A PRIVATE TALK.
"NOW," the doctor said, having bound up the crushed member, and ordered
complete rest, "who is going to see after you, my good woman? There are
to be no attempts at standing about, remember."
Mrs. Stuart was by this time looking somewhat sullen. She answered
curtly, "Nobody; I'll do for myself."
"Can't," said Mr. Rawdon.
"I'm not going to be beholden to nobody," declared Mrs. Stuart.
"In that case, you will very soon have to be beholden to me—for
amputating your foot," said Mr. Rawdon bluntly.
He was a particularly kind-hearted man, but he had not much patience
with entire unreasonableness.
"Have you no friends who—"
"I've got no friends. 'Tisn't my way. I like to keep myself to myself,"
said Mrs. Stuart, in the tone of one stating a virtuous characteristic.
The doctor's eyebrows went up a little way. "That's nothing to be proud
of;" he said.
"I can stay here to-night," put in Susan Dunn. "I should like to do it,
sir, very much—if Mrs. Stuart don't mind."
Mrs. Stuart plainly did mind. Her long nose took a discontented curl.
Mr. Rawdon ran his eyes over Susan.
"Your face seems strange to me," he said.
"We haven't been long in Littleburgh," she said. "My husband is come
for work."
"Hope he's got it," said the doctor.
"Yes, sir—with Mr. Rawdon." A nod answered her. "And I know he'd wish
me to help. My girl Nancy will see to everything at home."
"You are fortunate in having such a girl," said Mr. Rawdon.
Perhaps he was thinking of Bess Gardiner, or of girls like Bess.
"Yes, sir, I think I am; more than fortunate," averred Susan. "It's
something to thank God for."
"True!" and the doctor bent his head slightly, with a reverent gesture.
"Let me see, your name is—"
"Susan Dunn, sir."
"Dunn! Ah—then it would be your husband who called on me. Dunn!" and
he looked thoughtful. "I seem to have some sort of connection with
the word. Well, nothing can be better than that you should stay here
to-night. Mrs. Stuart accepts your kind offer, of course."
"I can do for myself," said Mrs. Stuart stolidly.
"Stuff!" Mr. Rawdon answered, rising. "You can do for your foot, if you
like—and you would do for it most effectually, without help. That is
settled, then. To-morrow morning I will look in, and we shall see what
can be arranged next. Very much obliged to you, Mrs. Dunn. 'A friend in
need is a friend indeed.' Mrs. Stuart will have no cause to say again
that she has no friends."
Mrs. Stuart made no response. The doctor gave Susan a few careful
directions.
"Mind, you are not to put your foot to the ground," he said, turning
to Mrs. Stuart. "Your son and Mrs. Dunn will get you upstairs, and you
must go to bed at once. Stay there, of course, till I come again. Good
evening."
Mr. Rawdon looked rather curiously at the patient's glum visage, smiled
at Mrs. Dunn's cheery face, and left the cottage at a quick pace.
Halfway through the next street, he was overtaken by Mr. Wilmot. Those
two worked hand-in-hand among the needy and suffering.
"The very man I had in my mind at this moment," quoth Mr. Rawdon. "How
do you do? All right?"
The doctor's eyes were lifted for an instant's scrutiny of the other's
face as they passed a gas-lamp. Of late, a settled paleness had been
stamped there. No immediate reply to the question came, but only
another question—
"Is this true about Mrs. Stuart?"
"Crushed foot, yes. Within a hair's-breadth of having to lose it. I'm
not quite sure yet!"
"Poor thing!" Mr. Wilmot said, in a half-abstracted manner.
"She's an oddity," the doctor said, stealing another glance. "A fussy
sort of body, apparently."
"So much the more to be pitied. I must see her to-morrow."
"Yes, do. A nice little woman is there to-night—Mrs. Dunn. I haven't
come across her before."
"The Dunns are new-comers. You have heard of the eldest girl, Nancy
Dunn," added the clergyman abruptly. "She is the girl whom young Stuart
saved from the mad dog."
"Ha! I thought I had some association with the name in my mind."
"That is it, of course. Nancy Dunn is one of the best and prettiest
girls I know. I rather think our friend Archie Stuart is of the same
opinion, from a few words I had with him this afternoon. But he seems
to fear opposition from his mother."
"Ha!" repeated Mr. Rawdon. "That is why she so disdainfully wished to
be beholden to nobody."
After a slight pause, he asked carelessly—"Have you been doing too much
to-day?"
"No. The more the better just now. Less time for thought."
Mr. Rawdon gave him another glance.
"I believe the strain is rather too much for me sometimes." Mr.
Wilmot spoke low. "Do what I will, I cannot help expecting—watching
myself—dwelling on what may come."
"And the fact that you cannot speak to Annie makes you, of course,
suffer the more," Mr. Rawdon said, carelessly still, as he slipped an
arm into the clergyman's. "My dear Wilmot, it was a mere scratch—almost
a nothing. I do not say that it was an absolute nothing, of course. But
the prompt measures taken—How is your wrist to-day? You were coming to
see me again to-morrow, I think."
"It seems to be steadily healing. That is as should be. Yes, you burnt
deeply. The thing could not have been done with more thoroughness. But
still—"
A sigh came after the word. There was just the "but still!" Mr. Rawdon
knew it, and so did Mr. Wilmot. Say what they might, there could be no
certainty of escape. Prompt and thorough measures had been taken—but
still! And the dawn of a new hope which now exists for such as are in
Mr. Wilmot's case had not then become known.
"I wish you could banish the whole thing from your mind," said Mr.
Rawdon.
"Impossible," was the quiet answer. "I do not repine, Rawdon. If the
time came over again, I would do the same again, knowing what lay
before me. And if—if it is God's will to call me to His presence
through that gate of suffering—I think I can say truly that I am
willing. Willingness does not mean stoical indifference, however. Flesh
and heart may shrink—must shrink—under some circumstances."
"Aye," Mr. Rawdon answered briefly. "How do you sleep at night?"
"Not well. I have a return of uncomfortable heart sensations—such as
I had two years ago. Nothing of importance—merely the result of the
shock."
"I'll look into that to-morrow. You must keep up your strength. Yes,
the shock was likely to tell upon you, one way or another."
"So I supposed. I do not at present see in myself any marked symptoms
which might prelude that," Mr. Wilmot said calmly, as if speaking about
somebody else. "The wound seems to be healing healthily. I am not
particularly troubled with moroseness, or unreasonable depression, or
anxiety to be much away from home. These are some of the tokens, are
they not, sometimes? You see, I have looked into the matter. I wish to
know in time, if it comes—for Annie's sake."
"And you have been wrong," said Mr. Rawdon decisively. "This is not
quite your usual good sense, Wilmot. The thing you have to do now is as
much as possible to put the whole question aside, not to sit watching
your own symptoms, and speculating on what may come next. Mind, my dear
friend, it is your positive duty—for Annie's sake as much as for your
own. If this goes on, you will soon be thoroughly overstrained, and
unfit for work. I shall have to order you abroad."
Mr. Wilmot shook his head.
"One thing or the other will have to be." The doctor spoke with a touch
of sternness. "Either you must give up this morbid self-watching, or
you must go away."
A pause followed before Mr. Wilmot said—"I have had to fight the
battle."
"What battle?"
"To be able to say from my heart, Thy will—not mine.'"
"Wrong again. Don't misunderstand me, but I think you are wrong. If God
sends the trial, He will send strength to endure. You are not called
upon yet to endure. All you are called upon to do at present is to put
aside possibilities, and to trust for the future. The more childlike
a life you can live just now the better—taking each day as it comes,
and not looking forward. I am speaking both as your friend and as your
medical adviser. This strain of expectation is the worst thing possible
for you."
Mr. Wilmot uttered a simple "Yes" of acquiescence.
"You know that it is. Now mark my words, Wilmot. There must be a
change. You must put the thing aside-give up analysis of your own
symptoms—and have done with midnight battlings. What need for it all?
HE will not let you be tried 'above that you are able.' Yours is a
childlike trust, generally. Be a child now, in trust, and leave the
matter in God's hands. He is all-powerful; and there is nothing more
that you and I can do."
"You are right," Mr. Wilmot said quietly. "I have preached you a good
many sermons, but never a truer one than you have just preached to me."
"Shall I quote from a sermon of your own?" asked Mr. Rawdon. "Your
concluding words this morning, Wilmot—'Whatever the King may appoint,
whether joy or sorrow, life or death, from Him shall come the needed
strength. Not like St. Peter, but, like St. Paul, you shall be—Ready,
aye Ready.' But standing ready to obey surely does not mean conjuring
up possibilities of commands which never may be given."
"No. You are right," repeated Mr. Wilmot, pausing before a small house.
"I must go in here."
"Not done the day's work yet! It is very late. Can't you go home and
rest?"
"I promised to look in for a minute. This is the last."
"Good-bye, then."
The two shook hands and parted, Mr. Rawdon going on alone in the
darkness. A sigh escaped him, suppressed hitherto. "Poor fellow!" he
murmured.