DR. WINTHROP PASSES THROUGH DEEP WATERS.
“Perhaps they will know of some one whom I can get to nurse
Tillinghast,” Dr. Winthrop muttered, as he watched these two Sisters of
Mercy flitting from couch to couch, intent only upon relieving the
suffering around them.
He had never yet spoken with them, for on his approach they would always
modestly withdraw, and stand with bowed heads and crossed hands until he
had made his explanation, given his orders to the head nurse, and passed
on.
Now, however, he walked directly toward one of them, who was bathing the
hot face and hands of a poor fellow who had lost a leg during the
insurrection.
Her back was toward him and he did not know which one she was until he
stepped beside her and she turned her face to him; then he caught sight
of the blue glasses and he saw it was Sister Angela.
“Can I speak with you a moment, Sister?” he inquired in a low tone.
She stepped back, crossed her hands upon her bosom, bowed her head and
waited to hear what he had to say.
“My friend has been suddenly stricken down,” he began, “I must have a
competent nurse at once, or he will die. Do you know of such a one?”
“No, monsieur,” she replied, “every nurse in Paris is engaged—see!”—with
a sweeping gesture of the hand, though she did not raise her head or her
glance—“you have not sufficient help even here, and hundreds are dying
outside for the want of proper care.”
“Then, what shall I do?” cried Dr. Winthrop, and there was a note of
agony in his tone. His friend had not spared himself for others, and he
could not bear that he should die from lack of care.
“Has monsieur no friends who could come to him?” inquired the nun.
“No; none who would be of any service at such a time,” and he shivered
as he thought of bringing any member of his family into that pest-house.
Norman was the only one who occurred to him, and he was needed too much
elsewhere to be thought of for a moment.
“Monsieur is very ill?” said the nun inquiringly.
“Very; I fear the worst,” he replied, with a heavy sigh.
Sister Angela seemed to be thinking deeply for a moment; then telling
him briefly to wait, she went down the ward and talked earnestly with
the other nun for a few minutes.
Presently she returned and said:
“I know something of sickness and if _monsieur le docteur_ will trust
me, I will do the best I can.”
“Will you? Can you leave your other duties?” he eagerly cried.
“My duties are those that lie nearest at hand and are the most urgent,”
she quietly answered, but the low, sweet tones were like music to him,
for there was hope in them.
“Thank you,” the physician gratefully returned, “you have taken a great
load from my heart. When can you come?”
“_Monsieur le docteur_ may take me to his friend at once—the need is
great; I delay not for anything.”
“You are very good,” her companion returned in a tone that trembled, for
he was deeply moved. Then turning abruptly, he simply bade her “Come.”
She followed him to a room at the further end of the ward, where he
opened a door and then stood aside to allow her to pass in.
The apartment was very comfortable, cool, and well ventilated, and the
windows had been darkened, for the glare of the sun was hot and painful.
Sister Angela passed noiselessly in, glancing toward the patient as she
did so. She quietly removed her close gray bonnet, but Dr. Winthrop,
though he tried to do so, could not get even a glimpse of her face, for
the plaiting of black silk tissue which was fastened to her cap, still
fell close about it.
She went directly to the bedside and looked more closely at the patient.
“He is very low, monsieur,” she said to Dr. Winthrop, who was gazing
sadly at his friend, while he felt his pulse.
“He is, indeed,” he whispered with emotion.
“Has he hot water at his feet and warm flannel about his body?” was the
next query. “Ah!” without waiting for a reply, and deftly slipping her
hand under the bedclothes to the patient’s feet, “the bottle is cold, it
must be renewed.”
She drew it forth, glided swiftly yet noiselessly from the room, but was
back again before he could have thought it possible, and replaced the
replenished bottle at the sick man’s feet.
She then heated a blanket, which she spread over his body and limbs,
after which she turned her attention to his nourishment.
“Ah, this is very badly made,” she murmured, as she stirred the
arrow-root gruel that stood cold upon the table, and found it full of
lumps.
She set about preparing some fresh, and not long after was deftly
feeding the almost dying man with a smooth, well-cooked porridge, to
which she had added a little brandy.
Dr. Winthrop was greatly relieved as he noticed how efficient she was,
and though he did not have much hope that his friend would live, he felt
that at least he would henceforth have everything needful done for him.
All day long he was in and out of the room to watch his condition, and
give him what personal attention he could. The nurse, though she seldom
spoke or even looked at him, obeyed every direction implicitly and
intelligently, and toward evening he could detect a slight—a very slight
improvement in Tillinghast’s condition.
Sister Angela did not spare herself; she renewed the hot bottles at his
feet the moment they began to cool; she kept the heated blanket
constantly about his body and administered either nourishment or
stimulants every few minutes.
During the night she was just as faithful; not once did she close her
eyes to sleep or relax her vigilant care of her charge, and by morning
he was more comfortable, if not actually better. But he was so weak, his
pulse was so feeble, that Dr. Winthrop did not dare to hope much from
the trifling improvement in his condition.
Mr. Tillinghast, however, appeared to have a little more consciousness
of the efforts to save him, and eagerly swallowed his nourishment and
stimulants, instead of lying, as hitherto, almost indifferent.
“You will be worn out—you must have rest,” Dr. Winthrop said to Sister
Angela, as the second day of her attendance drew near its close and she
was still as unremitting in her attentions as ever.
“Nay; I shall not leave _monsieur le docteur’s_ friend until he is out
of danger, or past all help,” she returned quietly but resolutely, and
no amount of persuasion could change her decision.
The young man did get better, he continued to rally slowly but steadily,
and in a few days Dr. Winthrop was confident that if nothing new
developed he would soon recover.
As soon as Sister Angela was assured of this she consented to take her
needed rest, and left him at regular intervals for this purpose; but she
always returned promptly to her post afterward, and was still the same
watchful, careful nurse.
One morning, while she was giving her patient his first really solid
breakfast, as he called it, Dr. Winthrop hastily entered the room, his
face pale and stern, his brow wrinkled with care and an open note in his
hand.
“Sister Angela,” he said turning appealingly to her, “would you be
willing to go out of the city to care for the sick? I am in a sad
strait.”
“What is it, dear old fellow?” Tillinghast asked sympathetically, and
regarding his friend anxiously.
“My father and Evelyn are both down with the cholera; my mother fears
she soon may be, as she is far from well,” was the disheartening answer.
“You will go, Sister Angela?” her patient said, turning eagerly to her.
“I shall do well enough now with what attention I can get from other
nurses; I will be very careful—nothing shall tempt me to be imprudent or
impatient. Ah, you must go, for poor Winthrop is hard pressed.”
“Of course I do not expect that you will go alone,” Dr. Winthrop
continued; “I will find other nurses to help you if they can be had, if
you will but superintend the care of my friends. I can trust you fully
and shall feel that nothing will be neglected under your supervision.”
The gentle nun did not reply immediately. She seemed to be gravely
considering the matter; but Mr. Tillinghast, who alone could see
anything of her face, was sure that he saw a vivid crimson shoot up and
lose itself under her ugly bandages as if the proposition was a very
distasteful one to her.
“Yes, monsieur, I will go,” she at last replied in her usual quiet
tones; then she turned back to the bedside and went on feeding her
charge though he thought her hand trembled slightly on its way from the
plate to the mouth.
“I believe I should have died but for you, Sister Angela,” the young man
said, when he had finished his breakfast. “I am very grateful. I shall
bless you always. Is there not something I can do for you to prove it?”
“Nothing, monsieur; my wants are very few and I need no proof,” she
answered, but her voice was not quite steady he thought.
“I am sorry,” he said gratefully, “for I should be glad to make some
thankoffering. My friend tells me that you are called the ‘Angel in
Gray,’ here in the hospital; you have surely proved yourself such to me;
may you live long to bless others with your gentle ministrations.”
Again a flush swept over what was visible of her face, and her lips
parted with a sigh that was something like a sob.
“The poor creature has known some heavy sorrow,” the young man thought;
“perhaps that was what drove her to be a nun. I wonder how old she is;
nobody can tell with all that cotton-cloth wound about her head and
face. She may be forty for all I can tell, but she seems a refined lady.
Her voice is sweet and low and cultured; her movements are graceful yet
dignified, and her hands are small and beautifully formed.”
He continued to watch her curiously while she busied herself about some
last cares for his comfort, and then she came to take leave of him, as
Dr. Winthrop was anxious to start at once for the villa.
“Good-by,” the invalid said, with emotion; “I hope I shall see you some
time again, Sister Angela, but if I do not I shall always hold you in
grateful remembrance.”
She bowed her head in acknowledgment of his gratitude, murmured a
benediction over him, and then passed quietly out of the room with Dr.
Winthrop.
The young physician felt greatly relieved because she had acceded to his
request and tried to express his thanks, but she cut him short in the
midst of them.
“Thanks are unnecessary, monsieur; it is my work, my duty,” she said. “I
go to one, then to another, wherever I am most needed.”
“But I think you are hardly strong enough for such work; it is too hard,
too wearing for your slight frame.”
“But I am well. I shall work while heaven gives me strength, then—God’s
will be done,” was the low-voiced, tremulous reply, and its pathos sent
a quick stab of pain through the young physician’s heart. There was a
certain hopelessness in it that moved him deeply.
He found another woman to go out to the villa with them, he feared she
would be hardly suited to the sick-room; still it was the best he could
do; and he had to be content.
He tried to engage Sister Angela in conversation on their way thither,
but she would not talk. She listened to whatever he had to say with
bowed head and clasped hands, and when actually obliged to answer him,
she did so in the briefest manner.
Arriving at the villa, Dr. Winthrop found his father alarmingly ill.
Evelyn was considerably frightened, but in no immediate danger. Madame
Winthrop was far from well, but did not as yet show any symptoms of the
terrible scourge.
Norman Winthrop was doing the best that he could for them all, with the
assistance of the servants; but he was greatly relieved by the
appearance of his brother and his assistants.
Mrs. Rochester and her daughter had shut themselves in their own rooms
as soon as Mr. Winthrop was attacked, and kept aloof as much as possible
from every one. They would have been glad now to flee from France at
once, if they had not feared they would be overtaken by the plague
before they could reach a place of safety.
Sister Angela at once took up her position at the bedside of Mr.
Winthrop; but, though she was faithful in the minutest particular and
Dr. Winthrop spared no effort to save his father, he died on the next
morning after their arrival, and in accordance with the prevailing law,
was immediately buried.
This affliction of course made Evelyn worse. Madame Winthrop was at once
prostrated, while, before the day was over, Dr. Winthrop was summoned to
attend Miss Rochester, who was violently attacked with cramps.
“We must have more help,” he said, with pale lips, a little later to
Sister Angela. “Where shall I turn for another nurse?”
The faithful nun, after thinking a moment, drew forth a note-book, wrote
a few lines, then, tearing a couple of leaves from it, was about to pass
them to the physician, when she suddenly seemed to change her mind and,
crumpling them in her hand, hastily thrust them into her capacious
pocket.
“Could you find No. 15 Rue de ——?” she asked, mentioning a street in an
humble quarter of Paris.
“Yes, I can find any place if there is hope of getting a nurse in this
terrible emergency,” he desperately returned.
“Then go—inquire for Harriet Winter; tell her Sister Angela has need of
her and she will come. Hasten, monsieur, for time is precious.”
Dr. Winthrop needed no second bidding; he did not even pause to wonder
that the French nun had sent him for a woman with a very American name.
With despair at his heart he flew back to Paris, sparing neither himself
nor his horses. He found the street and the woman, Harriet Winter, a
black-eyed red-cheeked, pleasant-mannered person, who did not hesitate
to obey his summons; and before night she was installed in Miss
Rochester’s room, and Dr. Winthrop felt that he was fortunate indeed in
having secured another nurse second only to Sister Angela herself.
Harriet Winter not only proved very efficient in the sick-room but
seemed to fit in everywhere. She assumed the management of the entire
household, and the family began to experience a sense of home-like
comfort such as they had not known during their residence abroad.
During the two weeks that followed, there were anxious days and nights.
Madame Winthrop went very low into the “valley of the shadow of death,”
while Evelyn slowly rallied. Then when her mother began to recover, she
had a relapse, and at one time her brother thought she was gone beyond
recall.
But the faithful nurse would not give her up; she stood over her, even
after Dr. Winthrop had said there was no pulse and that all further
effort would not avail, and persisted in dropping nourishment mixed with
stimulants between her pallid lips.
“It can do no harm, monsieur,” she murmured, when he had begged her to
desist.
“No, nor any good,” he responded moodily; but his voice broke as it
suddenly occurred to him that his sister must die without a knowledge of
his forgiveness for the great wrong she had done him, and, staggering
weakly to a chair, he sank into it, with a groan bowing his face upon
his hands.
The overworked man was worn out mentally as well as physically.
A deep quivering sigh broke from the lips of Sister Angela, but aside
from a yearning, wistful glance, she paid no heed to him, but continued
her ministrations.
One—two hours passed, and still the weary man sat there half asleep,
wholly exhausted, while drop by drop the patient nun pressed the
stimulating gruel between the girl’s hueless lips.
At length she thought that her breathing, which had hardly been
perceptible for a long time, had become a trifle stronger. All at once
the invalid appeared to swallow naturally. A faint sigh broke upon
Sister Angela’s ears, the girl moved her head slightly on her pillow,
and then sunk into a natural slumber.
A wan little smile flitted over the nurse’s lips, as she noiselessly
placed her cup and spoon on the table beside her and glanced at that
other sleeping figure across the room.
She would not arouse him from the blessed rest, for she knew her good
news could wait; but when at last she saw he was awake she glided softly
to his side, and said in a scarcely audible tone.
“Monsieur, take courage, I think your sister will live.”
Dr. Winthrop started to his feet, a dazed look on his worn face; then he
moved quickly to Evelyn’s side, and at the first glance his practiced
eye told him that there had been a decided change for the better.
From that time until morning dawned, he never left her side, and when
the sun arose, he felt almost as if his sister had been given back to
him from the dead.
But their trials were by no means over, for during that day one of the
servants died, and Miss Rochester appeared to be sinking. But what need
to dwell upon those wretched experiences? upon the almost superhuman
effort of Dr. Winthrop to save the precious lives in his charge; of the
faithfulness of those tireless nurses, who neglected nothing, and yet
exercised the utmost care over their own health for the sake of their
patients.
Those were experiences that could never be forgotten, but they could not
endure forever, and when those who had been so near the borders of the
other world began to recover, and Dr. Winthrop pronounced them out of
danger, Sister Angela and Harriet Winter were relieved by two other
women, and sent away for needful rest.