“Well, as to that, he is likely to be sick enough—sicker, indeed, than I care to have his daughter realize, just at present. But the nature of the sickness is the trouble. It is a very marked case of a very undesirable type of small-pox! Now, don’t back out of the nearest door, and leave me in the lurch, for I depend on you.”
This last, as Judge Burnham uttered an exclamation of dismay, and stepped backward. The sentence recalled his self-possession.
“Don’t be disturbed,” he said, and his tones were somewhat haughty. “I have not the slightest intention of fleeing. I shall be glad to serve him and his—his family, to the best of my ability. But what is there for me to do? Is he aware of the situation?”
“Most decidedly so. I didn’t mince matters with him; he is not one that will bear it; he knows all that I do, and is as clear-headed as usual; he knows certain things that must not be done. For instance, his daughter Ruth is, on no account, to be allowed to put her head inside the door. He was peremptory about that and must be obeyed, though there is no earthly fear of infection for some days yet; but I have given my word of honor that it shall be as he says. The trouble is, they will be left in the lurch. There isn’t a small-pox nurse in the city that I know of. I would have given fifty dollars an hour, almost, for a good one last night, and, besides, the servants must be informed, and they will leave to a man, or a woman. In books you are always reading of heroic servants who are willing to take their lives in their hands and stand by their mistresses through anything. I wish I could find a few of them! I would promise them high wages. Well, now, what you can do first, is to explain the state of affairs to Miss Erskine. I would sooner try to explain to an iceberg, or a volcano—I am never quite sure which she is. And then, if you have any wits, set them to work to establish communication between this house and the outer world. In other words, do what you can for them, if you can. You know better than I do whether you are on sufficient terms of intimacy to do anything with her. The old lady must be told, I suppose, though Judge Erskine didn’t mention her at all. Perhaps she will want to get out of the house, somewhere, and very likely you can manage that. At least the first thing of importance is to tell Miss Ruth. Will you do it?”
“Y-e-s,” said Judge Burnham, speaking slowly and hesitatingly. It was by no means the sort of communication that he desired to make to her, yet he felt an instant desire to stand by her, and, if disagreeable tidings must be given, bear them himself, in whatever alleviating way he might.
“Very well,” answered the doctor, promptly. He was spending a great deal of time, on this case, and was getting in haste. “I ought to have been off fifteen minutes ago, but Judge Erskine wanted all the affairs of the nation arranged before I left. He knows what he wants, and, so far as it is within the compass of human possibility, he intends to have it. Will you see Miss Ruth at once, and do what planning you can? Meantime, I will make one more dash for a nurse. No one is to go up to Judge Erskine until I see him again. I fancy he wants to do some thinking for himself. That is his peremptory order, and it will be well enough to obey it. There is no sort of danger of infection now, you understand, but he is quite as well off alone, for a little. Now, I positively must go. I will look in on my way down the square, and report further.”
And then the great doctor took himself off leaving Judge Burnham with the worst case on his hands that had ever fallen to his professional life. He walked slowly toward the door, but before he could pass out it was pushed open by Ruth, her face white and frightened. “Judge Burnham what has happened? what is the matter? is my father so very sick? and why am I not to be allowed to go to him?”
“One thing at a time, dear friend,” he said, and his voice had a touch of sympathy that could not have escaped her. “Your father is not alarmingly sick, but the sickness is of such a nature that he will not have you exposed to it even for a moment. It was his first thought.” And then he pushed a chair forward and gently placed her in it, and sat down beside her, telling her briefly, rapidly, in a half professional manner, all he knew himself. He was a good student of human nature; his success in his profession would have proved that, and he knew it was the surest way to hold her self-controlled and ready for intelligent thought. He had not misjudged her character. She neither cried out nor fainted; she had been pale enough before, but her face whitened a little and she covered her eyes with her hands for an instant. It was a curious revelation to her of the strangeness of these human hearts of ours, when she remembered afterward that, flashing along with the other crowding thoughts as to what, and how, there came the swift memory of the yesterday’s talk, and the instant realization of the fact that they would have neither to make nor receive any more of those dreadful calls, for some time, at least. Just a moment of hiding behind those hands and then she was ready for action. “Judge Burnham, have you thought what ought to be done first, and if you have, will you help me? It makes it harder because my father will not let me come to him. If we could talk together, if he would let me be his nurse, I could—” and then she hesitated, and her lip began to quiver. She remembered that her father was the one person whom she had to love.
“There is no use in talking about that,” Judge Burnham said, hastily; “the doctor said he ought, by all means, to be humored in this matter; that it would help to keep him calm, and thus hold the disease in check; you should not have a thought of going to him. Some nurse can surely be found; people will do anything for money. I suppose, Miss Erskine, it will be necessary to tell the other members of the family?”
“Of course,” Ruth said, and she tried not to shiver, visibly, as she thought of what Mrs. Erskine might say, and wondered whether she was one of those women who were ignorantly and wildly afraid of infection, and whether there would be a scene with her, and what Susan would do, or say. Then she thought of the servants. “Hannah and Thomas and the rest ought to be told, ought they not, Judge Burnham?” Then she suddenly roused from her half-suppressed, appealing tones, and rising, said, “How foolishly I am talking! This thing has startled me so. Of course they must be told; and it should be done at once; I will take no unfair advantage of them in any way. Yes, I will tell Mrs. Erskine and my sister. Thank you, Judge Burnham.”