THE FEVER

It was a cold afternoon in November—

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 noble, 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 pass 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 passed into the adjoining house. Sick-rooms, where poverty stands grim and gaunt on the hearth, are rarely enticing, and to this dreary class 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, God 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 Dick 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, God 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."

"That is a great mistake, Mrs. Davis. People do him injustice. He has one of the kindest, warmest hearts I ever knew, though sometimes he is rather abrupt in his manner. If you prefer it, however, I will see your doctor. Good-bye; I will come again to-morrow."

As she took her bridle from Philip's hand, the boy looked up at her with an expression bordering on adoration.

"Thank you, Philip; how did he behave?"

"Not very well; but he is beautiful enough to make up for his wildness."

"That is bad doctrine; beauty never should excuse bad behaviour. Is your mother at home?"

"No, ma'am."

"When she comes, ask her I say please to step in now and then, and overlook things for Mrs. Davis; Susan is sick. Philip, if it is not asking too much of you, Johnnie would like to have you sit by him till his little sister comes home, and wet that cloth which I left on his head. Will you?"

"Indeed, I will; I am very glad you told me. Certainly I will."

"I thought so. Don't talk to him; let him sleep if he will. Good-bye."

She went first to a woodyard on the river, and left an order for a cord of wood to be sent immediately to No. 13, Factory Row; then took the street leading to Doctor Brandon's office. A servant sat on the step whistling merrily; and, in answer to her questions, he informed her that his master had just left town, to be absent two days. She rode on for a few squares, doubling her veil in the hope of shrouding her features, and stopped once more in front of the door where stood Dr. Arnold's buggy.

"Cyrus, is the doctor in his office?"

"Yes, Miss Irene."

"Hold my horse for me."

She gathered the folds of her riding-habit over her arm, and went upstairs. Leaning far back in his chair, with his feet on the fender of the grate, sat Dr. Arnold, watching the blue smoke of his meerschaum curl lazily in faint wreaths over his head; and as she entered, a look of pleasant surprise came instantly into his cold, clear eyes.

"Bless me! Irene; I am glad to see you. It is many a day since you have shown your face here; sit down. Now, then, what is to pay? You are in trouble, of course; you never think of me except when you are. Has old Nellie treated herself to another spell of rheumatism, or Paragon broke his leg, or smallpox broke out anywhere; or, worse than all, have the hawks taken to catching your pigeons?"

"None of these catastrophes has overtaken me; but I come, as usual, to ask a favour. If you please, I want you to go up to the Factory Row this evening. Mrs. Davis, No. 13, has two children very sick, I am afraid. I don't like the appearance of their tongues."

"Humph! what do you know about tongues, I should like to be informed?"

"How to use my own, sir, at least, when there is a necessity for it. They are what you medical savans call typhoid tongues; and from what I heard to-day, I am afraid there will be a distressing amount of sickness among the operatives. Of course you will go, sir?"

"How do you know that so well? Perhaps I will and perhaps I won't. Nobody ever looks after me, or cares about the condition of my health; I don't see why I must adopt the whole human race. See here, my child! do not let me hear of you at the Row again soon; it is no place for you, my lily. Ten to one it is some low, miserable typhus fever showing itself, and I will take care of your precious pets only on condition that you keep away, so that I shall not be haunted with the dread of having you, also, on my hands. If I lay eyes on you at the Row, I swear I will write to Leonard to chain you up at home. Do you hear?"

"I shall come every day; I promise you that."

"Oh! you are ambitious of martyrdom? But typhus fever is not the style, Queen. There is neither éclat nor glory in such a death."

A sad smile curved her mouth, as she answered slowly—

"That is problematical, Doctor. But it is getting late, and I wish, if you please, you would go at once to the Row."

"Stop! if any good is accomplished among those semi-savages up yonder, who is to have the credit? Tell me that."

"God shall have the thanks; you all the credit as the worthy instrument, and I as much of the gratification as I can steal from you. Are you satisfied with your wages, my honoured Shylock? Good night."

"Humph! it is strange what a hold that queer motherless child took upon my heart in her babyhood, and it tightens as she grows older."

He shook the ashes from his pipe, put it away behind the clock, and went down to his buggy. Before breakfast the following morning, while Irene was in the poultry-yard feeding her chickens and pigeons, pheasants and peafowls, she received a note from Dr. Arnold containing these few scrawling words:—

"If you do not feel quite ready for the day of judgment, avoid the Row as you would the plagues of Egypt. I found no less than six developed cases of rank typhus.

She put the note in her pocket, and, while the pigeons fluttered and perched on her shoulders and arms, cooing and pecking at her fingers, she stood musing—calculating the chances of contagion and death if she persisted. Raising her eyes to the calm blue sky, the perplexed look passed from her countenance, and, fully decided regarding her course, she went in to breakfast. Mr. Huntingdon was going to a neighbouring county with Judge Peterson, to transact some business connected with Hugh's estate, and, as the buggy came to the door, he asked, carelessly—

"What did Cyrus want?"

"He came to bring me a note from the doctor, concerning some sick people whom I asked him to see."

"Oh! John, put my overcoat in the buggy. Come, Judge; I am ready."

As he made no inquiry about the sick, she volunteered no explanation, and he bade her good-bye with manifest cold indifference. She could not avoid congratulating herself that, since he must take this journey soon, he had selected the present occasion to be absent, for she was well aware that he would violently oppose her wishes in the matter of the Row. When Dr. Arnold met her late in the afternoon of the same day, at little Johnnie's side, his surprise and chagrin found vent, first in a series of oaths, then, scowling at her like some thunder-cloud with the electricity expended, he said—

"Do you consider me a stark idiot, or a shallow quack?"

"Neither, sir, I assure you."

"Then, if I know anything about my business, I wrote you the truth this morning, and you treat my advice with cool contempt. You vex me beyond all endurance! Do you want to throw yourself into the jaws of death?"

"You forget, Doctor: 'Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.'"

She slipped her hand into his, and looked up, smiling and calm, into his harsh, swarthy face.

"My child, you made a mistake; your life belongs to me, for I saved it in your infancy. I cradled you in my arms, lest death should snatch you. I have a better right to you than anybody else in this world. I don't want to see you die; I wish to go first."

"I know what I owe you, Doctor; but I am not going to die, and you have scolded me enough for one time. Do make peace."

"Remember, I warned you, and you would not heed."

From that hour she kept faithful vigil in No. 13, passing continually from one bedside to another. Susan's attack proved comparatively light, and she was soon pronounced convalescent; but little Johnnie was desperately ill, and for several nights Irene sat at his pillow, fearing that every hour would be his last. While his delirium was at its height, Hester was taken violently, and on the morning when Irene felt that her labour was not in vain, and that the boy would get well, his little sister, whom she had nursed quite as assiduously, grew rapidly worse, and died at noon. As is frequently observed in such diseases, this increased in virulence with every new case. It spread with astonishing celerity through the Row, baffling the efforts of the best physicians in W——; and finally, the day after Hester's death, as Irene sat trying to comfort the poor mother, a neighbour came in exclaiming—

"Oh, Miss Irene! Philip Martin is down too. He caught the fever from his mother, and his father says won't you please come over?"

She went promptly, though so wearied she could scarcely stand, and took a seat by the bed where tossed the poor boy in whom she had taken such an interest.

"You must go home, Miss Huntingdon; you are worn out. His father can watch him till his mother gets stronger," said Dr. Brandon, who was fully acquainted with the unremitting attendance at the next house.

"No, I must stay with Philip; perhaps he will know me when he wakes."

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 passed 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 glass 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. /KQCCfuxJNCYvhBTPhqiDIYbqDhIidtgL/1xDKUFXnDTGStCRZhD7fuWkawNJ9HW