AFTER her fever had subsided, Grace went to sleep and carried into
dream-land the disquieting conviction that she was to have a long
period of illness, and be confined to her bed. Philip had given her
the medicines prescribed and obtained by Caleb, for Doctor Taggess had
gone far into the country and was not expected home until morning.
Then Philip had lain awake far into the night, planning proper care
for his precious invalid; finally he decided to get a trained nurse
from New York, unless Doctor Taggess could recommend one nearer home.
He would also get from the city a trained housekeeper; for, as already
explained, there was no servant class at Claybanks, and of what use
was "help" when the head of the house was too ill to direct the work?
He would order from the city every cordial, every sick-room delicacy,
that he could think of, or the Doctor might suggest. Expense was not
to be thought of; there was only one woman and wife in the world--to
him, and she had been cruelly struck down. She should be made well, at
whatever cost. Meanwhile he would write the firm by which he had been
employed in New York, and beg for his old position, for the reason that
the climate of Claybanks was seriously undermining his wife's health;
afterward, as soon as Grace could be moved, he would take her back
to the city, and give up his Claybanks property, with its train of
responsibilities, privations, and miseries.
When he awoke in the morning, he slipped softly from the room, which
he had darkened the night before, so that the morning light should
not disturb the invalid, and he moved toward the kitchen to make a
fire--a morning duty with which he had charged himself and faithfully
fulfilled since his first day in his uncle's house. To be in the store
by sunrise, as was the winter custom of Claybanks merchants, compelled
Philip to rise before daylight, and habit, first induced by an alarm
clock, had made him wake every winter day at six, while darkness was
still deep.
He was startled, therefore, when he tip-toed into the dining room, to
be welcomed by a burst of sunlight. Evidently his wakefulness of the
previous night had caused him to oversleep. Hurrying to the kitchen,
he was again startled, for breakfast was cooking on the stove, and at
the table, measuring some ground coffee into a pot, stood Grace, softly
singing, as was her custom when she worked.
"What?" he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes. "Was it I who was ill, instead
of you, or have I been bereft of my senses for a fortnight or more?"
"Neither, you poor, dear boy," Grace replied, though without looking
up. "Yesterday I was more scared than hurt; to-day I feel as well as
ever--really, I do."
Philip stepped in front of her, took her head in his hands, and
looked into her face. The healthy glow peculiar to it had given place
to a sickly yellow tint; her plump cheeks had flattened--almost
hollowed, her eyes, always either lustrous or melting, were dull and
expressionless, and her lips, usually ruddy and full, were gray and
thin. As her husband looked at her, she burst into tears and hid her
face on his shoulder.
"I could have endured anything but that," she sobbed. "I don't think
I'm vain, but it has always been so delightful to me that I could be
pretty to my husband. I wasn't conceited, but I had to believe my
mirror. But now--oh, I'd like to hide my face somewhere for a--"
"Would you, indeed?" murmured Philip, tenderly. "Let me hide it
for you, a little at a time; I promise you that not a bit shall be
neglected."
"Do let me breathe, Phil. I don't see how you can kiss a scarecrow--and
continue at it."
"Don't you? I could kiss a plague-patient, or the living skeleton, if
Grace Somerton's heart was in it. I don't understand your reference to
a scarecrow. Your mirror must have been untruthful this morning, or
perhaps covered with mist, for--see!"
So saying, he detached the late Mr. Jethro Somerton's tiny mirror from
the kitchen wall and held it before his wife, whose astonishment and
delight were great as she exclaimed:--
"Phil, you're a witch! Now I'm going to make believe that there was no
yesterday, and if yesterday persists in coming to mind, I shall scold
myself most savagely for having been a frightened, silly child."
"You really were a very sick woman," Philip replied. "I was quite as
frightened at you while the chill had possession of you, and you had
a raging fever afterward. You've had headaches in other days, but
yesterday's was the first that made you moan."
"'Tis very strange. I feel quite as well to-day as ever I did. Perhaps
'tis the effect of Caleb's medicine. Poor Caleb! When he saw me, I
really believe he suffered as much as I."
"So it seemed to me," said Philip. "I wonder how a little, sickly,
always-tired man can have so much sympathy and tenderness?"
"You forget that he, himself, is malaria-poisoned, as your uncle's
letter said. Probably he's had just such chills as mine. Let's make
haste to thank him."
After a hurried breakfast, husband and wife went together to the store,
and found Caleb awaiting them at the back door. He had already seen
Grace's figure at the window of the sitting room.
"Je--ru--salem!" he exclaimed, looking intently at Grace. "I never saw
a worse shake than yourn, which is sayin' a mighty lot, considerin'
I was born an' raised in the West. But you look just as good as new.
Well, there's somethin' good in ev'rythin', if you look far enough for
it--even in an ager-chill."
"Good in a chill, indeed!" Philip exclaimed.
"Yes; its good p'int is that it don't last long. Havin' a chill's like
bein' converted; if somethin' didn't shut down on the excitement pretty
quick, there'd be nothin' left o' the subject. Well, seein' you're
here, I reckon I'd better take a look in the pork-house."
"He has sprinkled the floor with Florida water!" said Grace, as she
entered the store. "Evidently he didn't doubt that I'd be well this
morning, and he remembers yesterday."
Within an hour Doctor Taggess and his wife bustled into the store, and
Mrs. Taggess hurried to Grace, and said:--
"I'd have come to you yesterday, my dear, if I hadn't known I could be
of no use. Chills are like cyclones; they'll have their own way while
they last, and everything put in their way makes them more troublesome."
The Doctor consulted Philip, apart, as to what had been done, approved
of Caleb's treatment, and gave additional directions; then he turned
upon Grace his kind eyes and pleasant smile, which Caleb had rightly
intimated were his best medicines, and he said:--
"Well, has Doctor Caleb found time to give you his favorite theory,
which is that a chill or any other malarial product is a means of
grace?"
"Caleb values his life too highly to advance such a theory at present,"
Philip answered for his wife.
"Just so, just so. Well, there's a time for everything, but Caleb isn't
entirely wrong on that subject. There are other and less painful and
entirely sufficient means of grace, however, from which one can choose,
so chills aren't necessary--for that particular purpose, and I hope you
won't have any more of them. I'm afraid you forgot some of the advice
I gave you, the first time we met, about how to take care of yourself
until you had become acclimated."
Philip and Grace looked at each other sheepishly, and admitted that
they had not forgotten, but neglected. They had felt so well, so
strong, they said.
"Just so, just so. Malaria's just like Satan, in many ways, but
especially in sometimes appearing as an angel of light. At first it
will stimulate every physical faculty of a healthy person like good
wine, but suddenly--well, you know. I had my suspicions the last time I
noticed your splendid complexion, but between mending broken limbs and
broken heads, and old people leaving the world, and young people coming
into it, I'm too busy to do all the work I lay out for myself. You may
have one more chill--"
"Oh, Doctor!"
"'Twon't be so bad as the first one, unless it comes to-day. They have
four different and regular periods--every day, every other day, once
in three days, and once in seven days, and each is worse than all of
the others combined--according to the person who has it. I'll soon cure
yours, whichever kind it may be, and after that I'm going to get Mrs.
Taggess to keep you in mind of the necessary precautions against new
attacks, for I've special use for you in this town and county. I wonder
if Caleb has told you that you, too, are a means of grace? No? Well,
he's a modest chap, but he'll get to it yet, and I'll back him up. This
county has needed a visible standard of physical health for young women
to live up to, and you entirely fill the bill."
"I shouldn't wonder, Doctor," said Philip, while Grace blushed, "that,
religious though you are, you sometimes agree with the sceptic who
said that if he'd been the Creator of the world he'd have made health
catching, instead of disease."
"No, I can't say that I do. Heaven knows I'm sick enough of sickness;
no honest physician's bills pay him for the miseries he has to see, and
think of, and fight; but health's very much like money--it's valued
most by those who have to work hardest to get it: those who come by
it easily are likely to squander it. I can't quite make out, by the
ordinary signs, how your wife came by her own. I wonder if she'd object
to telling me. I don't ask from mere curiosity, I assure you."
"I'm afraid 'twill stimulate my self-esteem to tell," Grace replied,
with heightening color, "for I'm prouder of my health than of anything
else--except my husband. I got it by sheer hard, long effort, through
the necessity for six years, of going six days in the week, sick or
well, rain or shine, to and from a store, and of standing up, for nine
or ten hours a day while I was inside. To lose a day or two in such a
store generally meant to lose one's place, so a girl couldn't afford to
be sick, or even feeble."
"Aha! Wife, did you hear that? Now, Mrs. Somerton, Claybanks and
vicinity need you even more than I'd supposed. But--do try to have
patience with me, for I'm a physician, you know, and what you tell me
may be of great service to other young women; I won't use your name, if
you object. Did you have good health from the first?"
"No, indeed! I was a thin, pale, little country girl when I went
to the city; I'd worked so hard at school for years that all my
vitality seemed to have gone to my head. Work in the store was cruelly
hard,--indeed, it never became easy,--and I had headaches, backaches,
dizzy times--oh, all sorts of aches and wearinesses. But in a great
crowd of women there are always some with sharp eyes, and clear heads,
and warm hearts, and sometimes the mother-feeling besides. I wasn't the
only chronically tired girl in the place; most of the others looked
and felt as I did. Well, some of the good women I've mentioned were
perpetually warning us girls to be careful of our health, and telling
us how to do it."
"Good! Good! What did they say--in general?"
"Nothing," said Grace, laughing, and then remaining silent a moment,
as she seemed to be looking backward. "For each said something in
particular. All had hobbies. One thought diet was everything; with
another it was the daily bath; others harped on long and regular
sleep, or avoidance of excitement, or fresh air while sleeping, or
clothes and the healthiest way to wear them, or exercise, or the proper
position in which to stand, or on carrying the head and shoulders high,
or deep breathing, or recreation, or religion, or avoidance of the tea,
cake, and candy habit."
"Well, well! Now tell me, please, which of these hobbies you adopted."
"All of them--every one of them," Grace replied, with an emphatic toss
of her head. "First I tried one, with some benefit, then another, and
two or three more, and finally the entire collection."
"Hurrah!" shouted the Doctor. "You can be worth more to the women
hereabouts than a dozen doctors like me, if you will--and of course
you will. Indeed, you must. One more question,--positively the last.
You couldn't have been the only woman who profited by the advice you
received?"
"Oh, no. In any of the stores in which I worked there were some strong,
wholesome, grand women who had literally fought their way up to what
they were, for small pay and long hours, and weariness at night, and
many other things combined to make any special effort of self-denial
very, very hard--too hard for some of the girls, I verily believe.
I don't think I'm narrow or easily satisfied; sometimes I've been
fastidious and slow in forming acquaintances, but among all the other
women I've seen, or heard of, or read about, there aren't any for whom
I'd exchange some of my sister--shopgirls."
"Saleswomen, if you please," said Philip.
"Well, well!" drawled the Doctor, who had been looking fixedly at
Grace. "I don't wonder that you're what you are. Come along, wife."