About the time that Phillida got her flowers Mrs. Beswick sat mending
her husband's threadbare overcoat. His vigorous thumbs, in frequent
fastening and loosening, had worn the cloth quite through in the
neighborhood of the buttons. To repair this, his wife had cut little
bits of the fabric off the overplus of cloth at the seams, and worked
these little pieces through the holes, and then sewed the cloth down
upon them so as to underlay the thumb-worn places. The buttonholes had
also frayed out, and these had to be reworked.
"I declare, my love," she said, "you ought to have a new overcoat. This
one is not decent enough for a man in your position to wear."
"It'll have to do till warm weather," he said; "I couldn't buy another
if I wanted to."
"But you see, love, since Dr. Gunstone called you and sent a carriage
for you, there's a chance for a better sort of practice, if we were only
able to furnish the office a little better, and, above all, to get you a
good overcoat. There, try that on and see how it looks."
Dr. Beswick drew the overcoat on, and Mrs. Beswick gave herself the
pleasure of buttoning it about his manly form, and of turning the
doctor around as a Bowery shopkeeper does a sidewalk dummy, to try the
effect, smoothing the coat with her hands the while.
"That looks a good deal better, Mattie," he said.
"Yes; but it's fraying a little at the cuffs, and when it gives away
there darning and patching won't save it. There, don't, don't, love,
please; I'm in a hurry."
This last appeal was occasioned by the doctor's availing himself of her
proximity to put his arm about her.
"Annie Jackson got twenty-five dollars for nursing the Martin child.
Now, if I'd only done that."
"But you couldn't, Mattie. You're a doctor's wife, and you owe it to
your position not to go out nursing."
"I know. Never mind; your practice'll rise now that Dr. Gunstone has
called you, and they sent a carriage with a coachman and a footman after
you. That kind of thing makes an impression on the neighbors. I
shouldn't wonder if you'd be able to keep your own carriage in a few
years. I'm sure you've got as much ability as Dr. Gunstone, though you
don't put on his stylish ways. But we must manage to get you a new
overcoat before another winter. Take off the coat, quick."
The last words were the result of a ring at the door. The doctor slipped
quickly out of his overcoat, laughing, and then instantly assumed his
meditative office face, while Mrs. Beswick opened the door. There stood
a man in shirt-sleeves who had come to get the doctor to go to the dry
dock to see a workman who was suffering from an attack of cart-pin in
the hands of a friend with whom he had been discussing municipal
politics.
Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Beswick's wifely heart was gladdened by
another ring. When she saw that the visitor was a fine-looking
gentleman, scrupulously well-dressed, even to his gloves and cane, she
felt that renown and wealth must be close at hand.
"Is Dr. Beswick in?" demanded the caller.
"He was called out in haste to see a patient, who--was--taken down very
suddenly," she said; "but I expect him back every moment. Will you come
in and wait?"
"Can I see Mrs. Beswick?" said the stranger, entering.
"I am Mrs. Beswick."
"I am Mr. Millard. My aunt, Mrs. Martin, referred me to you. The
occasion of my coming is this: Miss Callender, while caring for my
little cousin, has caught diphtheria."
"I'm so sorry. You mean the one they call the faith-doctor? She's such a
sweet, ladylike person! She's been here to see the doctor. And you want
Dr. Beswick to attend her?"
"No; the family have called Dr. Gunstone, who has been their physician
before."
Mrs. Beswick was visibly disappointed. It seemed so long to wait until
Dr. Beswick's transcendent ability should be recognized. She was tired
of hearing of Gunstone.
"I would like to send a good nurse to care for Miss Callender," said
Millard, "since she got her sickness by attention to my little cousin.
My aunt, Mrs. Martin, said that the nurse Dr. Beswick sent to her child
was a friend of yours, I believe."
"Yes; I was in the hospital with her. But you couldn't get Miss
Jackson, who nursed the little Martin boy. She's going to take charge of
a case next week. It's a first-rate case that will last all summer. You
could find a good nurse by going to the New York Hospital."
Millard looked hopeless. After a moment he said: "It wouldn't do. You
see the family of Miss Callender wouldn't have me pay for a nurse if
they knew about it. I thought I might get this Miss Jackson to go in as
an acquaintance, having known Miss Callender at the Martins'. They
needn't know that I pay her. Don't you think I could put somebody in her
place, and get her?"
"No; it's a long case, and it will give her a chance to go to the
country, and the people have waited nearly a week to get her."
"I suppose I'll have to give it up. Unless--unless--"
Millard paused a moment. Then he said:
"They say you are a trained nurse. If, now, I could coax you to go in as
an acquaintance? You have met her, and you like her?"
"Oh, ever so much! She's so good and friendly. But I don't think I could
go. The doctor's only beginning, but his practice is improving fast, and
his position, you know, might be affected by my going out to nurse
again."
But Mrs. Beswick looked a little excited, and Millard, making a hurried
estimate of the Beswick financial condition from the few assets visible,
concluded that the project was by no means hopeless.
"I wouldn't ask you to go out as a paid nurse. You would go and tender
your services as a friend," he said.
"I'd feel like a wretch to be taking pay and pretending to do it all
for kindness," said Mrs. Beswick, with a rueful laugh.
"Indeed, it would be a kindness, Mrs. Beswick, and it might save a
valuable life."
"I don't know what to say till I consult the doctor," she said, dreaming
of all the things she could do toward increasing the doctor's
respectability if she had a little extra money. "I can not see that it
would hurt his practice if managed in that way."
"Indeed, it might help it," said Millard, seeing Mrs. Beswick's
accessible point. "You'd make the friendship of people who are connected
with the first families of the city, and you'd make the acquaintance of
Dr. Gunstone, who would recognize you only as a friend of Miss
Callender's."
"I'll speak to the doctor. I'm sure I wouldn't do it for any one else. I
couldn't stay away all the time, you know."
"Stay whatever time you can, and it will give me pleasure to pay you at
the highest rate, for the service is a very delicate one."
"I'll feel like a liar," she said, with her head down, "pretending to do
it all for nothing, though, indeed, I wouldn't go for anybody else."
"Oh, do it for nothing. We'll have no bargain. I'll make you a present
when you are done."
"That'll be better," she said, though Millard himself could hardly see
the difference.