Materfamilias

by Ada Cambridge

I slammed the gate to shut out everybody, and the bearers lowered his litter, and I bent over him. He did not know me. When I leaned down to listen if he breathed, I saw a little bubble of blood oozing from his mouth; then I knew that he was more than stunned—that it was worse even than broken bones. I left off crying, and became quite calm. I had to.

We were sliding him from the mattress to his bed when Dr. Juke arrived, and he made us stop and let him do it; for, though my poor lad seemed unconscious, he panted and grunted in a way that showed we were hurting him, with all our care. The doctor felt and lifted his limbs, and said they were all right, and then undressed him as he lay; I got my large cutting-out scissors, and we hacked his good clothes to pieces—but that didn't matter—until we left him only his shirt and woollen singlet, and even those we cut. And just as we were finishing making him comfortable, as we hoped, he came to and looked at us. My precious boy! His breathing was short and fluttery, and he seemed too full of pain to speak, except in gasps.

"Oh, my side! my side!"

He wailed like a child—a sound to drive a mother mad.

Dr. Juke said, "Ah, I thought so." And, having made a little examination, he reported a fracture of the ribs, with some injury to the lung. He whispered something to Tom, and then told me I had better send for a trained nurse, and said it would be as well to get a good surgeon from town also, so as to be on the safe side.

I was willing enough to send for a dozen surgeons—though I had perfect faith in Juke, who was a clever young man, newly out from home and up to date, an enthusiast in his profession—but I could not bear the thought of a professional nurse. I knew those women—how they take possession of your nearest and dearest, and treat even an old mother as if she were a mere outsider and an utter ignoramus. I protested that I could do all that was necessary—that no one could possibly take the care of him that I should. Was it likely?

"But he will probably want nursing all day and all night for weeks," said Dr. Juke. "You could not do that unaided. You would break down, and then where would he be?"

"I will telegraph for my daughter," I rejoined. Phyllis was away at the time, visiting.

"Miss Braye is too young and inexperienced," he objected, with the airs of a grandfather. "It would not be fair to her. She is better where she is, out of all the trouble. However, there is no need to decide immediately. We'll see the night through first. All we can do for the present is to make him as easy as possible and watch symptoms. The most important thing is not to meddle with him."

This seemed a hard saying, and at first I could not credit it. It was terrible to see nothing done, when he evidently suffered so—more and more as the first shock passed and the dreadful fever rose and rose; but while the lung was letting blood and air into the cavity of the chest, which could not be reached to stop the leak, handling of any sort only aggravated the mischief. The doctor explained this to me when I was impatient, and I had to own that he was probably right. He asked me to see about drinks and nourishment, and when I left the room to do so I had a mind to seize the opportunity for a few frantic tears in private, impelled by the pent-up anguish I could not otherwise relieve.