CHAPTER XXIII

THE FEVER

It was a cold afternoon in November--

"And Autumn, laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves,"

had kindled her forest conflagration. Golden maples and amber-hued cherries, crimson dog-woods and scarlet oaks shook out their flame-foliage and waved their glowing boughs, all dashed and speckled, flecked and rimmed with orange and blood, ghastly green, and tawny brown. The smoky atmosphere, which had hung all day in purple folds around the distant hills, took a golden haze as the sun sank rapidly; and to Irene's gaze river and woodland, hill-side and valley, were brimmed with that weird "light which never was on sea or land." Her almost "Brahminical" love of nature had grown with her years, but a holier element mingled with her adoration now; she looked beyond the material veil of beauty, and bowed reverently before the indwelling Spiritual Presence. Since Hugh's death, nearly a year before, she had become a recluse, availing herself of her mourning dress to decline all social engagements, and during these months a narrow path opened before her feet, she became a member of the church which she had attended from infancy, and her hands closed firmly over her life-work.

Sorrow and want hung out their signs among the poor of W----, and here, silently, but methodically, she had become, not a ministering angel certainly, but a generous benefactress, a n.o.ble, sympathetic friend--a counsellor whose strong good sense rendered her advice and guidance valuable indeed. By a system of rigid economy she was enabled to set apart a small portion of money, which she gave judiciously, superintending its investment; kind, hopeful words she scattered like sunshine over every threshold; and here and there, where she detected smouldering aspiration, or incipient appreciation of learning, she fanned the spark with some suitable volume from her own library, which, in more than one instance, became the germ, the spring of "joy for ever." Frequently her father threw obstacles in her way, sneering all the while at her "sanctimonious freaks."

Sometimes she affected not to notice the impediments, sometimes frankly acknowledged their magnitude and climbed right over them, on to her work.

Among the factory operatives she found the greatest need of ameliorating touches of every kind. Improvident, illiterate, in some cases, almost brutalized, she occasionally found herself puzzled as to the proper plan to pursue; but her womanly heart, like the hidden jewelled levers of a watch, guided the womanly hands unerringly.

This evening, as she approached the row of low white-washed houses, a crowd of children swarmed out, as usual, to stare at her. She rode up to a doorstep where a boy of some fourteen years sat sunning himself, with an open book on his knee and a pair of crutches beside him. At sight of her a bright smile broke over his sickly face and he tried to rise.

"Good evening, Philip; don't get up. How are you to-day?"

"Better, I thank you, ma'am; but very stiff yet."

"The stiffness will pa.s.s off gradually, I hope. I see you have not finished your book yet; how do you like it?"

"Oh! I could bear to be a cripple always, if I had plenty like it to read."

"You need not be a cripple; but there are plenty more, just as good and better, which you shall have in time. Do you think you could hold my horse for me a little while? I can't find a suitable place to tie him. He is gentle enough if you will only hold the reins."

"Certainly, ma'am; I shall be glad to hold him as long as you like."

She dismounted, and pa.s.sed into the adjoining house. Sick-rooms, where poverty stands grim and gaunt on the hearth, are rarely enticing, and to this dreary cla.s.s belonged the room where Bessie Davis had suffered for months, watching the sands of life run low, and the shadow of death growing longer across the threshold day by day. The dust and lint of the cotton-room had choked the springs of life, and on her hollow cheeks glowed the autograph of consumption. She stretched out her wasted hand, and said--

"Ah, Miss Irene! I heard your voice outside, and it was pleasant to my ears as the sound of the bell when work-hours are over. I am always glad to see your face, but this evening I was longing for you, hoping and praying that you would come. I am in trouble."

"About what, Mrs. Davis? Nothing serious, I hope; tell me."

"I don't know how serious it is going to be. Johnnie is sick in the next room, taken yesterday; and about noon to-day Susan had to knock off work and come home. Hester is the only one left, and you know she is but a baby to work. I don't like to complain of my lot, G.o.d knows, but it seems hard if we are all to be taken down."

"I hope they will not be sick long. What is the matter with Johnnie?"

"Dear knows! I am sure I don't; he complains of the headache and has fever, and Susan here seems ailing the same way. She is as stupid as can be--sleeps all the time. My children have had measles and whooping-cough, and chicken-pox and scarlet fever, and I can't imagine what they are trying to catch now. I hear that there is a deal of sickness showing itself in the Row."

"Have you sent for the doctor?" asked Irene, walking around to the other side of the bed, and examining Susan's pulse.

"Yes, I sent Hester; but she said he told her he was too busy to come."

"Why did you not apply to some other physician?"

"Because Dr. Brandon has always attended me, and, as I sent for him first, I didn't know whether any other doctor would like to come. You know some of them have very curious notions about their dignity."

"And sometimes, while they pause to discuss etiquette, humanity suffers.

Susan, let me see your tongue. Who else is sick in the Row, Mrs. Davis?"

"Three of Tom Brown's children, two of d.i.c.k Spencer's, and Lucy Hall, and Mary Moorhead. Miss Irene, will you be good enough to give me a drink of water. Hester has gone to try to find some wood, and I can't reach the pitcher."

"I brought you some jelly; would you like a little now, or shall I put it away in the closet?"

"Thank you; I will save it for my Johnnie, he is so fond of sweet things; and, poor child! he sees 'em so seldom nowadays."

"There is enough for you and Johnnie too. Eat this, while I look after him, and see whether he ought to have any this evening."

She placed a saucer filled with the tempting amber-hued delicacy on the little pine table beside the bed, and went into the next room. The boy, who looked about seven or eight years old, lay on a pallet in one corner, restless and fretful, his cheeks burning, and his large brown eyes sparkling with fever.

"Johnnie, boy! what is the matter? Tell me what hurts you."

"My head aches so badly," and tears came to the beautiful childish eyes.

"It feels hot. Would you like to have it bathed in cold water?"

"If you please, ma'am. I have been calling Hettie, and she won't hear."

"Because she has gone out. Let me see if I can't do it just as well as Hettie."

She hunted about the room for a cloth, but, finding nothing suitable, took her cambric handkerchief, and, after laving his forehead gently for ten or fifteen minutes, laid the wet folds upon it, and asked smilingly--

"Doesn't that feel pleasant?"

"Ever so nice, ma'am--if I had some to drink."

She put the dripping gourd to his parched lips, and, after shaking up his pillow and straightening the covering of his pallet, she promised to see him again soon, and returned to his mother.

"How does he appear to be, Miss Irene? I had him moved out of this room because he said my coughing hurt his head, and his continual fretting worried me. I am so weak now, G.o.d help me!" and she covered her eyes with one hand.

"He has some fever, Mrs. Davis, but not more than Susan. I will ask Dr.

Arnold to come and see them this evening. This change in the weather is very well calculated to make sickness. Are you entirely out of wood?"

"Very nearly, ma'am; a few sticks left."

"When Hester comes, keep her at home. I will send you some wood. And now, how are you?"

"My cough is not quite so bad; the pectoral holds it a little in check; but I had another hemorrhage last night, and I am growing weaker every day. Oh, Miss Irene! what will become of my poor little children when I am gone?

That is such an agonizing thought." She sobbed as she spoke.

"Do not let that grieve you now. I promise you that your children shall be taken care of. I will send a servant down to stay here to-night, and perhaps some of the women in the Row will be willing to come in occasionally and help Hester till Susan gets able to cook. I left two loaves of bread in the closet, and will send more in the morning, which Hester can toast. I shall go by town, and send Dr. Arnold out."

"I would rather have Dr. Brandon, if you please."

"Why?"

"I have always heard that Dr. Arnold was so gruff and unfeeling, that I am afraid of him. I hate to be snapped up when I ask a question."