“What is left us now, is to try and save her dear life,” said the miserable father. “Suffering we cannot spare her. She must pass alone through the Valley of the Shadow; but it may be she will lose this sorrow in its dreadful paths. I have known this to happen often; for THERE the soul has to strip itself of all encumbrances, and fight for life, and life only.”
This was the battle waged in Doctor Moran’s house for many awful weeks. The girl lay at Death’s door, and her father and mother watched every breath she drew. One day, while she was in extremity, the Doctor went himself to the apothecary’s for medicine. This medicine was his last hope and he desired to prepare it himself. As he came out of the store with it in his hand, Hyde looked at him with a steady imploration. He had evidently been waiting his exit.
“Sir!” he said, “I have heard a report that I cannot, I dare not believe.”
“Believe the worst—and stand aside, sir. I have neither patience nor words for you.”
“I beseech you, sir—”
“Touch me not! Out of my sight! Broadway is not wide enough for us two, unless you take the other side.”
“Your daughter? Oh sir, have some pity!”
“My daughter is dying.”
“Then sir, let me tell you, that your behaviour has been so brutal to her, and to me, that the Almighty shows both kindness and intelligence in taking her away:”—and with these words uttered in a blazing passion of indignation and pity, the young lord crossed to the other side of the street, leaving the Doctor confounded by his words and manner.
“There is something strange here,” he said to himself; “the fellow may be as bad as bad can be, but he neither looked nor spoke as if he had wronged Cornelia. If she lives I must get to the bottom of this affair. I should not wonder if it is the work of Dick Hyde—earl or general—as detestable a man as ever crossed my path.”