CHAPTER XIX.
More health, dear maid, thy soothing presence brings,
Than purest skies, or salutary springs.
Mrs. Barbauld.
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Persons who own residences within six miles of a large city
cannot be properly said to enjoy country life. They have large
gardens, oftentimes extensive grounds, and raise their own fruit
and vegetables; they usually keep horses, drive about and take
the air. Some maintain quite a barn-yard establishment, and
pride themselves upon their fat cattle and Shanghae fowls. But,
after all, these suburban residents do not taste the charms of true
country life. There are no pathless woods, no roaring brooks, no
waving fields of grain, no wide stretches of pasture-land. Every
emineuce commands a view of the near metropolis, the hum of
which is almost audible; and every hourly-omnibus, or train of
cars, carries one's self, or one's neighbor, to or from the busy mart.
Those who seek retirement and seelusion, however, can nowhere
be more sure to find it than in one of these half-country,
half-city homes; and many a family will, summer after summer,
resort to the same quiet corner, and, undisturbed by visitors or
gossip, maintain an independence of life which would be quite
impossible either in the crowded streets of the town, where one's
acquaintances are forever dropping in, or in the strictly country
villages, where every new comer is observed, called upon and
talked about.
Mr. Graham's establishment was of the medium order, and little
calculated to attract notice. The garden was certainly very
beautiful, abounding in rich shrubbery, summer-houses, and arbors
covered with grape-vines; but a high board-fence hid it from
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public view, and the house, standing back from the road, was
rather old-fashioned and very unobtrusive in its appearance.
Excepting his horticultural propensities, Mr. Graham's associations
were all connected with the city; and Emily, being unfitted
for much general intercourse with society, entertained little company,
save that of the neighbors who made formal calls, and
some particular friends, such as Mr. Arnold, the clergyman, and
a few intimates, who often towards evening drove out of town to
see Emily and eat fruit.
The summer was passing away most happily, and Gertrude, in
the constant enjoyment of Emily's society, and in the consciousness
that she was, in various ways, rendering herself useful and
important to this excellent friend, was finding in every day new
causes of contentment and rejoicing, when a seal was suddenly set
to all her pleasure.
Emily was taken ill with a fever, and Gertrude, on occasion
of her first undertaking to enter the sick room, and share in its
duties, was rudely repulsed by Mrs. Ellis, who had constituted
herself sole nurse, and who declared, when the poor girl pleaded
hard to be admitted, that the fever was catching, and Miss Emily
did not want her there,—that when she was sick she never wanted
any one about her but herself.
For three or four days Gertrude wandered about the house,
inconsolable. On the fifth morning after her banishment from the
room, she saw Mrs. Prime, the cook, going up stairs with some
gruel; and, thrusting into her hand some beautiful rose-buds,
which she had just gathered, she begged her to give them to
Emily, and ask if she might not come in and see her.
She lingered about the kitchen awaiting Mrs. Prime's return,
in hopes of some message, at least, from the sufferer. But when
the cook came down the flowers were still in her hand, and, as
she threw them on the table, the kind-hearted woman gave vent
to her feelings.
“Well! folks do say that first-rate cooks and nurses are allers
as cross as bears! 'Tan't for me to say whether it's so 'bout
cooks, but 'bout nurses there an't no sort o' doubt! I would
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not want to go there, Miss Gertrude; I wouldn't insure you but
what she'd bite your head off.”
“Wouldn't Miss Emily take the flowers?” asked Gertrude,
looking quite grieved.
“Well, she hadn't no word in the matter. You know she
couldn't see what they were, and Miss Ellis flung 'em outside
the door, vowin' I might as well bring pison into the room with
a fever, as them roses. I tried to speak to Miss Emily, but Miss
Ellis set up such a hush-sh-sh I s'posed she was goin' to sleep,
and jest made the best o' my way out. Ugh! don't she scold
when there's anybody sick?”
Gertrude sauntered out into the garden. She had nothing to
do but think anxiously about Emily, who, she feared, was very
ill. Her work and her books were all in Emily's room, where
they were usually kept; the library might have furnished amusement,
but it was locked up. So the garden was the only thing
left for her, and there she spent the rest of the morning; and not
that morning only, but many others; for Emily continued to
grow worse, and a fortnight passed away without Gertrude's seeing
her, or having any other intimation regarding her health than
Mrs. Ellis' occasional report to Mr. Graham, who, however, as he
saw the physician every day, and made frequent visits to his
daughter himself, did not require that particular information
which Gertrude was eager to obtain. Once or twice she had
ventured to question Mrs. Ellis, whose only reply was, “Don't
bother me with questions! what do you know about sickness?”
One afternoon, Gertrude was sitting in a large summer-house
at the lower end of the garden; her own piece of ground, fragrant
with mignonette and verbena, was close by, and she was
busily engaged in tying up and marking some little papers of
seeds, the gleanings from various seed-vessels, when she was
startled by hearing a step close beside her, and, looking up, saw
Dr. Jeremy, the family physician, just entering the building.
“Ah! what are you doing?” exclaimed the doctor, in a quick,
abrupt manner, peculiar to him. “Sorting seeds, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Gerty, looking up and blushing, as she saw
the doctor's keen black eyes scrutinizing her face.
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“Where have I seen you before?” asked he, in the same blunt
way.
“At Mr. Flint's.”
“Ah! True Flint's! I remember all about it. You're his
girl! Nice girl, too! And poor True, he's dead! Well, he's a
loss to the community! So this is the little nurse I used to see
there. Bless me! how children do grow!”
“Doctor Jeremy,” asked Gertrude, in an earnest voice, “will
you please to tell me how Miss Emily is?”
“Emily! she an't very well, just now.”
“Do you think she'll die?”
“Die! No! What should she die for? I won't let her die,
if you'll help me keep her alive. Why an't you in the house,
taking care of her?”
“I wish I might!” exclaimed Gertrude, starting up; “I wish
I might!”
“What's to hinder?”
“Mrs. Ellis, sir; she won't let me in; she says Miss Emily
doesn't want anybody but her.”
“She's nothing to say about it, or Emily either; it's my business,
and I want you. I'd rather have you to take care of my
patients than all the Mrs. Ellises in the world. She doesn't
know anything about nursing; let her stick to her cranberry-sauce
and squash-pies. So, mind, to-morrow you're to begin.”
“O, thank you, doctor!”
“Don't thank me yet; wait till you've tried it,—it's hard
work taking care of sick folks. Whose orchard is that?”
“Mrs. Bruce's.”
“Is that her pear-tree?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By George, Mrs. Bruce, I'll try your pears for you!”
As he spoke, the doctor, a man some sixty-five years of age,
stout and active, sprung over a stone wall, which separated them
from the orchard, and, carried along by the impetus the leap had
given him, reached the foot of the tree almost at a bound.
As Gertrude, full of mirth, watched the proceeding, she observed
the doctor stumble over some obstacle, and only save himself from
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falling by stretching forth both hands, and sustaining himself
against the huge trunk of the fine old tree. At the same instant
a head, adorned with a velvet smoking-cap, was slowly lifted from
the long grass, and a youth, about sixteen or seventeen years of
age, raised himself upon his elbow, and stared at the unlooked-for
intruder.
Nothing daunted, the doctor at once took offensive ground
towards the occupant of the place, saying, “Get up, lazy bones!
What do you lie there for, tripping up honest folks?”
“Who do you call honest folks, sir?” inquired the youth,
apparently quite undisturbed by the doctor's epithet and inquiry.
“I call myself and my little friend here remarkably honest
people,” replied the doctor, winking at Gertrude, who, standing
behind the wall and looking over, was laughing heartily at the
way in which the doctor had got caught.
The young man, observing the direction of the latter's eyes,
turned and gave a broad stare at Gertrude's merry face.
“Can I do anything for you, sir?” asked he.
“Yes, certainly,” replied the doctor. “I came here to help
myself to pears; but you are taller than I,—perhaps, with the
help of that crooked-handled cane of yours, you can reach that
best branch.”
“A remarkably honorable and honest errand!” muttered the
young man. “I shall be happy to be engaged in so good a cause.”
As he spoke, he lifted his cane, which lay by his side, and,
drawing down the end of the branch, so that he could reach it
with his hand, shook it vigorously. The ripe fruit fell on every
side, and the doctor, having filled his pockets, and both his hands,
started for the other side of the wall.
“Have you got enough?” asked the youth, in a very lazy tone
of voice.
“Plenty, plenty,” said the doctor.
“Glad of it,” said the boy, indolently throwing himself on the
grass, and still staring at Gertrude.
“You must be very tired,” said the doctor, stepping back a
pace or two; “I'm a physician, and should advise a nap.”
“Are you, indeed!” replied the youth, in the same
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half-drawling, half-ironical tone of voice in which he had previously spoken;
“then I think I'll take your advice;” saying which, he threw
himself back upon the grass and closed his eyes.
Having emptied his pockets upon the seat of the summer-house,
and invited Gertrude to partake, the doctor, still laughing so
immoderately at his boyish feat that he could scarcely eat the
fruit, happened to bethink himself of the lateness of the hour.
He looked at his watch. “Half-past four! The cars go in ten
minutes. Who's going to drive me down to the dépôt?”
“I don't know, sir,” replied Gertrude, to whom the question
seemed to be addressed.
“Where's George?”
“He's gone to the meadow to get in some hay, but he left
white Charlie harnessed in the yard; I saw him fasten him to
the chain, after he drove you up from the cars.”
“Ah! then you can drive me down to the dépôt.”
“I can't, sir; I don't know how.”
“But you must; I'll show you how. You're not afraid!”
“O, no, sir; but Mr. Graham”—
“Never you mind Mr. Graham—do you mind me. I'll
answer for your coming back safe enough.”
Gertrude was naturally courageous; she had never driven before,
but, having no fears, she succeeded admirably, and, being often
afterwards called upon by Dr. Jeremy to perform the same service,
she soon became skilful in the use of the reins,—an accomplishment
not always particularly desirable in a lady, but which,
in her case, proved very useful.
Dr. Jeremy was true to his promise of installing Gertrude in
Emily's sick room. The very next visit he made to his patient,
he spoke in terms of the highest praise of Gertrude's devotion to
her old uncle, and her capability as a nurse, and asked why she
had been expelled from the chamber.
“She is timid,” said Emily, “and is afraid of catching the
fever.”
“Don't believe it,” said Dr. Jeremy; “'t an't like her.”
“Do you think not?” inquired Emily, earnestly. “Mrs. Ellis—”
“Told a lie,” interrupted the doctor. “Gerty wants to come
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and take care of you, and she knows how as well as Mrs. Ellis,
any day; it isn't much you need done. You want quiet, and
that's what you can't have, with that great talking woman about.
So I'll send her to Jericho to-day, and bring my little Gertrude up
here. She's a quiet little mouse, and has got a head on her
shoulders.”
It is not to be supposed that Gertrude could provide for Emily's
wants any better, or even as well, as Mrs. Ellis; and Emily,
knowing this, took care that the housekeeper should not be sent to
Jericho; for, though Dr. Jeremy, a man of strong prejudices, did
not like her, she was excellent in her department, and could not
be dispensed with. Had it been otherwise, Emily would not have
hurt her feelings by letting her see that she was in any degree
superseded.
So, though Emily, Dr. Jeremy and Gertrude, were all made
happy by the free admission of the latter to the sick room, the
housekeeper, unhandsomely as she had behaved, was never conscious
that any one knew the wrong she had done to Gertrude, in
keeping her out of sight and giving a false reason for her continued
absence.
There was a watchfulness, a care, a tenderness, in Gertrude,
which only the warmest love could have dictated.
When Emily awoke at night from a troubled sleep, found a
cooling draught ready at her lips, and knew from Mrs. Ellis' deep
snoring that it was not her hand that held it,—when she observed
that all day long no troublesome fly was ever permitted to approach
her pillow, her aching head was relieved by hours of patient bathing,
and the little feet that were never weary were always noiseless,—
she realized the truth, that Dr. Jeremy had brought her a
most excellent medicine.
A week or two passed away, and she was well enough to sit up
nearly all the time, though not yet able to leave her room. A
few weeks more, and the doctor began to insist upon air and exercise.
“Drive out two or three times every day,” said he.
“How can I?” said Emily. “George has so much to do, it
will be very inconvenient.”
“Let Gertrude drive you; she is a capital hand.”
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“Gertrude,” said Emily, smiling, “I believe you are a great
favorite of the doctor's; he thinks you can do anything. You
never drove in your life, did you?”
“Has n't she driven me to the dépôt, every day, for these six
weeks?” inquired the doctor.
“Is it possible?” asked Emily, who was unaccustomed to the
idea of a lady's attempting the management of a horse.
Upon her being assured this was the case, and the doctor
insisting that there was no danger, Charlie was harnessed into
the carryall, and Emily and Mrs. Ellis went out to drive with
Gertrude; an experiment which, being often repeated, was a
source of health to the invalid, and pleasure to them all. In
the early autumn, when Emily's health was quite restored, old
Charlie was daily called into requisition; sometimes Mrs. Ellis
accompanied them, but, as she was often engaged about household
duties, they usually went by themselves, in a large, old-fashioned
buggy, and Emily declared that Gertrude's learning to drive had
proved one of the greatest sources of happiness she had known for
years.
Once or twice, in the course of the summer and autumn, Gertrude
saw again the lazy youth whom Dr. Jeremy had stumbled
over when he went to steal pears.
Once he came and sat on the wall while she was at work in
her garden, professed himself astonished at her activity, talked a
little with her about her flowers, asked some questions concerning
her friend Dr. Jeremy, and ended by requesting to know her
name.
Gertrude blushed; she was a little sensitive about her name,
and, though she always went by that of Flint, and did not, on
ordinary occasions, think much about it, she could not fail to
remember, when the question was put to her point blank, that she
had, in reality, no surname of her own.
Emily had endeavored to find Nan Grant, in order to learn from
her something of Gertrude's early history; but Nan had left her
old habitation, and, for years, nothing had been heard of her.
Gertrude, as we have said, blushed on being asked her name,
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but replied, with dignity, that she would tell hers, provided her
new acquaintance would return the compliment.
“Shan't do it!” said the youth, impudently, “and don't care
about knowing yours, either;” saying which, he kicked an apple
with his foot, and walked off, still kicking it before him, leaving
Gertrude to the conclusion that he was the most ill-bred person
she had ever seen.
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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
