University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

“Do you see any change, Hiram?”

“None for the better.”

Mr. Huntingdon dropped his head on 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 go 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 lay 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 know very
well that you have been down on your knees
before the Golden Calf ever since that girl
opened her eyes in this plagued world of
trouble! 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? I told you how it would
end; but oh, no! you could see nothing but
the gilt face of your bellowing god! You
tormented her so about Hugh, that anybody
else would have hated the poor fellow. Mind
you, she never opened her lips to me with
reference to that matter in her life; she would
have been gibbeted first. But I am not blind
entirely; I knew what was going on; I knew
that the proud, sensitive bird was hunted,
and could find no spot to rest upon. 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 gray 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 can not or will not. She is the only
thing in this world that I do really love. I
have fondled her from the time when she was
a week old, and it hurts me to see her suffer
as she has done ever since you posted her off
among strangers in New York. It will go
hard with me to lay her down, in all her loveliness,
in the grave. 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.”

“Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Clark said that they
would sit up to-night. Hiram, you must be
worn out, losing so much sleep.”

“Tell Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Clark to go to
Egypt! Do you suppose I want two such
gossip-hawks perched over my dove? I am
going to sit up myself. Give Irene a spoonful
of that mixture in the small vial at seven
o'clock.”

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.”

“For that matter, she is beautiful enough to
be very easily loved for her own sake, judging
from the number of her devoted admirers.
But I certainly am very grateful for her kindness
to my mother, years ago.”

“And well you may be, Aubrey! She paid
dearly for her friendly interest in your family.”

“In what respect, sir?”

“In more respects than I choose to recapitulate.
Did you ever know where she got the
two hundred dollars which she gave your
mother?”

“I presume she took it from her own purse.”

“She borrowed it from me, and paid me
back gradually in the money that her father
gave her, from time to time, while she was at
boarding-school. Cyrus! you stupid! bring
me some coffee.”

“How is she to-night? Rumors 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 can
not, 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—I take the Row! I wish the river
would swallow it up.”

“Is she conscious?”

“Heaven only knows; I don't. She lies
with her eyes wide open, looking at everything
as if she were searching for something
which she had lost, but never speaks, and understands
nothing, except to swallow the medicine
when I put the spoon to her lips.”

“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.

“Of course, Aubrey, you don't visit at that
house?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you meet her often?”

“I have not seen her for nearly a year.
Not since the night in which Hugh Seymour
was drowned.”

He rose, and turned away to screen his
countenance from the scrutiny to which it was
subjected, for the painful shock baffled all his
efforts at self-control, and he felt that his face
would betray him.

“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
her 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 legalcap
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 took

from his pocket the only solace he had ever
known—his meerschaum. While he smoked,
and mixed some powders in a marble mortar,
memory industriously ran back, raking amid
the ashes of the by-gone for here a word and
there a look, to eke out the Ariadne thread
which his imagination was spinning. The
possibility of an attachment between Irene
and the blind widow's son had never occurred
to him before; but that Russell's unmistakable
emotion could be referable simply to gratitude
to his mother's benefactress, was an
explanation of which he was disposed to be
very sceptical. If this surmise should prove
correct, what were Irene's feelings toward the
popular young politician? Here he was absolutely
without data; he could recall nothing
to assist him; but, comprehending the bitter
animosity existing between the lawyer and
her father, he sighed involuntarily, knowing
the hopelessness of any such attachment on
either or both sides. Determined to satisfy
himself of the truth at the earliest opportunity,
he 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
never will 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 gray 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
favorite, 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 have n'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 have n'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;
limps around now without his crutches. 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 analyze 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 any 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.”

Looking steadily at him as he spoke, she
smiled coldly, and answered:

“It is very apparent that this fierceness of
party spirit, this bitter political animosity, is
driving the ship of state on the rock of ruin.
The foamy lips of the breakers are just ahead,
but you men will not open your eyes to the
danger.”

“Better get some of you wise women to
pilot us, I dare say!” sneered her companion,
provoked at her unsatisfactory manner and
inflexible features.

“It is not our calling, Doctor; but I promise
you, if the experiment were tried, that you
would find no Palinurus among us. We have
no desire to thrust ourselves into the forum,
like Roman women `storming at the Oppian
Law and crushing Cato;' still less to imitate
Hortensia, and confronting august Triumvirs
in the market-place, harangue against the tax,
however unjust. Practically, women should
have as little to do with politics as men with
darning stockings or making puff-paste; but
we should be unworthy of the high social status
which your chivalry accords us were we
indifferent to the conduct of public affairs.

Such is the judicious arrangement of nature—
a wise and happy one, indubitably. We bow
before it, and have no wish to trench on your
prerogatives; but we do protest against your
sleeping on your posts, or lulling yourselves
with dreams of selfish ambition when Scylla
and Charybdis grin destruction on either side.”

“Phew—Queen! who told you all that?
Has Aubrey indoctrinated you in his `fire-eating,'
schismatic principles? What platform
do you propose to mount?”

“None, sir, but that of the constitution—
ignoring both Whig and Democratic additions
which make it top-heavy. I don't like
latter-day political carpentering. I want to
see Nestors in the councils of my country, not
nerveless imbeciles or worthless, desperate
political gamesters.”

“You rabid little Jacobin! Don't you think
that, Portia-like, you might completely transmogrify
yourself, and get into Congress and

Cabinet long enough to write `Mene, mene'
on their walls?”

“They would have no Daniel there, even if
I should, which is no business of mine. Doctor,
I claim to be no politician; a thousand
years will scarcely produce another De Stael.
I am simply a true lover of my country—
anxious in view of its stormy, troubled future.”

“Aubrey has not proselyted you, then, after
all?”

She had unlocked her writing-desk, and,
without seeming to hear his last words, handed
him a letter.

“Here is a letter from uncle Eric, which I
received yesterday. It contains a message
for you about some medical books and
journals.”

He muttered something indistinctly, put the
letter in his pocket, and took her hand.

“Irene—what is the matter, dear child?
Your pulse is entirely too quick.”

“That is nothing new, Doctor. Father
insists that I shall drink port-wine, and it does
not suit me — keeps my head aching continually.”

“Try porter instead.”

She shook her head wearily.

“I need nothing, sir, but to be let alone.”

He smoothed back her hair and said,
hastily:

“You will never get what you need. Oh,
child! why won't you trust me?”

“Why—Doctor! I do.”

“Hush! don't tell me that! I know better.
You steel that white face of yours, and lock
your confidence from the old man who loves
you above all other things.”

She drew down his hand from her head and
leaned her cold cheek upon it.

“You misunderstand me, sir; I repose the
most perfect confidence in you. If I were in
trouble, and wanted help or a favor of any
kind, I would apply to you sooner than to any
other human being—for you have always been
more patient with my whims than even my
own father—and I should be worse than an
ingrate if I had not the most complete trust in
you. My dear, kind friend, what have I done
to fret you?”

He did not reply, but searched her countenance
sorrowfully.

“Doctor, tell me one thing. You nursed
me constantly while I was unconscious, and I
want to know whether I said anything during
my delirium that surprised or annoyed you.”

“No; the trouble was that you sealed your
lips hermetically. Are you afraid now that
you divulged some secret which I may betray?”

“I am not afraid of your betraying anything—never
had such a thought. When do
you think that I may take a horse-back ride
with impunity? I am so tired of the house.”

“Not for a week, at least. You must be
prudent, Irene, for you are not strong yet, by
a great deal.”

“I wanted to talk to you, this morning,
about something very near my heart; but you
are going.”

“I can wait, my child. What is it?”

“To-morrow will do as well. I want you
to aid me in getting a bill passed by the legislature,
appropriating a school fund for this
country. Perhaps you can obtain Mr. Aubrey's
influence with the members of the lower
house.”

“Perhaps I 'll go to the North Pole to cool a
glass of amontillado for your majesty! I 'll be
hanged if I have anything to do with it!
Why the deuce can't you ask Mr. Aubrey
yourself?”

“Because, in the first place, you know
very well that I never see him, and I could not
ask him, even if I should meet him; and, beside,
I do not wish to be known at all in the affair.
It is not a woman's business to put forward
legislative bills.”

“Indeed! Then why are you meddling
with other people's business?”

“Our legislators seem to have forgotten one
grand and good maxim of Lycurgus: `Children
are the property of the state, to whom
alone their education should be intrusted.'
They have forgotten that our poor require
educating, and I simply desire some of their
constituents to call their attention to the oversight.
Doctor, I know you will do it.”

“I will first see myself floundering like
Pharaoh! I 'll rake out nobody's chesnuts!
Not even yours, child! Put down that window;
the air is too chilly. You are as cold as
an iceberg and as blue as a gentian.”

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

“That factory-boy, Philip, is down stairs;
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'm, 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.”

He did not answer immediately, and, observing
the cloud on his countenance, she added:

“Philip, what is the matter? You look
troubled; can I do anything for you?”

A deep flush mantled his sallow cheek, and,
drooping his head as if in humiliation, he said,
passionately:

“Oh, Miss Irene! You are the only friend
I have. I am so mortified I can hardly look
anybody in the face. Father is drinking again
worse than ever, and is so violent that mother
won't stay at home; she has gone across the
river for a few days. I have done all I could,
but I can't influence him.”

“Where is he now?”

“The police put him in the guard-house
last night for creating a disturbance. I suppose,
when the Mayor holds court, he will be
fined and turned out. Miss Irene, I feel like
jumping into the river and drowning myself.
It is so horrible to be ashamed of my own
father!”

He dropped his face in his hands, and she
saw that he trembled violently.

“You must struggle against such feelings,
Philip; though it is certainly very mortifying
to know that your father has been arrested.
If you conduct yourself properly, people will
respect you all the more because of your misfortune.”

“No, Miss Irene! they are always holding
it up to me. Hard as I try to do right, they
are continually sneering at me, and sometimes
it makes me almost desperate.”

“That is unjust and ungenerous. No one,
who has any refinement or goodness of heart,
will be guilty of such behavior. I do not
know positively that I can assist you, but 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'm! I think so; he is generally
very repentant when he gets sober. 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. I am very sorry,
Philip, that this trouble has occurred again; I
know that it is very painful, but you must en
deavor to be patient and hopeful, and to bear
up bravely. 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-by.
I shall come down to the Row to-morrow
or next day.”

As she heard his halting step descend the
stairs she leaned back wearily in her chair,
and, closing her eyes, these words crept almost
inaudibly over her pale lips: