’Tis the most serious thing, an’ please your honour (sometimes), that
is in the world.
By the persuasion of the young woman, continued the corporal, the cart
with the wounded men set off without me: she had assured them I should
expire immediately if I was put into the cart. So when I came to
myself——I found myself in a still quiet cottage, with no one but the
young woman, and the peasant and his wife. I was laid across the bed in
the corner of the room, with my wounded leg upon a chair, and the young
woman beside me, holding the corner of her handkerchief dipp’d in
vinegar to my nose with one hand, and rubbing my temples with the
other.
I took her at first for the daughter of the peasant (for it was no
inn)—so had offer’d her a little purse with eighteen florins, which my
poor brother _Tom_ (here _Trim_ wip’d his eyes) had sent me as a token,
by a recruit, just before he set out for _Lisbon_——
——I never told your honour that piteous story yet——here _Trim_ wiped
his eyes a third time.
The young woman call’d the old man and his wife into the room, to shew
them the money, in order to gain me credit for a bed and what little
necessaries I should want, till I should be in a condition to be got to
the hospital——Come then! said she, tying up the little purse—I’ll be
your banker—but as that office alone will not keep me employ’d, I’ll be
your nurse too.
I thought by her manner of speaking this, as well as by her dress,
which I then began to consider more attentively——that the young woman
could not be the daughter of the peasant.
She was in black down to her toes, with her hair conceal’d under a
cambric border, laid close to her forehead: she was one of those kind
of nuns, an’ please your honour, of which, your honour knows, there are
a good many in _Flanders_, which they let go loose——By thy description,
_Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_, I dare say she was a young _Beguine_, of
which there are none to be found any where but in the _Spanish
Netherlands_—except at _Amsterdam_——they differ from nuns in this, that
they can quit their cloister if they choose to marry; they visit and
take care of the sick by profession——I had rather, for my own part,
they did it out of good-nature.
——She often told me, quoth _Trim_, she did it for the love of Christ—I
did not like it.——I believe, _Trim_, we are both wrong, said my uncle
_Toby_—we’ll ask Mr. _Yorick_ about it to-night at my brother
_Shandy_’s——so put me in mind; added my uncle _Toby._
The young _Beguine_, continued the corporal, had scarce given herself
time to tell me “she would be my nurse,” when she hastily turned about
to begin the office of one, and prepare something for me——and in a
short time—though I thought it a long one—she came back with flannels,
&c. &c. and having fomented my knee soundly for a couple of hours, &c.
and made me a thin bason of gruel for my supper—she wish’d me rest, and
promised to be with me early in the morning.——She wish’d me, an’ please
your honour, what was not to be had. My fever ran very high that
night—her figure made sad disturbance within me—I was every moment
cutting the world in two—to give her half of it—and every moment was I
crying, That I had nothing but a knapsack and eighteen florins to share
with her——The whole night long was the fair _Beguine_, like an angel,
close by my bed-side, holding back my curtain and offering me
cordials—and I was only awakened from my dream by her coming there at
the hour promised, and giving them in reality. In truth, she was scarce
ever from me; and so accustomed was I to receive life from her hands,
that my heart sickened, and I lost colour when she left the room: and
yet, continued the corporal (making one of the strangest reflections
upon it in the world)——
——“_It was not love_”——for during the three weeks she was almost
constantly with me, fomenting my knee with her hand, night and day—I
can honestly say, an’ please your honour—that * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * once.