A STRANGE INCIDENT.
In less than the specified time a man came back from the doctor to inform Miss Arnold that her services were needed in a house about two squares away from there, and that he would show her the place. Her little trunk was already packed, her shawl and hat donned, when the messenger arrived. But she found it very difficult to get away from the Burtons. These poor, grateful people could not bear to part with her whom they almost worshipped as their preserver. Children and mother pleaded almost with anguish for her to stay with them.
"I would like to remain, Mrs. Burton," replied Agnes, "but there are hundreds being stricken down every hour around us, who have no one to wait upon them, and who may perish before help can reach them. You and these darlings are now comparatively safe, while others just taken are in deadly peril."
Her kind remonstrance had its effect, and the Burtons now consented to let her go.
All kissed her most fondly, bade her good-by, and called down the choicest blessings of Heaven upon her head.
"God bless you, and keep you safe from the horrible fever!" were the words still ringing in her ears, as the heroic and devoted girl followed the doctor's man out into the street.
It was not raining now, but the murky, mist-laden atmosphere was rendered like a damp, choking, heavy pall of gloom by the dense volumes of pitch and tar-smoke with which it seemed to be perfectly soaked, as a sponge is with water. It caused Agnes to cough violently and continuously until she arrived at her new destination, which was a private dwelling-house, apparently the abode of some one belonging to the middle class of society.
"This is the place, Miss Arnold," said the man, "a young lady was taken early this morning while she was visiting in the house, and a few hours ago a Sister of Mercy, who was sent in to nurse her, went down sick. And they're both in bed together."
Agnes could not account for it, but the moment she heard mention of the Sister of Charity, a feeling came over her that it must be one of the three with whom she had come hither in the cars.
Upon reaching the house, she found that her impression was correct. Sure enough, tossing in agony and delirium upon the bed, was Sister Theresa. By some mistake, a male nurse had also been sent to this house, of which circumstance Agnes, however, was very glad, as his services were very valuable until she had administered her first simple remedies to the two patients.
As soon as she could, she thanked the man, and informed him that she could now get along without him, and that he had better report to the doctor for assignment to some other house.
He left, and Agnes now commenced her task of peril and unceasing labor.
The lady whom Sister Theresa had come to nurse was comparatively quiet. But, strange as it may seem, Theresa herself was extremely violent at intervals. Yet when in her right mind, she was the sweetest and gentlest of her sex. Alas! how unlike her natural self was she, now that reason was dethroned.
All through the long, long, dreary night, Agnes never once closed her eyes. All night long, too, she never flagged in her devoted attention to her patients. Minute by minute, instant by instant, inch by inch, as it were, she battled with the demon fever that held so fiercely the two sick women in his horrible grasp.
Ah, noble, noble Agnes, when thy soul appears on that final day before God's judgment-seat on high, how thrice enviable will be thy reward! What hymns of glorious praise shall heaven's choir chant for thee!
It was nearly day-dawn ere Agnes succeeded in getting the Sister of Mercy into a somewhat quiet state, and then, completely worn out, she was herself obliged to seek a little rest. Even her manner of doing this showed how little she dreaded the pestilence, for, instead of going to another room, she lifted Theresa further over in the bed, and laying herself down beside her, placed her arm over her, kindly, lovingly, so that if she should chance to move, though never so slightly, it would awaken her.
Uttering a prayer, first for her patients, and then for herself, Agnes fell at once into a light but refreshing slumber, from which, however, she awakened at about the proper time to administer another dose of medicine. This done, she again lay down as before, and in this way she obtained three or four hours of good sleep, which had the effect to refresh her very much indeed; after which she rinsed her face, hands and neck in cold water, and partook of as good a breakfast as she could possibly get under the circumstances.
By careful attention in such particulars as these, Agnes managed to keep up her health, strength and good spirits, when all the rest of the nurses, both male and female, were completely fagged and wearied out both in mind and body.
Just after partaking of her frugal meal, Agnes was obliged to spring to her bedside, for all of a sudden Sister Theresa had started up out of her sleep, weeping most piteously, and Agnes feared she would throw herself out of bed. But in a few minutes, by her kind, soothing voice, she had quieted her patient and got her to lie down again.
Agnes never was without her Bible, and bethinking herself that its holy words would have a good effect upon Theresa, she quickly opened it as chance directed. It was at the twenty-third Psalm.
"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters."
Agnes was a magnificent reader, and as her flute-like voice, in clear, grand, musical tones, uttered word after word of this most beautiful psalm, not only Sister Theresa, but the other patient, seemed quickly to alter. And ere she had concluded her reading. Agnes noticed that both, but especially Theresa, looked better, or rather supremely happy.
"You are indeed an angel!" she exclaimed, seizing the hand of her nurse and covering it with kisses. "They told me that the patients you were nursing called you Angel Agnes, and I am sure you are. May God and the saints keep you ever an angel, as you are now."
"Yes, yes," added the other patient, fervently, "God bless you! If we had all the rest of the nurses like you, I do not believe any body would die. The hired nurses are nearly all worthless. They work for money alone, and do not care whether the people they nurse live or die."
"That is horrible. I hope there are not many nurses of that description."
"O, indeed, all are that way except the Sisters and yourself," replied the lady.
At this juncture the doctor entered in a hurried manner.
"Well, Miss Arnold," he exclaimed, "how are you all getting along?"
"O, very well, sir, very well. I think we are all past danger."
Agnes answered the inquiry in a light, cheery tone, that in itself was worth, as the saying goes, a cart-load of medicine.
"Upon my honor, ladies," continued the doctor, as he advanced to the bed and took each of the invalids' wrists at once, in order to save time, "our nurse here, Miss Arnold, is the most wonderful lady I have ever seen. She has not failed to break the worst cases we have had. Now your symptoms were of the most desperate character, and when you were taken, I never expected to see either of you alive this morning, and yet here you are recovering, and I verily believe beyond further danger. Let me see your tongues. Well, well, well, this is really astonishing. You are both doing splendidly. Just be a little careful, and you are perfectly out of peril. Miss Arnold, you are worth all our nurses; and really I'm afraid all us physicians also put together."
"Ah, Doctor, you flatter me," laughed Agnes, much pleased at the same time to hear the flattery, as well because it seemed to have a brightening effect upon the patients as for any other reason.
"Indeed I do not flatter you at all, Miss Arnold. I really begin to wish I was a woman myself, so that if I should get the fever I might have you to nurse me well again."
"O never mind about the being a woman, Doctor," archly rejoined Agnes, "if you should be so unfortunate as to get it, I'll come and nurse you."
"Will you? well now that's kind and brave of you, I am sure. And speaking of a man, Miss Arnold, that reminds me. While inspecting a train at the first station, we found a young gentleman aboard, who was coming to Shreveport here, expressly to see you. His name was Harkness"—
"O, Doctor!" interruptingly exclaimed Agnes, as the color left her cheeks and lips. "I hope you did not permit him to come into this danger!"
A far duller observer than the doctor could have seen the intense love of this beautiful girl for the young man referred to.
"He's out of peril, Miss Agnes," explained the doctor, "for we refused to allow him to pass in."
No actress ever trod the stage on whose features the emotions of pleasure and regret portrayed themselves at once, as on the face of Agnes when heard these words.
"Would you rather have had us permit his entrance?" asked the doctor.
"For my own satisfaction and curiosity I would rather have had it so, Doctor. But for his sake, no; a hundred times no."
"Ah, Miss Arnold, heart disease is sometimes worse than Yellow Jack," remarked the doctor half-seriously.
"Yes, yes, it is always so," said Agnes earnestly.
"I am surprised he allowed you to come here, Miss Arnold."
The doctor was evidently deeply interested in his wonderful and beautiful nurse, and the artificial twinkle he forced into his gray eyes could not mask his sincerity from Agnes, who answered:
"Doctor, Mr. Harkness was my intended husband; but a jealous and mischievous young lady, who envied me I suppose, managed, through deceit, to estrange us. And so"—
Agnes did not know how to finish the sentence. She studied what words to utter in conclusion, until the pause became painfully awkward, seeing which the doctor with much consideration said:
"I can guess Miss Arnold, what you would say, and I fear there has been too much haste on both your parts for each other's happiness. But Mr. Harkness evidently has for yourself at least a powerful sentiment of something stronger than mere friendly affection, to leave the other young lady and come hither into the midst of such a deadly peril as Yellow Fever. He has found out the deception, and has, I suppose, come like a man, to tell you so and ask your forgiveness."
"That must be it, Doctor, that must be it," replied Agnes with much warmth, "that's his disposition, I know. He has a noble disposition."
After a short further conversation the physician left, with the same request as before, for Agnes to remain until he sent her a message where to go next.
This was not long delayed, as in about half an hour or so a message came for her to go to a house a few squares away, where a whole family had just been taken down with the disorder.
Bidding her two patients farewell, Agnes hastened away to the new scene of duty.