Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

"That tiresome doctor," she said, sweetly. "I wonder when he'll get here. See, I've muffled up the wrist in this hot bandage. Now suppose we try if we can't do something for this arm over here. I'll be ever so gentle. Now see, I didn't hurt you much before."

Mr. Andrews' face contracted with pain as she touched his wounded arm, even in the lightest manner. In fact, he was bearing as much pain as he thought he could, without having it touched. But it wasn't in nature to resist her, and he turned a little on his side, and the scissors flew up his sleeve and laid bare the bruised, discolored arm.

"You see," she said, softly getting a piece of oil-silk under it, "if it is only bruised this will help it, and if it's broken or out of joint or anything, it will not do any harm. It doesn't hurt you when I touch it here, does it?" she went on, watching his face keenly as she passed her hand lightly over his shoulder.

"It hurts everywhere," he answered groaning, but he did not wince particularly.

"I don't believe there's any dislocation," she said cheerfully, though not too cheerfully, for she knew better than to do that, when any one was suffering. "I don't believe there's any dislocation, and if there isn't, I'll soon relieve you, if you'll let me try." Eliza came back with more hot water, and again for a patient half hour the wringing of flannels and the application of them went on. At the end of that time, Missy began to think there was something besides sprain and bruise, for the patient was growing pale, and the pain was manifestly not abating. She gave him some more wine, and bathed his head, and fanned him, and wished for the doctor. There was no medicine in the house with which she was familiar. Her own beloved weapons were now out of reach, and she could not bring herself to give opium and the horrid drugs in which this benighted gentleman still believed. Ignatia, camomilla, moschus! Ah, what she might have done for him, if she could have known where to lay her hand on her tiny case of medicines. She gave him more wine; that was the only thing left for her to do, since he would probably not submit to letting her set his arm, which she was now convinced was broken. She felt quite capable of doing it, or of doing anything rather than sitting still and seeing him suffer. She privately dispatched Eliza to get bandages, and her work-basket, and to replenish the fire in the range.

At last, at a few minutes before two o'clock, the welcome sound of the doctor's gig driving to the gate, met her ear. She let him in, while Eliza sat beside the patient. He looked surprised to see her, and they both thought involuntarily of the last time they had been together in this house.

"You are a good neighbor," he said, taking off his hat and coat in the hall.

"We have had a good neighbor to-night in Mr. Andrews," said Missy, with a little stiffness. "He has made himself ill in our service, and we feel as if we could not do too much in taking care of him."

"Certainly," said the doctor, searching for his case of instruments in his pocket. "You have had a great fire, I hear. How much damage has been done?"

"I do not know at all. I had to stay with my mother, and Mr. Andrews is in too much pain since he came in, to answer any questions. I am very much afraid his arm is broken."