CARES MULTIPLIED.
"I have been thinking," said Gertrude, as she drew near home, "how we shall manage, doctor, so as not to alarm Mrs. Sullivan."
"What's going to alarm her?" asked the doctor.
"You, if she knows at once you are a physician. I think I had better introduce you as a friend, who brought me home in the storm."
"Oh! so we are going to act a little farce, are we? Stage manager, Gertrude Flint—unknown stranger, Dr. Jeremy. I'm ready. What shall I say first?"
"I leave that to a wiser head than mine, doctor, and trust entirely to your own discretion to obtain some knowledge of her symptoms, and only gradually disclose to her that you are a physician."
"Ah, yes! pretend at first to be only a private individual of an inquiring mind. I can manage it." As they opened the door, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair with a troubled countenance, and hardly waited for the introduction to Gertrude's friend before she asked if Mr. Cooper were not with them.
"No, indeed," replied Gertrude. "Hasn't he come home?"
Upon Mrs. Sullivan saying that she had not seen him since morning, Gertrude informed her, with a composure she was far from feeling, that Mr. Miller had undertaken the care of him, and could, undoubtedly, account for his absence. She would seek him at once.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Sullivan, "that you should have to go out again in such a storm; but I feel very anxious about grandpa—don't you, Gerty?"
"Not very: I think he's safe in the church. But I'll go for him at once; you know, auntie, I never mind the weather."
"Then take my great shawl, dear." And Mrs. Sullivan went to the closet for her shawl, giving Gertrude an opportunity to beg of Dr. Jeremy that he would await her return; for she knew that any unusual agitation of mind would often cause an attack of faintness in Mrs. Sullivan, and was afraid to have her left alone, to dwell with alarm upon Mr. Cooper's prolonged absence.
It was a very disagreeable afternoon, and already growing dark. Gertrude hastened along the wet footpath, exposed to the blinding storm, and, after passing through several streets, gained the church. She went into the building, now nearly deserted by workmen, saw that Mr. Cooper was not there, and began to fear she should gain no information concerning him, when she met Mr. Miller coming from the gallery. He looked surprised at seeing her, and asked if Mr. Cooper had not returned home. She answered in the negative, and he informed her that his efforts were insufficient to persuade the old man to go home at dinner-time, and that he had therefore taken him to his own house; he had supposed that long before this hour he would have been induced to allow one of the children to accompany him to Mrs. Sullivan's.
As it seemed probable that he was still at Mr. Miller's, Gertrude proceeded thither at once. After an uncomfortable walk, she reached her destination. She knocked at the door, but there was no response, and after waiting a moment, she opened it, and went in. Through another door there was the sound of children's voices, and so much noise that she believed it impossible to make herself heard, and, therefore, without further ceremony, entered the room. A band of startled children dispersed at the sight of a stranger, and ensconced themselves in corners; and Mrs. Miller, in dismay at the untidy appearance of her kitchen, hastily pushed back a clothes-horse against the wall, thereby disclosing to view the very person Gertrude had come to seek, who, in his usual desponding attitude, sat cowering over the fire. But, before she could advance to speak to him, her attention was arrested by a most unexpected sight. Placed against the side of the room, opposite the door, was a narrow bed, in which some person seemed to be sleeping. Hardly, however, had Gertrude presented herself in the doorway before the figure suddenly raised itself, gazed fixedly at her, lifted a hand as if to ward off her approach, and uttered a piercing shriek.
The voice and countenance were not to be mistaken, and Gertrude, pale and trembling, felt something like a revival of her old dread as she beheld the well-known features of Nan Grant.
"Go away! go away!" cried Nan, as Gertrude advanced into the room. Again Gertrude paused, for the wildness of Nan's eyes and the excitement of her countenance were such that she feared to excite her further. Mrs. Miller now came forward and said, "Why, Aunt Nancy! what is the matter? This is Miss Flint, one of the best young ladies in the land."
"No, 'tan't!" said Nan. "I know better."
Mrs. Miller now drew Gertrude aside into the shadow of the clothes-horse, and conversed with her in an undertone, while Nan, leaning on her elbow, and peering after them, maintained a watchful, listening attitude. Gertrude was informed that Mrs. Miller was a niece of Ben Grant's, but had seen nothing of him or his wife for years, until, a few days previous. Nan had come there in a state of the greatest destitution, and threatened with the fever under which she was now suffering. "I could not refuse her a shelter," said Mrs. Miller; "but, as you see, I have no accommodation for her; and it's not only bad for me to have her sick here in the kitchen, but, what with the noise of the children, and all the other discomforts, I'm afraid the poor old thing will die."
"Have you a room that you could spare above-stairs?" asked Gertrude.
"Why, there's our Jane," answered Mrs. Miller; "she's a good-hearted girl as ever lived; she said, right off, she'd give up her room to poor Aunt Nancy, and she'd sleep in with the other children. I don't feel, though, as if we could afford to keep another fire agoing, and so I thought we'd put a bed here for a day or two, and just see how she got along. But she's looked pretty bad to-day; and now, I'm thinking from her actions that she's considerable out of her head."
"She ought to be kept quiet," said Gertrude; "and, if you will have a fire in Jane's room at my expense, and do what you can to make her comfortable, I'll send a physician here to see her." Mrs. Miller was beginning to express the warmest gratitude, but Gertrude interrupted her with saying, "Don't thank me, Mrs. Miller; Nancy is not a stranger to me; I have known her before, and, perhaps, feel more interested in her than you do yourself."
Mrs. Miller looked surprised; but Gertrude could not stop to enter into a further explanation. Anxious to speak to Nan, and assure her of her friendly intentions, she went up to the side of the bed, in spite of the wild and glaring eyes which were fixed steadily upon her. "Nan," said she, "do you know me?"
"Yes! yes!" replied Nan, in a half-whisper, speaking quickly, and catching her breath; "what have you come for?"
"To do you good, I hope."
But Nan still looked incredulous, and in the same undertone, and with the same nervous accent, inquired, "Have you seen Gerty? Where is she?"
"She is well," answered Gertrude, astonished at the question, for she had supposed herself recognised.
"What did she say about me?"
"She says that she forgives and pities you, and is in hopes to do something to help you and make you well."
"Did she?" said the sick woman; "then you won't kill me?"
"Kill you?—No, indeed. We are in hopes to make you comfortable and cure you."
Mrs. Miller, who had been preparing a cup of tea, now drew near with it in her hand. Gertrude took it and offered it to Nan, who drank eagerly of it, staring at her over the edge of the cup. When she had finished, she threw herself heavily upon the pillow, and began muttering some indistinct sentences, the only distinguishable word being the name of her son Stephen. Finding the current of her thoughts thus apparently diverted, Gertrude now feeling in haste to return and relieve Dr. Jeremy, who had so kindly agreed to stay with Mrs. Sullivan, moved a little from the bedside, saying as she did so, "Good-bye, I will come and see you again."
"You won't hurt me?" said Nan, starting up.
"Oh, no. I will bring you something you will like."
"Don't bring Gerty here with you! I don't want to see her."
"I will come alone," replied Gertrude.
Nan now laid down, and did not speak again while Gertrude remained in the house, though she watched her steadily until she was outside the door. Mr. Cooper made no objection to accompanying his young guide, and though the severity of the storm was such that they did not escape a thorough wetting, they reached home in safety.
Dr. Jeremy, seated with his feet upon the fender, had the contented appearance of one who is quite at home. He had been talking with Mrs. Sullivan about the people of a country town where they had both passed some time in their childhood, and the timid woman had come to feel so much at her ease in the society of the social and entertaining physician, that, though he had accidentally disclosed his profession, she allowed him to question her upon the state of her health, without any of the alarm she had fancied she should feel at the sight of a doctor. By the time Gertrude returned, he had made himself well acquainted with the case, and was prepared, on Mrs. Sullivan's leaving the room, to provide dry clothes for her father, to report to Gertrude his opinion.
"Gertrude," said he, as soon as the door was shut, "that's a very sick woman."
"Do you think so, Dr. Jeremy?" said Gertrude, much alarmed, and sinking into the nearest chair.
"I do," replied he. "I wish I had seen her six months ago."
"Why, doctor? Do you date her illness so far back as that?"
"Yes, and much farther. She has borne up under the gradual progress of a disease which is now, I fear, beyond the aid of medical treatment."
"Dr. Jeremy," said Gertrude, "you do not mean to tell me that auntie is going to die and leave me, and her poor old father, and without ever seeing Willie again, too? Oh, I had hoped it was not nearly so bad as that!"
"Do not be alarmed, Gertrude," said the doctor. "I did not mean to frighten you;—she may live some time yet. I can judge better of her case in a day or two. But it is absolutely unsafe for you to be here alone with these two friends of yours—to say nothing of its overtasking your strength. Has not Mrs. Sullivan the means to keep a nurse, or even a domestic? She tells me she has no one."
"Yes, indeed," answered Gerty; "her son supplies her wants most generously. I know that she never draws nearly the whole of the amount he is anxious she should expend."
"Then you must speak to her about getting some one to assist you at once; for, if you do not, I shall."
"I intend to do it," said Gertrude. "I have seen the necessity for some time past; but she has such a dread of strangers, that I hated to propose it."
"Nonsense," said the doctor; "that's only imagination in her; she would soon get used to being waited upon."
Mrs. Sullivan now returned, and Gertrude, giving an account of her unexpected re-encounter with Nan Grant, begged Dr. Jeremy to go the next day and see her. "It will be a visit of charity," said she, "for she is probably penniless; and, though staying with your old patients, the Millers, she is but distantly connected, and has no claim upon them. That never makes any difference with you, however, I know very well."
"Not a bit, not a bit," answered the doctor. "I'll go and see her to-night, if the case requires it, and to-morrow I shall look in to report how she is, and hear the rest of what Mrs. Sullivan was telling me about her wakeful nights. But, Gertrude, do you go, child, and change your wet shoes and stockings. I shall have you on my hands next."
Mrs. Sullivan was delighted with Dr. Jeremy. "So different," said she, "from common doctors" (a portion of humanity for which she seemed to have an unaccountable aversion); "so social and friendly! Why, I felt, Gertrude, as if I could talk to him about my sickness as freely as I can to you."
Gertrude joined in the praises bestowed upon her much-valued friend, and it was tea-time before Mrs. Sullivan was weary of the subject. After the evening meal was over, and Mr. Cooper had been persuaded to retire to rest, while Mrs. Sullivan, reclining on the sofa, was enjoying what she always termed her happiest hour, Gertrude broached the subject recommended by Dr. Jeremy. Contrary to her expectations, Mrs. Sullivan no longer objected to the proposal of introducing a domestic into the family. She was convinced of her own incompetency to perform any active labour, and was equally opposed to the exertion on Gertrude's part which had, during the last week, been requisite. Gertrude suggested Jane Miller as a girl well suited to their wants, and it was agreed that she should be applied for on the next morning.
One more glance at Gertrude, and we shall have followed her to the conclusion of the day. She is alone. It is ten o'clock, and the house is still. Mr. Cooper is sound asleep. Gertrude has just listened at his door, and heard his loud breathing. Mrs. Sullivan, under the influence of a soothing draught recommended by Dr. Jeremy, has fallen into an unusually quiet slumber. The little Calcutta birds, ten in number, that occupy a large cage in the window, are nestled side by side on their slender perch, and Gertrude has thrown a warm covering over them, that they might not suffer from the cold night air. She has locked the doors, made all things safe and comfortable, and now sits down to read, to meditate, and pray. Her trials and cares are multiplying. A great grief stares her in the face, and a great responsibility; but she shrinks not from either. No! on the contrary, she thanks God that she is here; that she had the resolution to forsake pleasure and ease, and in spite of her own weakness and man's wrath, to place herself in the front of life's battle, and bravely wait its issues. She thanks God that she knows where to look for help. But, though her heart is brave and her faith firm, she has a woman's tender nature; and, as she sits alone she weeps—weeps for herself, and for him who, far away in a foreign land, is counting the days, the months, and years which shall restore him to a mother he is destined never to see again. But remembering that she is to stand in the place of a child to that parent, and that her hand must soothe the pillow of the invalid, and minister to all her wants, comes the stern necessity of self-control—a necessity to which Gertrude has long since learned to submit—and, rallying all her calmness and fortitude, she wipes away the tears, and commends herself to Him who is strength to the weak and comfort to the sorrowing.