CHAPTER XXIV.
No simplest duty is forgot;
Life hath no dim and lowly spot
That doth not in her sunshine share.
Lowell.
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“I HAVE been thinking,” said Gertrude, as she drew near home,
“how we shall manage, doctor, so as not to alarm Mrs. Sullivan.”
“What's going to alarm her?” asked the doctor.
“You, if she knows at once that you are a physician. I think
I had better introduce you as a friend, who brought me home in
the storm.”
“O! so we are going to act a little farce, are we? Stagemanager,
Gertrude Flint—unknown stranger, Dr. Jeremy. I'm
ready. What shall I say first?”
“I leave that to a wiser head than mine, doctor, and trust
entirely to your own discretion to obtain some knowledge of her
symptoms, and only gradually disclose to her that you are a
physician.”
“Ah, yes! pretend, at first, to be only a private individual of
a very inquiring mind. I think I can manage it.”
They went in. As they opened the door, Mrs. Sullivan rose
from her chair with a troubled countenance, and hardly waited
for the introduction to Gertrude's friend before she turned to her
and asked, with some anxiety, if Mr. Cooper were not with them.
“No, indeed,” replied Gertrude. “Hasn't he come home?”
Upon Mrs. Sullivan's saying that she had not seen him since
morning, Gertrude informed her, with a composure she was far
from feeling, that Mr. Miller had undertaken the care of him,
and could, undoubtedly, account for his absence. She would seek
him at once.
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“O, I'm so sorry,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “that you should have
to go out again in such a storm! but I feel very anxious about
grandpa—don't you, Gerty?”
“Not very; I think he is safe in the church. But I'll go for
him at once; you know, auntie, I never mind the weather.”
“Then take my great shawl, dear.” And Mrs. Sullivan went
to the entry-closet for her shawl, giving Gertrude an opportunity
to beg of Dr. Jeremy that he would await her return; for she
knew that any unusual agitation of mind would often occasion an
attack of faintness in Mrs. Sullivan, and was afraid to have her
left alone, to dwell with anxiety and alarm upon Mr. Cooper's
prolonged absence.
It was a very disagreeable afternoon, and already growing
dark. Gertrude hastened along the wet side-walks, exposed to
the blinding storm (for the wind would not permit her to carry
an umbrella), and, after passing through several streets, gained
the church. She went into the building, now nearly deserted by
the workmen, saw, at once, that Mr. Cooper was not there, and
was beginning to fear that she should gain no information concerning
him, when she met Mr. Miller coming from the gallery.
He looked surprised at seeing her, and asked if Mr. Cooper had
not returned home. She answered in the negative, and he then
informed her that his utmost efforts were insufficient to persuade
the old man to go home at dinner-time, and that he had therefore
taken him to his own house; he had supposed, however, that
long before this hour he would have been induced to allow one
of the children to accompany him to Mrs. Sullivan's.
As it now seemed probable that he was still at Mr. Miller's,
Gertrude took the direction (for the family had moved within a
year, and she did not know where to seek them), and, declining
the company of the friendly mason, whom she was unwilling to
take from his work, proceeded thither at once. After another
uncomfortable walk, and some difficulty in finding the right street
and house, she reached her destination. She knocked at the outside
door; but there was no response, and, after waiting a moment,
she opened it and went in. Through another door, at the
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right, there was the sound of children's voices, and so much noise
that she believed it impossible to make herself heard, and, therefore,
without further ceremony, entered the room. A band of
startled children dispersed at the sight of a stranger, and
ensconced themselves in corners; and Mrs. Miller, in dismay at
the untidy appearance of her kitchen, hastily pushed back a
clothes-horse against the wall, thereby disclosing to view the very
person Gertrude had come to seek, who, in his usual desponding
attitude, sat cowering over the fire. But, before she could
advance to speak to him, her whole attention was arrested by
another and most unexpected sight. Placed against the side of
the room, directly opposite the door, was a narrow bed, in which
some person seemed to be sleeping. Hardly, however, had Gertrude
presented herself in the doorway, before the figure suddenly
raised itself, gazed fixedly at her, lifted a hand as if to ward off
her approach, and uttered a piercing shrick.
The voice and countenance were not to be mistaken, and Gertrude,
pale and trembling, felt something like a revival of her
old dread, as she beheld the well-known features of Nan Grant.
“Go away! go away!” cried Nan, as Gertrude, after a moment's
hesitation, advanced into the room. Again Gertrude
paused, for the wildness of Nan's eyes and the excitement of her
countenance were such that she feared to excite her further.
Mrs. Miller now came forward, and interfered. “Why, Aunt
Nancy!” said she, “what is the matter? This is Miss Flint, one
of the best young ladies in the land.”
“No, 'tan't!” said Nan, fiercely. “I know better!”
Mrs. Miller now drew Gertrude aside, into the shadow of
the clothes-horse, and conversed with her in an under tone,
while Nan, leaning on her elbow, and peering after them into the
dim corner to which they had retreated, maintained a watchful,
listening attitude. Gertrude was informed that Mrs. Miller was
a niece of Beu Grant's, but had seen nothing of him or his wife
for years, until, a few days previous, Nan had come there in a
state of the greatest destitution, and threatened with the fever
under which she was now laboring. “I could not refuse her a
shelter,” said Mrs. Miller; “but, as you see, I have no
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accommodation for her, and it's not only bad for me to have her sick
right here in the kitchen, but, what with the noise of the children
and all the other discomforts, I'm afraid the poor old thing will
die.”
“Have you a room that you could spare above stairs?” asked
Gertrude.
“Why, there's our Jane,” answered Mrs. Miller; “she's a
good-hearted girl as ever lived; she said, right off, she'd give up
her room to poor Aunt Nancy, and she'd sleep in with the other
children; I didn't feel, though, as if we could afford to keep another
fire a-going, and so I thought we'd put up a bed here for a day
or two, and just see how she got along. But she's looked pretty
bad to-day, and now I'm thinking, from her actions, that she's
considerable out of her head.”
“She ought to be kept quiet,” said Gertrude; “and, if you will
have a fire in Jane's room at my expense, and do what you can
to make her comfortable, I'll try and send a physician here to
see her.” Mrs. Miller was beginning to express the warmest
gratitude, but Gertrude interrupted her with saying, “Don't thank
me, Mrs. Miller; Nancy is not a stranger to me; I have known
her before, and, perhaps, feel more interest in her than you do
yourself.”
Mrs. Miller looked surprised; but Gertrude, whose time was
limited, could not stop to enter into a further explanation.
Anxious, however, if possible, to speak to Nan, and assure her of
her friendly intentions, she went bodly up to the side of the bed,
in spite of the wild and glaring eyes which were fixed steadily
upon her.
“Nan,” said she, “do you know me?”
“Yes! yes!” replied Nan, in a half-whisper, speaking quickly
and catching her breath; “what have you come for?”
“To do you good, I hope.”
But Nan still looked incredulous, and in the same undertone,
and with the same nervous accent, inquired, “Have you seen
Gerty? Where is she?”
“She is well,” answered Gertrude, astonished, however, at the
question; for she had supposed herself recognized.
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“What did she say about me?”
“She says that she forgives and pities you, and is in hopes to
do something to help you and make you well.”
“Did she?” said the sick woman; “then you won't kill me?”
Kill you?—No, indeed. We are in hopes to make you comfortable,
and cure you.”
Mrs. Miller, who had been preparing a cup of tea, now drew
near, with it in her hand. Gertrude took it and offered it to
Nan, who drank eagerly of it, staring at her, however, in
the mean time, over the edge of the cup. When she had finished,
she threw herself heavily upon the pillow, and began muttering
some indistinct sentences, the only distinguishable word
being the name of her son Stephen. Finding the current of her
thoughts thus apparently diverted, Gertrude, now feeling in
haste to return and relieve Dr. Jeremy, who had so kindly agreed
to stay with Mrs. Sullivan, moved a little from the bed-side, saying,
as she did so, “Good-by, I will come and see you again.”
“You won't hurt me?” exclaimed Nan, starting up once
more.
“O no. I will try to bring you something you will like.”
“Don't bring Gerty here with you! I don't want to see her.”
“I will come alone,” replied Gertrude.
Nan now laid down, and did not speak again while Gertrude
remained in the house, though she watched her steadily until she
was outside the door. Mr. Cooper made no objection to accompanying
his young guide, and, though the severity of the storm was
such that they did not escape a thorough wetting, they reached
home in safety, in little more than an hour from the time she
started on her expedition.
Dr. Jeremy, seated at the side of the grate, with his feet upon
the fender, had the contented appearance of one who is quite at
home; he seemed, indeed, unconscious that he was waiting for
Gertrude's return, or anything else but his own pleasure. He
had been talking with Mrs. Sullivan about the people of a
country town where they had both passed some time in their
childhood, and the timid, retiring woman had, in the course of
conversation, come to feel so much at her ease in the society of
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the social and entertaining physician, that, although he had, in
his unguarded discourse, accidentally disclosed his profession,
she allowed him to question her upon the state of her health, without
any of the alarm she had nervously fancied she should feel at
the very sight of a doctor. By the time Gertrude returned, he
had made himself well acquainted with the case, and was prepared,
on Mrs. Sullivan's leaving the room to provide dry clothes for her
father, to report to Gertrude his opinion.
“Gertrude,” said he, as soon as the door was shut, “that's a
very sick woman.”
“Do you think so, Dr. Jeremy?” said Gertrude, much alarmed,
and sinking into the nearest chair.
“I do,” replied he, thoughtfully. “I wish to mercy I had seen
her six months ago!”
“Why, doctor! Do you date her illness so far back as that?”
“Yes, and much further. She has borne up under the gradual
progress of a disease which is now, I fear, beyond the aid of medical
treatment.”
“Dr. Jeremy,” said Gertrude, in tones of great distress, “you
do not mean to tell me that auntie is going to die, and leave me
and her poor old father, and without ever seeing Willie again,
too! O, I had hoped it was not nearly so bad as that!”
“Do not be alarmed, Gertrude,” said the doctor, kindly. “I
did not mean to frighten you;—she may live some time, yet. I
can judge better of her case in a day or two. But it is absolutely
unsafe for you to be here alone with these two friends of yours,—
to say nothing of its overtasking your strength. Has not Mrs.
Sullivan the means to keep a nurse, or even a domestic? She tells
me she has no one.”
“Yes, indeed,” answered Gerty; “her son supplies her wants
most generously. I know that she never draws nearly the whole
of the amount he is anxious she should expend.”
“Then you must speak to her about getting some one to assist
you at once; for, if you do not, I shall.”
“I intend to,” said Gertrude. “I have seen the necessity for
some time past; but she has such a dread of strangers that I hated
to propose it.”
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“Nonsense,” said the doctor; “that's only imagination in her;
she would soon get used to being waited upon.”
Mrs. Sullivan now returned, and Gertrude, giving an account
of her unexpected rencounter with Nan Grant, begged Dr. Jeremy,
who knew the particulars of her own early life, and had frequently
heard of Nan, to go the next day and see her. “It will be a visit
of charity,” said she, “for she is probably penniless, and, though
staying with your old patients the Millers, she is but distantly
connected, and has no claim upon them. That never makes any
difference with you, however, I know very well.”
“Not a bit, not a bit,” answered the doctor. “I'll go and see
her to-night, if the case require it, and to-morrow I shall look in
to report how she is, and hear the rest of what Mrs. Sullivan
was telling me about her wakeful nights. But, Gertrude, do you
go, child, and change your wet shoes and stockings. I shall have
you on my hands, next.”
Mrs. Sullivan was delighted with Dr. Jeremy, and when he was
gone eagerly sounded his praise. “So different,” said she, “from
common doctors (a portion of humanity for which she seemed to
have an unaccountable a version); so sociable and friendly! Why,
I felt, Gertrude, as if I could talk to him about my sickness as
freely as I could to you.”
Gertrude readily joined in the praises bestowed upon her much-valued
friend, and it was tea-time before Mrs. Sullivan was weary
of the subject. After the evening meal was over, and Mr. Cooper,
much wearied with the fatigues of the day, had been persuaded to
retire to rest, while Mrs. Sullivan, comfortably reclining on the
sofa, was enjoying what she always termed her happiest hour,
Gertrude broached the subject recommended by Dr. Jeremy.
Contrary to her expectations, Mrs. Sullivan no longer objected to
the proposal of introducing a domestic into the family. She was
convinced of her own incompetency to perform any active labor,
and was equally opposed to the exertion on Gertrude's part which
had, during the last week, been requisite. Gertrude suggested
Jane Miller as a girl remarkably well suited to their wants, and
it was agreed that she should be applied for on the following
morning.
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One more glance at Gertrude, and we shall have followed her
to the conclusion of the day. She is alone. It is ten o'clock, and
the house is still. Mr. Cooper is sound asleep. Gertrude has
just listened at his door, and heard his loud breathing. Mrs. Sullivan,
under the influence of a soothing draught recommended by
Dr. Jeremy, has fallen into an unusually quiet slumber. The
little Calcutta birds, ten in number, that occupy a large cage in
the window, are nestled, side by side, on their slender perch, in a
close, unbroken row, and Gertrude has thrown a warm covering
over them, that they may not suffer from the cold night-air. She
has locked the doors, made all things safe, fast and comfortable,
and now sits down to read, to meditate, and pray. Her trials
and cares are multiplying. A great grief stares her in the face,
and a great responsibility; but she shrinks not from either. No!
on the contrary, she thanks God that she is here; that she had the
resolution to forsake pleasure and ease, and, in spite of her own
weakness and man's wrath, to place herself in the front of life's
battle, and bravely wait its issues. She thanks God that she
knows where to look for help; that the bitter sorrows of her childhood
and early youth left her not without a witness of His love
who can turn darkness into light, and that no weight can now
overshadow her whose gloom is not illumined by rays from the
throne of God. But, though her heart is brave and her faith firm,
she has a woman's tender nature; and, as she sits alone, she weeps—
weeps for herself, and for him who, far away in a foreign land,
is counting the days, the months and years, which shall restore
him to a mother he is destined never to see again. With the
recollection, however, that she is to stand in the place of a child
to that parent, and that hers is the hand that must soothe the
pillow of the invalid, and minister to all her wants, comes the
stern necessity of self-control,—a necessity to which Gertrude has
long since learned to submit,—and, rallying all her calmness and
fortitude, she wipes away the blinding tears, commends herself to
Him who is strength to the weak and comfort to the sorrowing,
and, soothed by the communion of her spirit with the Father of
spirits, she seeks her couch, and, worn out by the varied mental
and bodily fatigues of her day's experience, follows the rest of the
household to the land of dreams.
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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
