DOROTHY'S ILLNESS
"Measles."
This was the one-word-verdict announced by Mrs. Stott's lips, as a few
hours later, she stood beside the bed in the kitchen and sternly
regarded the girl whom she had just brought from the attic and laid
there. She didn't look pleased, and poor Dorothy had never felt so
guilty in her life--nor so wretched. Yet she plucked up spirit enough to
retort:
"I didn't get them on purpose!"
Then she covered her eyes with her hands and fell to weeping,
remembering mother Martha's tenderness whenever she had "come down" with
any childish disease. Remembering, too, how father John had teased her
about being such a "catcher." "Such a sympathetic child nobody must have
chicken pox, scarlatina, or even mumps, but you must share them! Well,
a good thing to get through all your childish complaints in your
childhood, and have done with them!" Almost she could hear his dear
voice saying those very words and see the tender smile that belied their
jest. Oh! to feel herself lifted once more in his strong arms! and to
know that, no matter what was amiss with her, he never shrank from
fondling or comforting her.
This woman did shrink, yet how could it be from fear of infection to
herself? Besides, she made Jim stay wholly outside in the shed; and thus
the acquaintance begun during the night was suddenly suspended. Still,
though there was real consternation in her mind, the farm mistress was
not unkind. It may be that she felt the shortest way to a recovery was,
also, the least expensive one to herself; and immediately she went to
work upon her patient, after one more question:
"Know anybody had 'em?"
"Yes. Lots. Half my class," answered Dorothy, defiantly.
"Hmm. Yes. Measles," commented Mrs. Stott, as she put on her sunbonnet
and went out to rummage in her sage bed for fresh sprigs with which to
make a tea. This she forced Dorothy to drink, scalding hot; next she
covered her up with the heavy quilt, fastened the windows down, and
ordered Tige to take up his post beside the bed. Then she commanded:
"Stay in that bed. Get out, take cold, die. Not on my hands."
"Suppose she doesn't care if I do die on the hands of somebody else!"
reflected the patient, but said nothing aloud. Yet she watched the woman
do a strange thing--go to the door at the foot of the attic stairs, lock
it, and put the key in her pocket. Then she went out of the cottage and
took Jim with her.
Left alone with the dog, Dorothy C. had many sad thoughts; but soon
bodily discomfort banished her more serious anxieties and she became
wholly absorbed in efforts to find some spot on that hard couch where
she might rest.
"I'll get up! I can't bear this heat!" she cried, at last, and tossed
the heavy covers from her. But no sooner had she done so than a heavy
chill succeeded and she crept back again, shivering. Thus passed the
morning and nobody came near; but at noon when the farm woman re-entered
the kitchen Dorothy's piteous plea was for "Water! Water!" and she had
become oblivious to almost all else save the terrible thirst.
With the ignorance of her class the now really alarmed Mrs. Stott
refused the comforting drink, only to see her charge sink back in a
state of utter collapse; and, thereafter, for several days, the child
realized little that went on about her. On the few occasions when she
did rouse, she was so weakly patient that even the hard-natured woman
who nursed her felt her own heart softened to a sincere pity. Curiously,
too, Tiger became devoted to her. He would stand beside the bed and lick
the wan hand that lay on the quilt, as if trying to express his
sympathy; and his black, cool nose was grateful in her hot palm.
Miranda Stott smiled grimly over this new friendship and, for the
present, did not interfere with it. Dorothy couldn't get away then, even
with the mastiff's connivance; but her hostess most heartily regretted
that the girl had ever come. She had perplexities of her own, now, which
this enforced guest and her illness greatly increased; and, as she
gradually returned to strength, Dorothy often observed a deep frown on
the woman's face and, in her whole bearing, a strange attitude of
listening and of fear.
One afternoon, when Miranda and Jim were hard at work in the field
beyond the house and Dorothy still lay upon the bed, though for the
first time dressed in her own clothes, which her nurse had found time to
launder, the girl fancied that she heard a groan from somewhere.
"Why, Tige, what's that?" she asked, half rising and listening intently.
He answered by a thump of his tail on the boards and his head turned
sidewise, with his ears pricked up. Evidently, he, too, had caught the
sound, and was puzzled by it.
A moment later, Dorothy was certain she heard a movement of somebody in
the room overhead. There was but one, she knew, and it covered the
entire width of the small house, for she had seen that during her brief
occupation of it. Who could it be?
Half-frightened and wholly curious she crossed from the bed to the door
and looked out. Yes, the two other inmates of the cottage were still in
the field, setting out celery plants, as she had heard them discussing
at dinner.
Tiger kept close beside her and, now that she was upon her feet again,
seemed doubtful whether he were to remain her friend or again become her
watchful enemy. She settled that question, however, by her loving pat on
his head and the smile she gave him. His attentions to her, while she
had lain so weak and helpless, had won her own affection and made her
feel that she would never again be afraid of any dog.
Suddenly Mrs. Stott looked round and saw the girl in the doorway. Then
she at once stood up, said something to Jim, and hurried to the house:
demanding, as she reached it and with evident alarm:
"What's the matter?"
Dorothy smiled. She had been so dependent on this woman that she had
learned to really like her, and she answered brightly:
"Nothing but fancies, I reckon! I thought, Tiger, too, thought, we heard
somebody in the room upstairs. Then we came to the door and saw you were
both outdoors, so there couldn't have been, could there? You never have
burglars in this out-of-the-way place, do you? My darling mother Martha
is always looking out for them and there's none ever came. Oh! I'm so
glad to be well, almost well, once more. You'll let me go home to her,
won't you? The very next time you go to market? I've been such a trouble
I'm sure you'll be glad to be rid of me!" and Dorothy impulsively caught
at the woman's hand and kissed it.
For an instant Miranda Stott looked as if she could have been "knocked
down with a feather." A kiss was as unknown and startling a thing to her
as it was possible to imagine and it disconcerted her. But her answer
was:
"Yes, I'm glad too. I'll fetch a chair. Do you good."
So she caught up a chair in one strong hand, leaving a muddy impress
upon it; and, seeing this, covered her other hand with her apron, then
thrust it under Dorothy's arm and so piloted her out to the celery
patch. There were no trees allowed to grow in that utilitarian spot,
except here and there a fruit tree; and under the sparse shade of a
slender plum-sapling Dorothy was made to sit, while Jim went on with his
dropping of tiny seedlings into holes filled with water. Mrs. Stott had
gone again to the house and for a moment the boy and girl were free to
talk, and all her own old interest in gardening returned. Besides, she
wanted to learn all she could about it, so that she might be useful when
she, at last, got to that home "in the country" where they were all
going so soon.
"Why do you do that, Jim?" she asked, intently watching his long fingers
straighten the fine roots of the plants, then drop them into the
prepared drill.
"Why, to make 'em grow. 'Cause it's the way," he answered, surprised
that anybody should ask such a foolish question.
"Oh, I see. You drill a place with a wooden peg, then you pour water
into it, then you plant the plant. Hmm. That's easy. I'll know how to
make our celery grow, too."
Jim looked up. "Where's your celery at?"
"I reckon it's 'at' a seed store, yet. 'Cause we haven't got there. Say,
Jim, were you afraid you'd 'catch' the measles? the reason why you
didn't come into the kitchen at all."
The lad laughed, slyly.
"No, I wasn't. She was, though. 'Cause I've had 'em. She didn't know an'
I didn't tell her. Stayin' out in the barn I had time to myself. I
learned myself six more words. Hear me?"
"Maybe I don't know them myself. Then I shouldn't know if you spelled
them right or wrong," she cautiously answered. "If I had a book I'd hear
them, gladly."
Jim forgot that he was never expected to pause in any labor on hand and
stood up: his thin body appearing to elongate indefinitely with surprise
as he returned:
"Why--but _you've_ been to school! Anybody could hear 'em off a book. I
could hear 'em myself that way! Pshaw!" and into this mild expletive he
put such a world of contempt that Dorothy's cheeks tingled.
"Go ahead. Maybe I know them, but--you'd better work; Mrs. Stott is
coming."
The woman was, indeed, almost upon them and listening suspiciously to
what they might be saying; and though there was scorn in her expression
there was also relief. She couldn't understand what any farm hand needed
of "book learning," but it sounded harmless enough when Jim pronounced
the word: "Baker. B-a-k-e-r, baker," and the girl applauded with a clap
of her hands and the exclamation: "Good! Right! Fine! Next!"
Back on his knees again, the lad cast a sheepish glance toward his
employer, as if asking her permission to continue. She did not forbid
him, so he went on with: "Tinker. T-i-n, tin, k-e-r, ker, tinker."
Again Dorothy commended him and was thankful that her own knowledge was
sufficiently in advance of his that she should not be put to
shame--"without a book." Also, by the time the ambitious youth had
recited his new lesson of six words, in their entirety, both he and
Dorothy were in a fine glow of enthusiasm. She, also, loved study and
found it easy; and she longed with all her heart that she could put
inside this Jim's head as much as she already learned.
Then he was sent away to attend to the cattle for the night, to see that
the market-wagon was again packed, and to put all utensils safely under
cover. Because she could afford no waste, or thought she couldn't,
Miranda Stott took better care of her farm implements than most farmers
did; and if indoors there was much to be desired in the way of neatness,
out-of-doors all was ship-shape and tidy. She finished the celery
planting herself, and Dorothy wondered if there were people enough in
the world to eat all those plants, after they were grown. Then Miranda
took the chair from Dorothy and said:
"Come, I want my bed again. I'll fix you outside." And as if some
further explanation were needed, added: "It's healthier. You've got to
get well, quick."
"Oh! I want to. I am, almost, already. It is so good to be out of doors,
and--are you going to take me home, to-night, when you drive in?"
"No. Take letter. See?" answered this laconic woman, and led the girl
into the barn and into what had been a small harness-room partitioned
from one side. This had, evidently, been prepared for occupation and
there was a suspicious air of wisdom on Jim's face, as Dorothy passed
him, fastening the cattle-stanchions, betraying that this barn bedroom
was a familiar place to him.
"Why, it is a bedroom! If the bed is only a pile of hay! There are
sheets on it and a pillow and a blanket. My! It smells so sweet and
outdoor-sy!" cried Dorothy, thinking how much more restful such a couch
would be than that hot feather bed in the kitchen, on which she had lain
and tossed.
"Yours. Stay here now. Jim'll bring your supper, and a chair. Fetch the
paper, boy," she concluded, as he departed for the cellar under the
cottage which was used for a dairy.
Then Mrs. Stott went away, Tiger nestled up to her--as if offering his
society--and the still weak girl dropped down on the sweet-smelling bed
and felt almost happy, even though still refused a return home.
"Well, it's something to be let to write to mother. I was so sick I
haven't done it often; but if, as that Mr. Smith said, she knew I was
safe she won't worry much. Not so very much. But, oh! How I want her,
how I want her!"
The farm-mistress herself brought back the chair and paper, and waited
while Jim followed with the supper of bread and cold meat. He added a
pitcher of water without bidding, and, supposing him to have finished,
his mistress left the place. Indeed, she seemed so changed and
preoccupied that Dorothy wondered and pitied. Her own sorrows were
teaching her the divine gift of compassion, and though she was this
woman's prisoner she longed to share and soothe the distress she was so
evidently suffering.
But she dared not. With a gesture of despair, Mrs. Stott suddenly threw
both hands outward, then hurried away into the cottage, leaving the boy
and girl staring after her. Even Jim did not tarry, though he longed to
do so; yet he managed to whisper, in his own mysterious fashion:
"It's _him_. He's got 'em. They're goin' hard--he's old."