NURSE'S PLAN.
GERTRUDE stood within the threshold.
She heard Conway's voice speaking in a hushed tone on the stairs, she
saw Mollie's skirts at the corner, and heard her reply In the same awed
way, and then both turned and saw her, and came quickly down to her.
"Miss Ashlyn!" Mollie whispered. "Mother has been so dreadfully ill all
the afternoon, and we have been obliged to send for the doctor. And now
he has come it is worse still, because he has seen Randall, and he says
he has the scarlet fever."
"What?" asked Gertrude in a startled tone, but she had heard well
enough.
"Yes," added Conway; "is it not dreadful? Father is not yet home, and
we are not to even tell mother, her heart is in such a weak state—and
Dr. Forde says either Randall must be taken somewhere to be nursed, or
we must all go away from home."
They had mechanically moved into the dining-room, and stood round the
end of the table looking at each other.
"Nurse says," pursued Ned, who was sitting with his lessons in his
hand, "that if she could leave mother, she would take him somewhere.
But then she cannot, or mother might die, and besides, we don't know of
any place. And it must be done in a hurry, that is the worst of it."
"Where is Randall?" asked Gertrude.
"He is in the nursery at the top. Nurse would not have him put to bed
till you came, because she wanted to consult you about a plan she has
thought of."
"I will go to her, then. Is she up there?"
"Yes—but do not go in, Miss Ashlyn; call nurse outside."
"Very well, but somebody must go in, you know."
She ran up-stairs, and tapped lightly at the closed door.
Nurse came out at once.
"Oh, Miss Ashlyn!" she said in a low voice. "We are in trouble, and no
mistake. If his mother could be asked—but the doctor absolutely forbids
that. I have thought of one way out of it, but I hardly dare ask such a
thing. Have you ever had it, miss?"
"When a child, I believe I did."
That was not the thing that nurse hardly dared ask.
"Miss Ashlyn—if we could find a house—a cottage—or an empty house near
where they would take him in, could you go with him there? I know his
parents would not hear of a hospital, and I have heard of such things
being done, if I only knew where—"
"You want me to find such a place and take him—to-night?"
"That is the only thing I could think of," apologized nurse. "I would
go in a minute, but I should never forgive myself if my doing so caused
his mother's death. The doctor says the slightest alarm might be fatal
in her present state."
Gertrude felt stunned, while nurse could do nothing but gaze anxiously
in her face. How little she knew all that was passing in her mind!
"May I have five minutes to consider it?" asked Gertrude, feeling as if
all the world were turning round.
She went to her room and shut the door.
Slowly, with her hands pressing her forehead till it ached with the
pressure, she knelt down by the side of her bed.
She could not pray; she could only think of the five minutes at her
disposal for her decision, and the numberless things which she must
decide.
Wednesday! Where would be her promise to Otto to come down to Gravesend
to bid him farewell? If she were established as sole nurse to little
Randall, she would not be able to leave him to go to Gravesend?
And even if she could leave him, how about carrying a chance of
infection to that out-bound vessel, which would contain so many
precious lives? How about carrying infection to that only boy whose
life was so infinitely precious to his parents? That boy whom Otto had
already undertaken to guard and cherish to the best of his ability?
And then, supposing she could undergo the sacrifice of not seeing Otto
again, for whom was this sacrifice to be made? For Randall, whom in
that moment of anguish she acknowledged as having almost regarded as
her enemy!
"I cannot do it," she moaned. "I cannot—it is too hard, too much. Oh,
how could nurse ask it?"
And then amidst her tears she bethought herself of praying.
"Lord, what wilt 'Thou' have me to do?" she whispered.
If she could have asked any one's advice! If Otto could be consulted!
If he should bid her do it, would she not gladly, cheerfully?
"Lord, what wilt 'Thou' have me to do?"
Then she gave up all her questioning, all her disappointment, all her
anxiety into His hands, and as she knelt, a wonderful peace stole over
her.
"If thine enemy—" Gertrude started at the word. Surely, surely, it
could not be that she was cherishing such a thought! "'If thine enemy
hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink.'"
"O my Lord," she whispered, "I will do whatever Thou dost point out!
Thou knowest best, only let me have Thee with me, whatever it is, and
wherever I am!"
She rose from her knees, and with the tears still wet on her face, she
went back to nurse.
At her soft knock nurse came back, looking intently in her face.
"If his father wishes it, I will do it. I believe I know a house to
which I could take him at once."
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