‘But if we all do what we can, and are cheerful, and trust in God, she may get better, dear. There is so much we can do. That is how I try to keep up my heart. We must never look frightened, never let her get alarmed. Keep cheerful, cheerful, Cara, whatever we do.’
The child went back to bed with her head buzzing full of strange thoughts. She knew very well that nurse had often exhorted her to patience under toothache, for instance, as the best cure; but it never had been cured by that in Cara’s experience. Was cheerfulness likely to answer in her mother’s case, and smiles instead of crying, and people saying things they did not believe? Such knowledge was too high for her. It confused her head, and made it ache and throb with the multitude of her thoughts.
CHAPTER VI.
THE CONSULTATION.
‘Yes, Miss Carry, if you like. Your dear mamma is falling into a doze; and I don’t wonder, poor dear, after all those doctors a-poking and fingering. Oh, it turns my heart sick! If I don’t get a breath of air I’ll die. Sit in the corner, honey, behind the curtains. Don’t you tease her, nor talk to her; if she wants anything, ring the bell. There now, my darling, don’t say as you haven’t got your way. How that child has worried to get into the room!’ said nurse, confidentially, as she went soft-footed and noiseless downstairs, with an anxious maid in attendance. ‘But a sick-room ain’t a place for a child. It’s bad enough for the like of me.’
‘Yes, poor soul! I can’t think how you stand it night and day as you do,’ said Sarah the housemaid, under her breath.
‘Bless you, I’m used to it,’ she said; ‘but there’s things as I can’t bear. Them doctors a-staring and a-poking, and looking as if they knowed everything. What do they know more than me? It’s experience does it, not their Latin and their wise looks. I know well enough what they’ll say—and I could have said it myself and welcome, ‘stead of taking all that money out of master’s pocket, as can’t do good to nobody. I’d have said it as easy as they could—allowing as it’s any good to say it, which is what I can’t see.’
‘What is it then, nursey?’ said Sarah. ‘It seems awkward like, when folks comes with kind inquiries, never to know no more nor the door you’re opening. But I won’t say a word,’ she added, contradictory but coaxing, ‘if you mind.’
‘I’ll warrant as you won’t,’ said nurse; and so disappeared down the kitchen stairs to snatch that cup of tea which is the saving of poor women. ‘And make it strong, do, or I can’t go through with it much longer,’ she said, throwing herself into a chair.
This was some months after the home-coming of the invalid. Mrs. Beresford had rallied, and spent a pleasant Christmas with her friends round her once more, and she recovered her looks a little, and raised high hopes in all those who watched her so curiously. But just as spring began to touch the Square, and the crocuses appeared, a sudden and rapid relapse had come on, and to-day there had been a consultation of the doctors of a kind which could not be mistaken, so deeply serious was it. They were in Mr. Beresford’s study while nurse went downstairs, and he had just been called in solemnly from the next room to hear her fate, which implied his own. She had dropped into an uneasy sleep when her trial was over, too tired and worn out to be capable of more; and it was during this moment that nurse had yielded to Cara’s entreaties, made through the half-open door. The child had not seen her mother all day, and her whole being was penetrated by the sense of anxiety and foreboding that was in the house. She had wandered up and down the staircase all the time the doctors had been about, and her little, anxious face affected nurse with pity. It was the best thing for Cara to take the watch by her mother’s side during this moment of suspense, as it was the best thing for nurse to get out of the sick-room and refresh herself with change. Nurse’s heart was heavy too, but not with suspense. There had been no mystery to her in the growing illness. She was an ‘old-fashioned servant’—alas! of a very old-fashioned sort indeed; for few in any age, we fear, are those poetical retainers whose service is given for duty, not for need. Nurse served not for duty, indeed; to which word she might have objected—for was it not the duty ‘of them as she had done everything for’ to look after her, as much as hers to look after them?—but for love, which is a more effectual argument. She liked her good wages and her comforts, as an honest woman has a right to do; but she liked the ‘family’ better still, and cared not very much for any other family, not even that with which she was herself connected in the capacity of sister and aunt—for, though she had been married, she had no children of her own. Mrs. Beresford had been her child; then, so long after, Cara. Her heart was concentrated in those two. But after this trial of the medical examination, which was almost as hard upon her as upon her mistress, nurse was very thankful to take advantage of that door, and escape for a little into the more cheerful world of the kitchen, with all its coming and going, and the cup of tea which cook, sympathetic and curious, and very anxious to hear all that could be heard, made for her with such friendly care.