is very dear to me. I understand her character; you either cannot or will not. She is the only thing in this world that I do really love. My pet, my violet-eyed darling!"

He shaded his face and swallowed a sob, and for some moments neither spoke. After a while the doctor buttoned up his coat and took his hat.

"I am going down to my office to get a different prescription. I will be back soon."

Contrary to his phlegmatic habit, the doctor had taken counsel of his fears until he was completely unnerved, and he went home more than usually surly and snappish. As he entered his office, Russell advanced to meet him from the window whence, for nearly an hour, he had been watching for his arrival.

"Good evening, doctor."

"What do you want?"

"How is Miss Huntingdon?"

"What is Miss Huntingdon to you?"

"She was one of my mother's best friends, though only a little girl at the time."

"And you love her for your mother's sake, I suppose? Truly filial."

"How is she to-night? Rumours are so unreliable, that I came to you to find out the truth."

"She is going to die, I am afraid."

A sudden pallor overspread Russell's face, but he sat erect and motionless, and, fastening his keen eyes upon him, the doctor added—

"She is about to be transplanted to a better world, if there is such a place. She is too good and pure for this cursed, pestiferous earth."

"Is the case so utterly hopeless? I cannot, I will not, believe it!" came indistinctly from the young man's bloodless lips.

"I tell you I know better! She stands on a hair stretched across her grave. If I don't succeed to-night in making her sleep (which I have been trying to accomplish for two days), she can't possibly live. And what is that whole confounded crew of factory savages in comparison with her precious life?"

"Is it true that her illness is attributable to nursing those people?"

"Yes. D—l take the Row! I wish the river would swallow it up."

"If I could only see her!" exclaimed Russell, and an expression of such intense agony settled on his features, usually so inflexible, that his companion was startled and astonished. The doctor regarded him a moment with perplexity and compassion mingled in his own face; then light broke upon him, and, rising, he laid his hand heavily on Russell's shoulder.

"Where are you going, Aubrey?"

"Back to my office."

"Is there any message which you would like for me to deliver to her, if she should recover consciousness? You may trust me, young man."

"Thank you; I have no message to send. I merely called to ask after her. I trust she will yet recover. Good night."

He walked on rapidly till he reached the door of his office. The gas was burning brightly over his desk, and red tape and legal-cap beckoned him in; but fathomless blue eyes, calm as mid-ocean, looked up at him, and, without entering, he turned, and went through the cold and darkness to the cemetery, to his mother's tomb. She had been his comfort in boyish sorrows, and habit was strong; he went to her grave for it still.

When Russell left him, Dr. Arnold carefully weighed out the powder and rode back to the Hill. He could perceive no change, unless it were a heightening of the carmine on cheeks and lips, and an increased twitching of the fingers, which hunted so pertinaciously about the bed-clothes.

"That everlasting picking, picking at everything is such an awful bad sign!" said poor Nellie, who was crying bitterly at the foot of the bed; and she covered her face with her apron to shut out the sight.

"You 'pick' yourself off to bed, Nellie! I don't want you snubbing and groaning around day and night."

"I am afraid to leave her a minute. I am afraid when my poor baby shuts her eyes she will never open 'em again till she opens 'em in heaven."

"Oh, go along to sleep! you eternal old stupid. I will wake you up, I tell you, if she gets worse."

He mixed one of the powders and stooped down.

"Irene—Irene, take this for me, won't you, dear?"

She gave no intimation of having heard him till he placed the wineglass to her mouth and raised her head tenderly; then she swallowed the contents mechanically. At the expiration of an hour he repeated the dose, and at ten o'clock, while he sat watching her intently, he saw the eyelids begin to droop, the long, silky lashes quivered and touched her cheeks. When he listened to her breathing, and knew that at last she slept, his grey head sank on his chest, and he murmured, inaudibly, "Thank God!" Patient as a woman, he kept his place at her side, fearing to move lest he should wake her; the dreary hours of night wore away; morning came, gloriously bright, and still she slept. The flush had faded, leaving her wan as death, and the little hands were now at rest. She looked like the figures which all have seen on cenotaphs, and anxiously and often the doctor felt the slow pulse, that seemed weary of its mission. He kept the room quiet, and maintained his faithful watch, refusing to leave her for a moment. Twelve o'clock rolled round, and it appeared, indeed, as if Nellie's prognostication would prove true, the sleeper was so motionless. At three o'clock the doctor counted the pulse, and, reassured, threw his head back against the velvet lining of the chair, and shut his aching eyes. Before five minutes had elapsed, he heard a faint, sweet voice say, "Paragon." Springing to his feet, he saw her put out her hand to pat the head of her favourite, who could not be kept out of the room, and howled so intolerably when they chained him, that they were forced to set him free. Now he stood with his paws on the pillow and his face close to hers whining with delight. Tears of joy almost blinded the doctor as he pushed Paragon aside, and said eagerly—

"Irene, one dog is as good as another! You know Paragon, do you know me, Queen?"

"Certainly—I know you, Doctor."

"God bless you, beauty! You haven't known me for a week."

"I am so thirsty—please give me some water."

He lifted her head, and she drank eagerly, till he checked her.

"There—we haven't all turned hydropathists since you were taken sick. Nellie! I say, Nellie! you witch of Endor! bring some wine-whey here. Irene, how do you feel, child?"

"Very tired and feeble, sir. My head is confused. Where is father?"

"Here I am, my daughter."

He bent down with trembling lips and kissed her, for the first time since the day of their estrangement, nearly three years before. She put her arms feebly around his neck, and as he held her to his heart, she felt a tear drop on her forehead.

"Father, have you forgiven me?"

He either could not or would not answer, but kissed her again warmly; and, as he disengaged her arms and left the room, she felt assured that at last she had been forgiven. She took the whey silently, and, after some moments, said—

"Doctor, have you been sitting by me a long time?"

"I rather think I have!—losing my sleep for nearly ten days, you unconscionable young heathen."

"Have I been so ill as to require that? I have a dim recollection of going on a long journey, and of your being by my side all the way."

"Well, I hope you travelled to your entire satisfaction, and found what, you wanted—for you were feeling about as if hunting for something, the whole time. Oh! I am so thankful that you know me once more. Child, you have cost me a deal of sorrow. Now be quiet, and go to sleep again; at least, don't talk to Nellie or Paragon. I shall take a nap on the sofa in the library."

She regained her strength very slowly, and many days elapsed before she was able to leave her room. One bright sunny morning she sat before the open window, looking down on the lawn where the pigeons flashed in and out of the hedges, and now and then glancing at the bouquet of choice hot-house flowers in the vase beside her. In her lap lay a letter just received from Harvey Young—a letter full of fond remembrance, grave counsel, and gentle encouragement—and the unbent lines about her mouth showed that her mind was troubled.

The doctor came in and drew up a chair.

"I should like to know who gave you leave to ride yesterday?"

"Father thought that I was well enough, and the carriage was close and warm. I hope, sir, that I shall not be on your hands much longer."

"What did I tell you? Next time don't be so hard-headed when you are advised by older and wiser persons. I trust you are quite satisfied with the result of your eleemosynary performances at the Row."

"Far from it, Doctor. I am fully acclimated now, and have nothing to fear in future. I am very sorry, sir, that I caused you all so much trouble and anxiety; I did not believe that I should take the fever. If Philip had not been so ill, I should have come out safely; but I suppose my uneasiness about him unnerved me in some way—for, when I saw that he would get well, all my strength left me in an instant. How is he, sir?"

"Oh! the young dog is as well as ever. Comes to my office every day to ask after his blessed Lady Bountiful."

Leaning forward carelessly, but so as to command a full view of her face, he added,—

"You stirred up quite an excitement in town, and introduced me generally to society. People who never inflicted themselves on me before thought it was incumbent on them to hang around my door to make inquiries concerning my fair patient. One night I found even that statue of bronze and steel, Russell Aubrey, waiting at my office to find out whether you really intended translation."

A change certainly passed swiftly over her countenance; but it was inexplicable, indescribable—an anomalous lightening of the eye and darkening of the brow. Before he could analyse it, her features resumed their wonted serenity, and he found her voice unfluttered.

"I was not aware that I had so many friends; it is a pleasant discovery, and almost compensates for the pain of illness. Take care, Doctor! You are tilting my flowers out of their vase."

"Confound the flowers, Queen! They are always in the way. It is a great pity there is such Theban-brother affection between your father and Aubrey. He has an amount of fine feeling hid away under that dark, Jesuitical, non-committal face of his. He has not forgotten your interest in his mother, and when I told him that I thought you had determined to take your departure from this world, he seemed really hurt about it. I always liked the boy, but I think he is a heretic in politics."

The doctor had scarcely taken his departure when Nellie's turbaned head showed itself at the door.

"That factory-boy, Philip, is downstairs; he brought back a book, and wants to see you. He seems in trouble; but you don't feel like being bothered to-day, do you?"

"Did he ask to see me?"

"Not exactly; but showed very plainly he wanted to see you."

"Let him come up."

As, he entered, she rose and held out her hand.

"Good morning, Philip; I am glad you are well enough to be out again."

He looked at her reverently, and, as he noticed the change her illness had wrought, his lips quivered and his eyes filled.

"Oh, Miss Irene! I am so glad you are better. I prayed for you all the time while you were so very ill."

"Thank you. Sit down, and tell me about the sick."

"They are all better, I believe, ma'am, except Mrs. Davis. She was wishing yesterday that she could see you again."

"I shall go there in a day or two. You are walking pretty well without your crutches. Have you resumed your work."

"I shall begin again to-morrow."

"It need not interfere with your studies. The nights are very long now, and you can accomplish a great deal if you feel disposed to do so. I think it possible I can obtain a situation for your father as carpenter on a plantation in the country, if he will promise to abstain from drinking. I have heard that he was a very good mechanic, and in the country he would not meet with such constant temptation. Do you suppose that he will be willing to leave town?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am! I think so. If you please, Miss Irene, I should be so glad if you would talk to him, and persuade him to take the pledge before he starts. I believe he would join the Temperance society if you asked him to do it. Oh! then I should have some heart to work."

"You and your mother must try to influence him and in a few days I will talk to him. In the meantime I will see about the situation, which is a very desirable one. Brighter days will soon come, I trust."

He took his cap from the carpet, rose, and looked at her with swimming eyes.

"Oh, Miss Irene! I wish I could tell you all I feel. I thank you more than I can ever express, and so does mother."

"You have finished your book, I see; don't you want another? Nellie will show you the library, and on the lower book-shelf, on the right-hand side of the door, you will find a large volume in leather binding—'Plutarch.' Take it with you, and read it carefully. Good-bye. I shall come down to the Row to-morrow or next day."