And all this while, burning with fever, Ella Bedford lay delirious, and with a nurse at her bedside night and day. The doctor was unremitting in his attention, and was undoubtedly skilful; but he soon found that all he could do was to palliate, for the disease would run its course. The place they were in was fortunately kept by a quiet old couple, whose sympathies were aroused by the sufferings of the gentle girl; and though, as a rule, sick visitors are not welcomed very warmly at hotels, here Ella met with almost motherly treatment.
Doctor, nurse, landlady—all had their suspicions; but the ravings of a fever-stricken girl were not sufficient warranty for them to do more than patiently watch the progress of events, and at times they anticipated that the end would be one that they could not but deplore.
For Ella indeed seemed sick unto death, and lay tossing her fevered head on the pillow, or struggled to get away to give the help that she said was needed of her.
“Hasten on, hasten on!” Those words were always ringing in her ears, and troubling her; and then she would start up in bed, press her long glorious hair back from her burning temples, and listen as if called.
Then would come a change, and she would be talking to an imaginary flower, as she plucked its petals out one by one, calling each petal a hope or aspiration; whispering too, at times, in a voice so low that it was never heard by those who bent over her, what seemed to be a name, while a smile of ineffable joy swept over her lips as she spoke.
Once more, though, those words, “Hasten on, hasten on!” repeated incessantly as she struggled to free herself from the hands that held her to her bed.
“Let me go to him,” she whispered softly once to her nurse. “He is dying, and he calls me. Let me see him once, only for a few minutes, that I may tell him how I loved him, before he goes. Please let me go!” she said pitifully, clasping her hands together; “just to see him once, and then I will go away—far away—and try to be at peace.”
“My poor child, yes,” sobbed the landlady. “I fear you will, and very soon too. But does she want him from downstairs? I’ll go and fetch him up.”
The landlady descended, to find Max, as usual, smoking, and told him of what had passed.
“Bai Jove, no! I won’t come up, thanks. I’m nervous, and have a great dread of infection, and that sort of thing.”