Mrs. Hallam's companion; and The Spring Farm, and other tales

by Mary Jane Holmes

“I hope not, but he is very ill and growing steadily worse. Have you any friend who will come to you?”

“Yes,—my cousin, Miss Leighton, at Aix,” Louie answered; and she dictated the telegram, which the doctor wrote after asking if she had no male friend.

For a moment she hesitated, thinking of Reginald, who would surely come if bidden, and be so strong and helpful. But that would not do; and she answered, “There is no one. Bertha can do everything.”

So Bertha was summoned, and the day after the receipt of the telegram she was at the Beau-Rivage, feeling that she had not come too soon when she saw how utterly prostrated Louie was, and how excited and unmanageable Thurston was becoming under the combined effects of fever and his dislike of his nurse, who could not speak a word of English, while he could understand very little French. Frequent altercations were the result, and when Bertha entered the sick-room there was a fierce battle of words going on between the two, Victoire trying to make the patient take his medicine, while Fred sat bolt upright in bed, the perspiration rolling down his face as he fought against the glass and hurled at the half-crazed Frenchman every opprobrious epithet in the English language. As Bertha appeared the battle ceased, but not until the glass with its contents was on the floor, where Thurston had struck it from Victoire’s hand.

“Ah, Bertha,” he gasped, as he sank exhausted upon his pillow, “did you drop from heaven, or where? and won’t you tell this idiot that it is not time to take my medicine? I know, for I have it written down in good English. Blast that French language, which nobody can understand! I doubt if they do themselves, the gabbling fools, with their parleys and we-we’s.”

It did not take Bertha long to bring order out of confusion. She was a natural nurse, and when the doctor came and she proposed to take Victoire’s place until a more suitable man was found, her offer was accepted. But it was no easy task she had assumed, and after two days and nights, during which she was only relieved for a few hours by John, Thurston’s valet, when sleep was absolutely necessary, she was thoroughly worn out. Leaving the sick man in charge of John, she started for a ramble through the grounds, hoping that the air and exercise would rest and strengthen her. The Thurston rooms were at the rear of a long hall on the second floor, and, as the other end was somewhat in shadow, she only knew that some one was advancing towards her as she went rapidly down the corridor. Nor did she look up until a voice which sent a thrill through every nerve said to her, “Good-afternoon, Miss Leighton. Don’t you know me?” Then she stopped suddenly, while a cry of delight escaped her, as she gave both her hands into the warm, strong ones of Rex Hallam, who held them fast while he questioned her rapidly and told her how he chanced to be there. He had joined his party at Chamonix, where they had stayed for several days, crossing the Mer-de-Glace and making other excursions among the mountains and glaciers. He had then made a flying trip to Interlaken, Lucerne, and Geneva, in quest of the place to which he meant to remove his aunt, and had finally thought of Ouchy, where he knew the Thurstons were, and to which he had come in a boat from Geneva. Learning at the office of his friend’s illness, he had started at once for his room, meeting on the way with Bertha, whose presence there he did not suspect. While he talked he led her near to a window, where the light fell full upon her face, showing him how pale and tired it was.

“This will not do,” he said, when he had heard her story. “I am glad I have come to relieve you. I shall write to Aix to-day that I am going to stay here, where I can be of service to Fred and Louie, and to you too. You will not go back, of course, while your cousin needs you. And now go out into the sunshine, and bye-and-bye I’ll find you somewhere in the grounds.”

He had taken matters into his own hands in his masterful way, and Bertha felt how delightful it was to have some one to lean upon, and that one Rex Hallam, whose voice was so full of sympathy, whose eyes looked at her so kindly, and whose hands held hers so long and seemed so unwilling to release them. With a blush she withdrew them from his clasp. Leaving her at last, he walked down the hall, entering Louie’s room first and finding her asleep, with her maid in charge. For a moment he stood looking at her white, wan face, which touched him more than her fair beauty had ever done, for on it he could read the story of her life, and a great pity welled up in his heart for the girl who seemed so like a lovely flower broken on its stem.

“Poor little Louie!” he said, involuntarily, and at the sound of his voice Louie awoke, recognizing him at once, and exclaiming:

“Oh, Rex! I was dreaming of you and the magnolias. I am so glad you are here! You will stay, won’t you? I am afraid Fred is going to die, he is so bad, and then what shall I do?”