In less than the specified time a man came back from the doctor to
inform Miss Arnold that her services were needed in a house about two
squares away from there, and that he would show her the place. Her
little trunk was already packed, her shawl and hat donned, when the
messenger arrived. But she found it very difficult to get away from
the Burtons. These poor, grateful people could not bear to part with
her whom they almost worshipped as their preserver. Children and
mother pleaded almost with anguish for her to stay with them.
"I would like to remain, Mrs. Burton," replied Agnes, "but there are
hundreds being stricken down every hour around us, who have no one to
wait upon them, and who may perish before help can reach them. You and
these darlings are now comparatively safe, while others just taken are
in deadly peril."
Her kind remonstrance had its effect, and the Burtons now consented to
let her go.
All kissed her most fondly, bade her good-by, and called down the
choicest blessings of Heaven upon her head.
"God bless you, and keep you safe from the horrible fever!" were the
words still ringing in her ears, as the heroic and devoted girl
followed the doctor's man out into the street.
It was not raining now, but the murky, mist-laden atmosphere was
rendered like a damp, choking, heavy pall of gloom by the dense
volumes of pitch and tar-smoke with which it seemed to be perfectly
soaked, as a sponge is with water. It caused Agnes to cough violently
and continuously until she arrived at her new destination, which was a
private dwelling-house, apparently the abode of some one belonging to
the middle class of society.
"This is the place, Miss Arnold," said the man, "a young lady was
taken early this morning while she was visiting in the house, and a
few hours ago a Sister of Mercy, who was sent in to nurse her, went
down sick. And they're both in bed together."
Agnes could not account for it, but the moment she heard mention of
the Sister of Charity, a feeling came over her that it must be one of
the three with whom she had come hither in the cars.
Upon reaching the house, she found that her impression was
correct. Sure enough, tossing in agony and delirium upon the bed, was
Sister Theresa. By some mistake, a male nurse had also been sent to
this house, of which circumstance Agnes, however, was very glad, as
his services were very valuable until she had administered her first
simple remedies to the two patients.
As soon as she could, she thanked the man, and informed him that she
could now get along without him, and that he had better report to the
doctor for assignment to some other house.
He left, and Agnes now commenced her task of peril and unceasing
labor.
The lady whom Sister Theresa had come to nurse was comparatively
quiet. But, strange as it may seem, Theresa herself was extremely
violent at intervals. Yet when in her right mind, she was the sweetest
and gentlest of her sex. Alas! how unlike her natural self was she,
now that reason was dethroned.
All through the long, long, dreary night, Agnes never once closed her
eyes. All night long, too, she never flagged in her devoted attention
to her patients. Minute by minute, instant by instant, inch by inch,
as it were, she battled with the demon fever that held so fiercely the
two sick women in his horrible grasp.
Ah, noble, noble Agnes, when thy soul appears on that final day before
God's judgment-seat on high, how thrice enviable will be thy reward!
What hymns of glorious praise shall heaven's choir chant for thee!
It was nearly day-dawn ere Agnes succeeded in getting the Sister of
Mercy into a somewhat quiet state, and then, completely worn out, she
was herself obliged to seek a little rest. Even her manner of doing
this showed how little she dreaded the pestilence, for, instead of
going to another room, she lifted Theresa further over in the bed, and
laying herself down beside her, placed her arm over her, kindly,
lovingly, so that if she should chance to move, though never so
slightly, it would awaken her.
Uttering a prayer, first for her patients, and then for herself, Agnes
fell at once into a light but refreshing slumber, from which, however,
she awakened at about the proper time to administer another dose of
medicine. This done, she again lay down as before, and in this way she
obtained three or four hours of good sleep, which had the effect to
refresh her very much indeed; after which she rinsed her face, hands
and neck in cold water, and partook of as good a breakfast as she
could possibly get under the circumstances.
By careful attention in such particulars as these, Agnes managed to
keep up her health, strength and good spirits, when all the rest of
the nurses, both male and female, were completely fagged and wearied
out both in mind and body.
Just after partaking of her frugal meal, Agnes was obliged to spring
to her bedside, for all of a sudden Sister Theresa had started up out
of her sleep, weeping most piteously, and Agnes feared she would throw
herself out of bed. But in a few minutes, by her kind, soothing voice,
she had quieted her patient and got her to lie down again.
Agnes never was without her Bible, and bethinking herself that its
holy words would have a good effect upon Theresa, she quickly opened
it as chance directed. It was at the twenty-third Psalm.
"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down
in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters."
Agnes was a magnificent reader, and as her flute-like voice, in clear,
grand, musical tones, uttered word after word of this most beautiful
psalm, not only Sister Theresa, but the other patient, seemed quickly
to alter. And ere she had concluded her reading. Agnes noticed that
both, but especially Theresa, looked better, or rather supremely
happy.
"You are indeed an angel!" she exclaimed, seizing the hand of her
nurse and covering it with kisses. "They told me that the patients you
were nursing called you Angel Agnes, and I am sure you are. May God
and the saints keep you ever an angel, as you are now."
"Yes, yes," added the other patient, fervently, "God bless you! If we
had all the rest of the nurses like you, I do not believe any body
would die. The hired nurses are nearly all worthless. They work for
money alone, and do not care whether the people they nurse live or
die."
"That is horrible. I hope there are not many nurses of that
description."
"O, indeed, all are that way except the Sisters and yourself," replied
the lady.
At this juncture the doctor entered in a hurried manner.
"Well, Miss Arnold," he exclaimed, "how are you all getting along?"
"O, very well, sir, very well. I think we are all past danger."
Agnes answered the inquiry in a light, cheery tone, that in itself was
worth, as the saying goes, a cart-load of medicine.
"Upon my honor, ladies," continued the doctor, as he advanced to the
bed and took each of the invalids' wrists at once, in order to save
time, "our nurse here, Miss Arnold, is the most wonderful lady I have
ever seen. She has not failed to break the worst cases we have
had. Now your symptoms were of the most desperate character, and when
you were taken, I never expected to see either of you alive this
morning, and yet here you are recovering, and I verily believe beyond
further danger. Let me see your tongues. Well, well, well, this is
really astonishing. You are both doing splendidly. Just be a little
careful, and you are perfectly out of peril. Miss Arnold, you are
worth all our nurses; and really I'm afraid all us physicians also put
together."
"Ah, Doctor, you flatter me," laughed Agnes, much pleased at the same
time to hear the flattery, as well because it seemed to have a
brightening effect upon the patients as for any other reason.
"Indeed I do not flatter you at all, Miss Arnold. I really begin to
wish I was a woman myself, so that if I should get the fever I might
have you to nurse me well again."
"O never mind about the being a woman, Doctor," archly rejoined Agnes,
"if you should be so unfortunate as to get it, I'll come and nurse
you."
"Will you? well now that's kind and brave of you, I am sure. And
speaking of a man, Miss Arnold, that reminds me. While inspecting a
train at the first station, we found a young gentleman aboard, who was
coming to Shreveport here, expressly to see you. His name was
Harkness"--
"O, Doctor!" interruptingly exclaimed Agnes, as the color left her
cheeks and lips. "I hope you did not permit him to come into this
danger!"
A far duller observer than the doctor could have seen the intense love
of this beautiful girl for the young man referred to.
"He's out of peril, Miss Agnes," explained the doctor, "for we refused
to allow him to pass in."
No actress ever trod the stage on whose features the emotions of
pleasure and regret portrayed themselves at once, as on the face of
Agnes when heard these words.
"Would you rather have had us permit his entrance?" asked the doctor.
"For my own satisfaction and curiosity I would rather have had it so,
Doctor. But for his sake, no; a hundred times no."
"Ah, Miss Arnold, heart disease is sometimes worse than Yellow Jack,"
remarked the doctor half-seriously.
"Yes, yes, it is always so," said Agnes earnestly.
"I am surprised he allowed you to come here, Miss Arnold."
The doctor was evidently deeply interested in his wonderful and
beautiful nurse, and the artificial twinkle he forced into his gray
eyes could not mask his sincerity from Agnes, who answered:
"Doctor, Mr. Harkness was my intended husband; but a jealous and
mischievous young lady, who envied me I suppose, managed, through
deceit, to estrange us. And so"--
Agnes did not know how to finish the sentence. She studied what words
to utter in conclusion, until the pause became painfully awkward,
seeing which the doctor with much consideration said:
"I can guess Miss Arnold, what you would say, and I fear there has
been too much haste on both your parts for each other's happiness.
But Mr. Harkness evidently has for yourself at least a powerful
sentiment of something stronger than mere friendly affection, to leave
the other young lady and come hither into the midst of such a deadly
peril as Yellow Fever. He has found out the deception, and has, I
suppose, come like a man, to tell you so and ask your forgiveness."
"That must be it, Doctor, that must be it," replied Agnes with much
warmth, "that's his disposition, I know. He has a noble disposition."
After a short further conversation the physician left, with the same
request as before, for Agnes to remain until he sent her a message
where to go next.
This was not long delayed, as in about half an hour or so a message
came for her to go to a house a few squares away, where a whole family
had just been taken down with the disorder.
Bidding her two patients farewell, Agnes hastened away to the new
scene of duty.