THE NURSE.
Mr. Graham's garden was very beautiful, abounding in rich shrubbery,
summer houses, and arbours covered with grape-vines; but a high, broad
fence hid it from public view, and the house, standing back from the
road, was old-fashioned in its appearance. The summer was passing most
happily, and Gertrude, in the enjoyment of Emily's society, and in the
consciousness that she was rendering herself useful and important to
this excellent friend, was finding in every day new causes of
contentment and rejoicing, when a stop was suddenly put to all her
pleasure.
Emily was taken ill with a fever, and Gertrude, on her entering the
sick-room, to share in its duties, was rudely repulsed by Mrs. Ellis,
who had constituted herself sole nurse, and who declared that the fever
was catching, and Miss Emily did not want her there.
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 upstairs with some gruel; and, giving her some
beautiful rose-buds which she had 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 not want to go there, Miss
Gertrude; I'm sure she'd bit 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 Mrs. Ellis flung 'em outside the door, vowin' I might as
well bring pison into the room with a fever as roses. I tried to speak
to Miss Emily, but Mrs. 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
begin to scold when there's anybody taken 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 many others, for Emily grew worse, and a fortnight
passed away without Gertrude's seeing her, or having any other
intimation regarding her health than Mrs. Ellis's occasional report to
Mr. Graham, who, as he saw the physician every day, and made frequent
visits to his daughter, did not require that particular information
which Gertrude was eager to obtain. Once or twice she had asked Mrs.
Ellis, who replied, "Don't bother me with questions! what do you know
about sickness?"
One afternoon Gertrude was sitting in a large summer-house at the 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 some
little papers of seeds, when she was startled by hearing a step beside
her, and looking up, saw Dr. Jeremy, the family physician, entering the
building.
"Ah! what are you doing?" said the doctor, in a quick manner peculiar to
him. "Sorting seeds, eh?"
"Yes, sir," replied Gerty, blushing, as she saw the doctor's keen black
eyes scrutinising her face!
"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 to 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 knows nothing 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 reached the foot of the tree almost at a bound.
As Gertrude watched the proceeding, she observed the doctor stumble over
some obstacle, and only saved himself from falling by stretching forth
both hands, and sustaining himself against the trunk of the 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, stared at the intruder.
Nothing daunted, the doctor at once took the offensive ground towards
the occupant of the place, saying, "Get up, lazy bones! What do you lie
there for, tripping up honest folks?"
"Whom do you call honest folks, sir?" inquired the youth, apparently
undisturbed by the doctor's epithet and inquiry. He showed much _sang
froid_.
"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 at the way in which the doctor had got
caught. The young man 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 honourable and honest errand!" muttered the young man. "I
shall be happy to be engaged in so good a cause." And, drawing down 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 half-drawling,
half-ironical tone of voice; "then I think I'll take your advice;" and
he threw himself 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 at his boyish
feat, looked at his watch. "Half-past four! The cars go in ten minutes.
Who's going to drive me down to the depot?"
"I don't know, sir," replied Gertrude.
"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 depot."
"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.
Dr. Jeremy was true to his promise of installing Gertrude in Emily's
sick room. The 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; "'tan't like her."
"Do you think not?" inquired Emily, earnestly. "Mrs. Ellis----"
"Told a lie," interrupted the doctor. "Gerty wants to come 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 than 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.
So, though Emily, Dr. Jeremy, and Gertrude were all made happy by the
free admission of the latter to the sick-room, the housekeeper was never
conscious that anyone knew her ill-will to Gertrude.
There were care and tenderness in Gertrude, which only the warmest love
could have dictated. When Emily awoke at night from a troubled sleep,
she found a cooling draught ready at her lips, and knew from Mrs.
Ellis's 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 realised the truth that Dr. Jeremy had brought her a most
excellent medicine. A week or two passed away, and she was able to sit
up, 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."
"Gertrude," said Emily, smiling, "I believe you are a great favourite of
the doctor's; he thinks you can do anything. You never drove, did you?"
"Hasn't she driven me to the depot every day for these six weeks?"
inquired the doctor.
"Is it possible?" asked Emily.
Upon her being assured this was the case, and the doctor insisting that
there was no danger, Charlie was harnessed into the carriage, 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
restored, old Charlie was daily called into requisition; sometimes Mrs.
Ellis accompanied them, but, as she was often engaged in household
duties, they oft went by themselves, in a large, old-fashioned buggy,
and Emily declared that Gertrude's learning to drive had proved a great
source of happiness. 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 sensitive about her name, and, though she went
by that of Flint, and did not think much about it, she could not fail to
remember, when the question was put to her point-blank, that she had no
surname of her own. Emily had tried 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.