A hope doomed to disappointment, for he raved for four days and nights, calling frantically for the serene, sad woman who sat at his pillow, bending over him and laying her cold hand on his scorched brow. On the fifth day, being free from fever and utterly prostrated, he seemed sinking rapidly; but she kept her fingers on his pulse, and, without waiting for the doctor's advice, administered powerful stimulants. So pa.s.sed two hours of painful anxiety; then Philip opened his eyes languidly, and looked at her.

"Philip, do you know me?"

"Yes--Miss Irene."

She sank back as if some strong supporting hand had suddenly been withdrawn from her; and observing that she looked ghastly, Mr. Martin hastily brought her a gla.s.s of water. Just then Dr. Brandon entered, and examined his patient with evident surprise.

"What have you done to him, Miss Huntingdon?"

"Since daylight I have been giving him ammonia and brandy; his pulse was so feeble and thready, I thought he needed it, and was afraid to wait for you."

"Right! and you saved his life by it. I could not get here any earlier, and if you had delayed it until I came, it would probably have been too late.

You may call him your patient after this."

She waited no longer, but staggered to the door; and Andrew, seeing how faint she was, came to meet her, and led her to the carriage. The ten days of watching had told upon her; and when she reached home, and Nellie brought her wrapper and unlaced her shoes, she fell back on her lounge in a heavy, deathlike sleep. Mr. Huntingdon had been expected two days before, but failed to arrive at the time designated; and having her fears fully aroused, Nellie despatched a messenger for Dr. Arnold.

CHAPTER XXIV

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 ma.s.s of golden netting; and the sparkling eyes wandered from one object to another, as if in anxious search. The disease had a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed thus, during which time she had recognized no one; and though numerous lady friends came to offer a.s.sistance, 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 s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 b.u.t.toned 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 compa.s.sion mingled in his own face; then light broke upon him, and, rising, he laid his hand heavily on Russell's shoulder.