NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES.
Mrs. Merriman’s bell rang violently once, twice, and the lady laid
aside her book, exclaiming:
“Who can that be, so late as this? Half-past nine, and almost bedtime.
Run, Michael. Though I thought you’d gone upstairs before now. It takes
the maid so long to answer. There it is again. Hurry. Dear, dear! I
_hope_ it isn’t a telegram.”
“I’m going, Mary,” called the lad to the maid, as he rushed to the door.
Peter stood outside, bareheaded and looking almost white in his terror.
“For mercy’s sake, Massa Michael, is there a woman in this house?”
“Of course. Lots of them. Grandmother, Mary, waitress, Samanda--Why?”
“Our little Miss Josephine. I reckon she’ll die.”
“Die, Peter? That little girl? What’s the matter?” cried Michael.
“Goodness knows, I don’t. She can’t hardly breathe, she can’t. Massa
Joe’s sent for his doctor and his doctor he’s out, and we don’t have no
faith in them others round the square, and--_Will_ some of your women
please just step in and take a look at our poor little missy?”
Michael darted back into the sitting-room, exclaiming:
“Grandma, that little girl next door is awful sick. Peter’s frightened
most to death himself. He wants some of our women to go in there and
help them.”
“Our women! Of what use would they be, either of them? I’ll go myself.
Ring for Mary, please,” said the old lady, rising.
The maid appeared, and was directed to bring:
“My shawl and scarf, Mary. I’m going in next door to see a sick child.
You stay right here in the hall and keep the latch up, so that
there’ll be no delay if I send in for you or anything needed. Yes,
Michael, you may go with me to help me up and down the steps, though
you ought to be in bed. Yet come. It must be something serious for Mr.
Smith to thus far forego his reserve.”
Uncle Joe was waiting at the head of the stairs as Mrs. Merriman
ascended them, with that activity upon which she prided herself, and
asked:
“Are you in trouble, neighbor? What is it?”
“The little girl. I don’t know whose even. Came to me, an express
‘parcel,’ and I haven’t traced the blunder, found the right--no matter.
This way, please. I’ll explain later.”
There was no trace of the gout left in the gentleman’s movements as he
preceded his neighbor to Josephine’s room, where the child lay gasping,
feverish, and clutching at her own throat in an agony of terror.
One glance, and Mrs. Merriman’s shawl was tossed aside, and she had
lifted the little sufferer in her arms, observing:
“Not even undressed! How long has she been like this?”
“For several hours, Peter says, but growing steadily worse. I’ve sent
for the doctor, but he hasn’t come. He”--
She interrupted him with:
“Send for another. The nearest possible. It’s croup. Short and quick,
usually. Michael, run in for Mary. Now, Peter, heat some blankets. Find
me her night-clothes. Warm that bed. A foot-tub of hot water. Any oil
in the house? Epicac? Any other household remedies?”
“There’s the medicine for the gout, madam,” suggested Mr. Smith.
“Oh, bother the gout. That’s nothing. _This_ is--serious. There, Mary,
lend a hand. Michael, run for Doctor Wilson. Hurry. If you can’t find
him, then the next one. There are seven of them around this square,
perched like vultures, seeking whom they may devour. As a rule, I
ignore the whole crowd, but I’m thinking of this little one’s mother
now. Hurry, lad,” directed Mrs. Merriman.
Mr. Smith stood silent, helpless, and admiring. This was a gentlewoman
of the old school, such as he remembered his own mother to have been,
who was not afraid to use her own hands in ministering to the suffering
and who wasted no time in questions. Every movement of her wrinkled
but still firm fingers meant some solace to the little child, whose
brown eyes roamed from one to another with a silent, pitiful appeal.
In a twinkling, it seemed, Josephine was undressed, reclothed in soft,
warm garments, her chest anointed with the relaxing oil, and a swallow
of hot milk forced between her lips. Then Michael was dispatched to
the nearest drug store and brought back a dose of the old-fashioned
remedy Mrs. Merriman had used for her own little children. But she had
hardly time to administer it before one of the physicians summoned
had appeared, and to him she promptly resigned the direction of
affairs. His first order was that Mr. Smith should go below to his own
comfortable library and remain quiet, adding:
“I’ll report as soon as your child is better, sir.”
“She isn’t my child, doctor, but do you care for her as if she were.
Spare no expense. She must not, she must not die upon my hands. I’d no
right to retain her as long as I have, but--but-- Don’t let her die,
doctor, and you’ll save me from everlasting remorse.”
“Go below, Mr. Smith. Peter, attend your master. There are enough of
us here, and this little lady will soon be all right. It’s croup only,
and-- What has she been eating lately?”
“What has she not? How can I tell? But one thing I know, she ate no
dinner to-night,” answered the host.
“So much the better. Now, Mr. Smith”--a wave of the hand in the
direction of the doorway suggested that the master of the house was
banished from the sickroom.
Daylight was breaking when at last the doctor led Mrs. Merriman down
the stairs and to her own home, leaving Mary and Peter on watch, and
promising a speedy return, with the assurance that all danger was now
past. At the door of the library the old lady paused and looked in. Mr.
Smith still sat erect in his chair, and seemed as wide awake as she was
drowsy, and she advised him:
“Go to bed, neighbor. The little one is all right again. We’ve had a
tussle for it, but she’s pulled through. Go to bed and get some rest.
I’m really sorry for you that this uninvited trouble has come upon you,
and will help you share it, so far as I may. But, doubtless, we’ll all
see why it was allowed, before we’ve done with it.”
He returned, gallantly enough:
“For one reason, it may be, madam, to render me more just and tolerant
to my neighbors. You have laid me under great”--
But she checked him, saying:
“Beg pardon, under nothing at all. It was the little child for whom
I came, and if I have served you, too, why so much the better. Good
morning.”
She went at once, leaving him to reflect:
“To go to bed at daylight! When ever did I such a thing? But I will.
Though I wonder if I am quite right in my mind. The idea of one small
child upsetting two such households, all for the sake of a sled-ride!
Hmm. Hmm. Peter! Here, Peter. I’m for bed at breakfast time! After an
hour or two of rest I’ll set about finding that mislaid Joseph Smith
and hand over to him this little-too-absorbing responsibility. Thank
God, boy, that she did not die.”
“Aye, Massa Joe. I’se been a-thinkin’ of him the whole endurin’ night.
Powerful queer, ain’t it? Just such a little speck of while, and now
seems if that little missy worth more to old Peter than the whole
universe. Yes, suh, the whole universe!”
“Much you know about the universe, boy. There, there! Take care that
foot. If you set it aching again--Ouch!”
It was not one but many hours that Mr. Smith slept, worn out by his
late physical suffering and his anxiety of the last night. When he woke
his first inquiry was for Josephine.
“Laws, Massa Joe, it’s just wonderful. That child seems if nothing ever
ailed her. The doctor done been here again and told what to give her
for breakfast. She eat it like she was ’most starved, the little lamb.
Now she’s sleepin’ again, the beautifullest ever was. I ’xpect ’twas
that sleddin’ round the square done fetched it on. Next time”--
“Hush, boy. Don’t count on any ‘next time’ for her here. I must hunt up
that other Joseph Smith and hand her over to him forthwith,” said the
master.
Peter’s heart sank. How could they ever endure that great house now
with this little child gone out of it? Well, there was one thing which
nobody could prevent--his wishing that the “other Joseph” might never
be found!
After Mr. Smith had eaten he paid a flying visit to the little one’s
room, gazed at her now peaceful, if pale face, and stole downstairs
again with softened tread. He limped but slightly, and made a critical
survey of himself before he issued from the great hall into the street.
“If you’s going down town, Massa Joe, like enough you better have a
cab. ’Counten your foot,” suggested Peter.
“You may ’phone for one, boy. No. Stay. I’ll not baby myself thus far.
The air is warm as summer, almost, and the streets cleared. I’ll take a
car; but--Shut that door, Peter. I don’t need you further. If anything
happens to Miss Josephine, or any news comes concerning her, send me
word at once. Shut that door, can’t you?” he finished testily.
“Certainly, suh;” yet good Peter left it a crack ajar, the better to
watch his master, whose actions somehow suggested a different order of
things from usual. He saw Mr. Smith descend his own and ascend Mrs.
Merriman’s stoop, and threw up his hands in dismay, exclaiming:
“For goodness! I do hope Massa Joe ain’t done gone rake up all that old
line-fence trouble, just after her bein’ so good to our little missy.
What if ’tis five inches on our ground, and she claimin’ it’s just so
far ’tother way, and the lawyers argifying the money outen both their
pockets, this ain’t no time for to go hatchin’ fresh miseries. And I
never, not once, all these dozen years seen Massa Joe go a callin’ and
a visitin’ nobody, not for just pure visit. Whenever he has, ’twas
’cause there was some sort of business tacked on to the end of it
somehow. Huh! I never done looked for this, I didn’t.”
Neither had the lady expected the call which was made upon her. But she
greeted her guest with a friendly courtesy that made him all the more
remorseful for the legal difficulties he had placed in her way in the
past, and quite ready to offer his apologies for the same at a fitting
opportunity. At present his visit was to express his gratitude for her
services to Josephine, and to ask her advice.
“My advice, Mr. Smith? I am the last person in the world to advise so
capable a person as yourself. My opinion you’re most welcome to, if you
explain what I should express it about,” she returned.
“The little girl, Josephine;” and he told all he knew and had
thought concerning her; finishing with the words, “I have so little
information to go upon.”
She promptly inquired:
“Beg pardon, but have you gone upon what little you do possess?”
“Madam?” he asked.
“I mean, have you really set about finding this mislaid uncle as if
your heart was in it?” she explained.
“I haven’t hurried. I deputized my business man to look the thing up,
but--I don’t deny that I wish the other rightful Joseph Smith might be
found to have left the country,” he answered.
“Even despite the anxiety Josephine has caused you?”
“Yes, madam. I mean to be honest. I hate to set detectives on the task,
yet I will. But meanwhile, until the child’s relatives are found, what
shall I do with her? Can you direct me to a capable woman who will
engage to look after her welfare for the few days I may need her?”
Mrs. Merriman looked at him critically, with a twinkle gleaming in her
eye. An audacious thought had come to her, yet a thought so full of
possibilities for good--and, maybe, ill--that she decided to act upon
it, and quietly replied:
“Yes, Mr. Smith, I think I do know just the right woman. She has lately
returned from a winter in California, where she has been nursing an
invalid back to health. She is a trained nurse and was with me last
year, during my long illness. I received her card recently saying
that she would be in this city about now. Indeed, she must have left
Southern California at about the same time as your little ward, though
she was to delay a day or so at Chicago. I will send to inquire if she
is at home, at her boarding-house, if you desire.”
He assented, adding:
“I should be very grateful. I trust I may be able to prove later on
that I am not unappreciative of all your goodness.”
“Don’t mention it. Good morning. I will write the note immediately, and
until some person is regularly established in your house to look after
little Josephine, I will step in there now and then, myself, to see
that all is right.”
They parted most amicably, and the first action of Mr. Smith, upon
reaching his office, was to send for his lawyer and tell him that he
had abandoned the question of line-fences entirely; that Mrs. Merriman
should be notified that all claim to the “insignificant strip of land
midway their respective side-yards was hereby and forever relinquished,
with no costs to herself.”
Her own proceeding was the writing of a note to her friend, the nurse,
and so imperative was the summons it contained that the lady answered
in person, although not yet sufficiently rested from the fatigue of a
long journey and her previous engagement to desire another so promptly.
As for Josephine, after a morning of dreamless, health-restoring sleep,
she woke to find a familiar figure sitting by her bedside, smiling
affectionately upon her. A brief, puzzled glance, a rubbing of the
brown eyes to make sure they saw aright, and the child sprang out of
bed, into the woman’s arms crying:
“Oh, Red Kimono! You dear, kind, Mrs. Red Kimono, where did you come
from?”