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CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
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NO. 27.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, JULY 5, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
HOME-NURSING.
BY A LADY.
FIRST ARTICLE.
Illness in some form is so often amongst us, that it may safely be said
there is no occupation of more universal importance than the care of
the sick, and there are few women worthy of the name who at some time
or other are not called upon to minister to the needs of sufferers by
disease or accident.
Much has been done of late years to improve the tone of nursing amongst
those who take it up as a profession, so that the ‘Sarey Gamp’ of
old times has practically given place to the skilled, conscientious
nurse, who has been trained to look upon her work as something more
than a mere means of livelihood. But whilst this is true of those
who devote their lives to nursing, there still remains a vast amount
of ignorance, even of its very elements, amongst those who are only
occasionally called upon to bedside-ministration, and it is our
object in this series of papers to give our readers such information
as may fit them to act on an emergency, if not with the skill of
the trained nurse, with at least so much knowledge and intelligence
as shall give the patient some chance of comfort and help. Not, of
course, that the practical work of nursing can be acquired by any
amount of book-knowledge alone; but for those who cannot spare time
for regular hospital training, it is of great importance to understand
at anyrate what should be aimed at in nursing; and were this more
widely understood, it would do much towards mitigating the avoidable
sufferings inflicted on unhappy patients who have to be nursed by those
who are full of love indeed, but without any idea of the work they are
undertaking.
This brings me to a point on which I can hardly be too emphatic. In
cases of serious illness, especially where there is much acute pain,
secure, if possible, the services of a trained nurse. Apart from her
superior knowledge of means for giving relief, the patient will be
much more likely to yield to the authority of a stranger, and at the
same time the stranger being used to the sight of suffering, will have
command over her countenance, and will not show the distress which it
is hardly possible for inexperience to conceal. Indeed, patients of
self-controlled habits will sometimes put such strain upon themselves
to hide their pain from too sympathising friends, as really to increase
their sufferings; whilst with a stranger the relief of expression may
safely be indulged in. Perhaps such cases of self-repression are rare;
but at anyrate the trained nurse will often have resources at command
of which the uninitiated know nothing, and will be able to handle and
attend to the patient with the steadiness and tact only to be learned
in the school of experience. I admit the tender sound of the sentiment
which fancies that no hand is like the hand of affection; but, as a
practical matter, no love, however great, can supply the place of skill
and knowledge.
I remember meeting with the case of a widow, whose only son was
attacked with one of the most terrible forms of disease, accompanied
with anguish that wrung cries of agony from the strong man’s lips.
Unable to help himself, yet restless to a painful degree, his case
demanded the utmost watchfulness and attention, in addition to which he
was of such an unselfish nature that his sufferings became doubled as
he saw their effect upon his mother. She, ignorant as a child, refused
to listen to any suggestion of sending for a nurse; and in answer to
the remonstrances of friends, exclaimed with indignation: ‘As though
any one could do as well for him as his mother.’ Alas! poor fellow,
it might almost have been said: ‘As though any one could do _worse_
for him than his mother;’ and none of those who witnessed the pitiable
condition he was allowed to get into, felt any surprise at hearing him
eagerly welcome death as release from misery. I do not say that the
best of nursing would have saved his life, though it might have given
him a chance; but beyond a doubt, skilled hands could have ministered
to his wants in such a way as to have obviated a large amount of
distress and pain.
But apart from such grave cases, there are many forms of illness which
may safely be trusted to home-care, provided there is a fair amount of
knowledge of those general rules which lie at the root of all degrees
of successful nursing. Not that every woman is fitted to undertake
the care of a sick-room. A certain, and not small amount of physical
strength is absolutely needful, as well as some special qualifications,
natural or acquired, which are equally essential. In this connection,
there is a popular fallacy which demands notice. What a common thing it
is to hear a person described as ‘a born nurse,’ with the implication
that therefore she is fitted at any time, and under all circumstances,
to take her place in the sick-room with confidence of success. Now, the
expression ‘born’ applied to any other special calling will show how
much value it possesses. Who in his senses would speak of the ‘born’
painter or musician as thereby exempted from the necessity of further
training? And—to take a more homely example—there are few mistresses, I
fancy, who would engage a servant on the sole recommendation of being a
‘born cook!’ Yet it may easily be conceived that the rejector of such
an aspirant would consider it natural that she should undertake more
important and delicate sick-room work, on precisely those grounds which
she rightly looks upon as unsatisfactory in the matter of dinners.
The truth is, that in every department, those who have special gifts
require no small amount of thoughtful care and perseverance for the
full development of their natural abilities. In regard to nursing,
the low standard of the past has given rise to the erroneous idea of
‘birth’ qualification as supreme; but now that the standard is becoming
increasingly high, there is good reason to hope that there will be a
better general understanding of how much scope nursing affords for
intelligence and skill; with this, too, will come comprehension of the
fact that natural taste and ability are valuable only as grounds to
work upon.
We will now proceed to the consideration of those qualifications which
are essential to the good nurse. In the first place, I would urge
every reader to cultivate _self-control_ as a habit of daily life, for
without it, there will be little power of helping in a sick-room. Not
that it is always possible to help feeling shocked and startled at the
sight of suffering, especially sudden suffering, with which there is no
familiarity; but a habit of self-control will give power to suppress
all expression of alarm, and so to keep one’s presence of mind as to be
able to consider what means of relief can be adopted.
But there are some people able to meet sudden emergency who yet fail
to keep their self-control during the wear and tear of long illness.
The patient is irritable, seems unreasonable, and demands constant
attention; and the nurse becomes so weary as to allow herself to show
by lagging movements or vexed looks, if not by actual rebuke, that her
work is a burden she would willingly give up if she had the chance.
Need I say that such conduct is incompatible with good nursing? And
I cannot too strongly urge the necessity for keeping control over
face and tongue, as well as over actions. In home-nursing this is
one of the greatest difficulties, especially where the illness is
straining resources, and there is the additional anxiety of wondering
how both ends may be made to meet. But at any cost a nurse must keep
watch over herself, and strive after that _cheerfulness_ which is a
second element in good nursing. Perhaps only those who have grieved
over recovery retarded by the gloom and depression of attendants, can
understand the full force of the stress I would lay upon the duty of
keeping a bright face and cheerful voice. No amount of devotion in
other respects can atone for their absence. It is possible for a nurse
to spend time and strength lavishly in day and night vigils, to be the
best of poultice-makers, and the most careful administrator of food and
medicine, and yet to fail utterly in helping the patient back to health
and strength. Over and over again I have found patients sorrowful,
perhaps crying, over the sense of being ‘such a burden;’ this, too,
where there has been real affection on the part of nurses, but where
the first duties of self-control and cheerfulness have been neither
understood nor practised.
Of a kindred nature is the third requisite, _patience_, a virtue which
is sure to be largely needed in most forms of illness. Even where a
nurse is fortunate enough to have to deal with an amiable, unexacting
spirit, the hundred-and-one details of daily nursing are apt to become
very wearisome to those unaccustomed to minute and monotonous duties,
and the temptation is strong to hurry the patient or to slur over
details. I have seen a patient’s languid appetite chased away by his
nurse’s evident anxiety to regain possession of cup or plate; and where
having the hair brushed is the one pleasure of the day, the admonition
to ‘be quick and turn your head’ does not give an added charm to the
operation.
But, unhappily, the patience is sometimes tested in a far more trying
way. Apart from the helpless tediousness of a long illness, which
alone may affect the patient’s temper and cause varying degrees of
irritability, there is, with some diseases, an accompanying fretfulness
or moodiness most difficult to manage. So marked may this become, that
occasionally the patient seems to have changed his character, and the
most amiable and unselfish in health may become the most impatient and
exacting in illness. The trained nurse, accustomed to watch the effects
of disease, will understand and make allowance for such perversion;
but in private nursing I have known patients’ friends suffer acutely
from manifestations of ill-temper, for which they could only account on
moral grounds. To the inexperienced, I would say: remember how closely
body and soul are bound together, and believe that the _changed_ temper
is only a fresh symptom to be reported to the doctor as faithfully as
any alteration in the bodily condition. But even taking this view,
it is trying not to be able to do or say the right thing, to have
the kindest actions misconstrued, and perhaps to hear of complaints
made against you in your absence. Your best help will be to keep
constantly in mind the fact that it is your patient’s misfortune, and
not his fault, and that it causes him far more discomfort than it
does you. So, be very careful not to aggravate him by opposition or
by reference to exciting topics; answer quietly, and at once, his
most vexing speeches, but as far as possible, do not argue about even
the most irrational statements. If you are blessed with tact as well
as patience, you may be able to divert attention, and lead to happier
channels of thought, always bearing in mind that you can do no greater
kindness than to lead your patient away from his misery. This is a
point so often overlooked, that it will bear dwelling upon, for the
nurse’s own discomfort under such a dispensation is so great, that she
is very apt to forget that the patient’s impressions are as real to
him as though they were actual facts, and that he fully believes it,
when he declares that you are trying your hardest to worry and annoy
him, and not to let him get well. Think of the wretchedness of such a
belief, and spare no pains to soothe and compose the sufferer.
At the same time, there is such a thing as spoiling a patient, even
though he be past the age we generally associate with the word ‘spoil.’
Illness often brings back some of the wayward peevishness of childhood,
and you get such things to contend with as positive refusal to take
food or medicine, or to comply with some order of the doctor’s. How
to meet these special difficulties we will consider later on; but as
regards the question of how far to give in to a patient’s whims and
fancies, there is no better general rule than this: oppose his wishes
only on questions of right and wrong; and when opposition becomes a
necessity, use special efforts so to keep your self-control as to avoid
all expression of anger or impatience. How far you succeed in steering
your patient through such troubled waters will depend greatly upon what
measure you possess of that invaluable gift, _sympathy_—in other words,
the power of putting yourself in another’s place, seeing from his point
of view, and feeling with him in his difficulties. A hard, cold, or
even a merely narrow nature cannot be trained into a really good nurse;
and indeed, as a broad rule, lack of health and lack of sympathy are
the only two absolutely insurmountable obstacles in the way of those
who desire to be helpful in the sick-room. For observe that the other
qualities I have named—self-control, cheerfulness, and patience—though
much easier to some than to others, are within the reach of all who
earnestly strive to possess them; and moreover, each and all are
capable of being developed and cultivated to an almost unlimited
extent. Sympathy, on the other hand, though capable of development by
its fortunate possessor, is one of those natural gifts which no amount
of training can impart, and which is no more within the reach of all
than is that good health without which attempts at nursing cannot but
end in failure. Given these two special gifts of health and sympathy,
and you have the ‘born nurse,’ needing, indeed, much patient care and
training, but one who may confidently count upon success.
Various other qualities and habits, such as humility, gentleness,
firmness, order, and accuracy, are useful in nursing, and to these we
shall refer in giving more specific details of a nurse’s work. There
are also various gifts, as good hearing and sight, cleverness of
fingers, and natural quickness of apprehension and of movement, which,
though very desirable, are not absolutely indispensable, and on these
it is not necessary to dwell. Those who have them may rejoice; and
those who have not, need not be disheartened, as they can very well be
dispensed with, provided there is thorough, conscientious effort made
to acquire those more necessary things which are to be had for the
trying.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
BY CHARLES GIBBON.
CHAPTER XXXVI.—IS IT TOO LATE?
‘There was nobody in the house, Mr Culver; but I knew you would be
here, and so came on.—Where is Pansy?’
Thus Madge, as she entered the vine-house, where Sam, the Scotch
gardener, standing on steps, was busy amongst rich clusters of grapes.
‘Oh, it’s you, Missy. Good-day to you,’ he answered, looking over his
shoulder with that serious contraction of the muscles of his thin face
which friends accepted as a smile. ‘This is washing-day; and if Pansy
is no in the house, she’ll be on the green wi’ the clothes.’
‘I shall find her; but I am glad to have an opportunity of speaking to
you first. Can you spare five minutes?’
‘Ten, or more, if it be to pleasure you, Missy,’ answered the gardener,
with as near an approach to gallantry as he had ever made. He came down
from the steps, and dusted them carefully with his apron. ‘I have no
chair to offer you; but you can take a rest here, if you’re no owre
proud.’
‘You will not think that of me,’ she said, smiling, ‘although I prefer
to stand.’
‘Please yoursel’, Missy, just please yoursel’, and you’ll no dee in the
pet. That’s what I aye say to onybody that maun hae their ain way.’
‘And what do you say to those who cannot have their own way?’
‘Oh, I say to them, you’ll just hae to do as you are bidden.’
‘Is that what you would say to Pansy, if she wanted very much to have
her own way about something?’
‘That would depend on what was the way she wanted,’ was the cautious
reply.
‘Well, Mr Culver, I am going to do what will offend you’——
‘That’s no possible.’
‘Or what you will take as a proof of my liking for Pansy, according
to the light in which you regard it. At anyrate, I hope you won’t be
annoyed with me.’
‘No a bit, no a bit, whatever it be.—But what is’t?’
‘Pansy does not know that I am going to speak to you about it, so you
must not be displeased with her, whatever you may think of me. Philip
says there can be no harm in speaking to you, and wishes me to do it.’
‘Guid-sake!—is there onything wrang?’
‘No, no; _we_ think everything is right, and that they will be a very
happy couple. Have you never considered that Pansy will want to marry
some day?’
Sam was relieved. Although Madge had been speaking with a smile on her
face all the time, he had been a little puzzled, and for a second
vaguely alarmed on his daughter’s account. When he heard this question
from her, he began to understand.
‘Ay, whiles the notion has come into my head—she’s a bonnie lass and a
guid lass, and it’s natural for women-folk to think about marriage. But
it appeared to me that there was time enough to fash about thae things,
and I just let the notion gang by.’
‘But you will have to consider it seriously—and soon. Suppose the man
she wanted did not please you: would you say that she must do as she is
bid, and refuse him?’
Sam took up the dead stem of a fern, and whilst he was breaking it into
small pieces, considered very wisely.
‘Wha is the man?’ he asked abruptly, comprehending what Madge was
hesitating to explain, and coming to the point at once.
‘He had the misfortune to offend some people who did not understand
him, but I hope you are not one of them: I am sure you will not be when
you know him. It is Caleb Kersey.’
Sam looked stolidly at the ground; no surprise, pleasure, or
displeasure expressed on his features. Madge observing him closely, was
busy collecting her arguments in favour of Caleb.
‘Now, that’s very queer,’ he began slowly. ‘When he was coming about
the house at first, I suspected that he was hankering after my lassie,
and I’m obliged to own that it wasna exactly the kind o’ match that
I would have liked her to make; but when she was spoken to, she just
said nothing. Syne, thinking that there was nae harm in his coming, and
seeing what fine work he was making of the harvest, I took a notion o’
the lad because he was fond o’ flowers— especially geraaniums. Do ye
know, daft-like as it was, I thought it was the geraaniums he had a
fancy for.’
There was a comic pathos in the air of dejection and disappointment
with which he made this confession, whilst he rubbed his soft cap
slowly over his head, as if he would rub out the stupidity which had
caused him to make such a mistake.
‘I have no doubt that the geraniums had something to do with bringing
him here,’ was the consolatory comment of Madge. ‘You may be certain
that Caleb would never say he liked anything if he did not. His
outspoken ways are the causes of the ill-favour he has fallen into
amongst the farmers. You know as well as I do that he is a good worker;
he is steady; and Philip bids me assure you that he is now in a
position which he is exactly fitted for, and he will be able to earn a
good wage. I believe that Pansy likes him, and that they are both held
back from speaking because they are afraid of you.’
‘Feared for me! How can that be? I never did anything to scare them;
and I’m sure I have ta’en mair pains in letting him into a’ the secrets
of the culture of geraaniums than I ever did wi’ onybody afore. Maybe I
should have tried him wi’ the pansies.’
‘He has found out that secret for himself,’ said Madge merrily as Sam
chuckled at his own little joke. ‘Then I may tell them that you will
not be cruel—that you will not interfere with them?’
‘Oh, if the young folk have settled the matter for themsel’s, there
would be no use of me interfering; and if they ha’ena, there’ll be no
need.’
‘I cannot tell you how much pleasure you have given me, Mr Culver; and
Philip will be delighted, for he began to think that poor Caleb was
going to be ruined by his anxiety about this matter. I must go and find
Pansy now.’
‘But there is no need to be in haste about it,’ said the gardener, and
there was evidently some anxiety underneath his dry manner: ‘she is a
young thing yet, and I’m no sure that I could get on without her.’
‘Perhaps you would not require to be separated from her; but all that
can be arranged by-and-by.’
As Madge quitted the vine-house, she was aware that Sam was
meditatively rubbing his head with his cap, and she heard him
muttering: ‘Ay, ay, it wasna the geraaniums after a’. Weel, weel, weel;
I daursay it’s natural.’ He always returned to his native dialect when
speaking familiarly, or when under the influence of emotion whether of
affection or rage.
The washing-house was a small erection jutting out from the back of
the cottage, and thither Madge hastened with the agreeable news,
which she believed was to make two young people ‘happy ever after.’
The door stood wide open as she approached, but a mist of steam hid
everything within, and boiling water running over the floor prevented
her from entering. A figure appeared in the mist—stooped—groped for
something—and presently darted out, stumbling against Madge.
‘Why, Pansy, what in the world is the matter?’
The girl was flushed and panting with excitement.
‘I am so stupid to-day.—I hope I did not hurt you,’ she gasped. ‘The
tap of the boiler—I forgot to turn it off; and the place was full of
steam in a minute, and I’ve upset the tub on the floor, and dirtied all
the clothes. O dear!’
‘Never mind about the clothes. You might have been suffocated or
scalded to death. Are you burned?’
‘I don’t know. I think my hand was a little, when I turned off the tap
just now.... O dear! I am so stupid to-day.’
The left hand was already puffed up with a white swelling, which
looked more dangerous than it was in reality. Madge hurried her into
the cottage, and poured oil over the scalded hand into a bowl. When
the bowl was half-full of oil, she bade the girl keep her hand in it.
Pansy submitted with a patience that was akin to indifference; but as
she continued at intervals to utter little cries of distress, it was
some time before Madge became aware that they had nothing to do with
the injury the girl had sustained. She did not look at her hand at all,
but stared at the window, as if she saw something outside that made her
unhappy.
‘I suppose you have not got any lint in the house. Well, you must find
a bit of soft rag; and when we have steeped it in the oil, I will
fasten it on your hand until we get Dr Joy to dress it properly. You
can walk down to the village with me.’
‘It’s no use—it doesn’t matter. I must finish the washing.... O dear!’
‘Is it paining you very much?’
‘O yes.—He looked so bad, that it scared me to see him; and I ran away,
and I don’t know what I was doing.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Madge, alarmed lest the girl’s
fright was to have more serious consequences than she had anticipated.
‘About _him_—Caleb.’
Her eyes were still fixed on the window; and observing this, Madge also
glanced in that direction, half expecting to see the lover outside.
Seeing no one, she became more and more uneasy about Pansy’s odd
behaviour.
‘He will come soon,’ she said cheeringly; ‘and I have great news for
you and for him. You would never guess what it is.’
‘No; I never would guess. I am not able to try.’
‘Ah, well, you will have all the more pleasure in the surprise. I
always knew your father was a sensible and just man, who would never
allow any prejudice to affect his judgment of others; but he did
surprise me when I spoke to him about you and Caleb. He gave me leave
to tell you that he will not interfere between you. Now, is not that
great news!’
Madge expected to see her flush with joy and rouse from the dazed state
into which she had fallen. Instead of that, Pansy started to her feet,
pale, and all consciousness of the scalded hand had evidently vanished.
‘I am sorry to hear that.’
‘Sorry!... Why?’
‘Because I am not going to have him,’ was the half-petulant,
half-sobbing answer.
‘O Pansy, what is this?’ exclaimed Madge astonished, puzzled and
regretful. ‘When we last spoke about him, you made me believe that
you liked him very much, and that you only hesitated because you were
afraid your father would not be pleased.’
‘And I do like him—like him so much, that it upsets me to put him out
or trouble him. But I’m not going to have him, and I’ve told him so. He
was asking me just before you came, and—and I told him.’
There was real distress in voice and look; but there was an
under-current of sulky defiance, as if being conscious that she had not
behaved well to the man, she was eager to defend herself, and finding
no ready way of doing it, was angry with herself whilst ready to
anticipate blame.
Madge’s expression of astonishment changed to one of grave concern,
although Pansy’s confession of anxiety to spare Caleb suggested that
there was nothing worse to apprehend than some misunderstanding between
the lovers, which would be put right as soon as the girl got over her
excitement. So she proceeded quietly to bandage the injured hand,
without speaking for several minutes. Pansy was evidently unhappy; the
silence of her friend was a more severe rebuke than any words of blame
could have been. She could endure it no longer.
‘Oh, what shall I do?’ she burst out; ‘_you_ are vexed with me now,
like him.’
‘You must not think that, Pansy. I am very much grieved to see you in
such a state as this; but I am sure it only needs a little forbearance
on your part to put everything right again. There is nothing uncommon
in a little tiff between lovers, and you will soon get over it. I will
answer for Caleb that he will be ready to make it up as soon as you
speak a kind word to him.’
‘But I can’t speak the word he wants, for I am not to have him.’
That was sufficiently decisive. Then Madge examined her closely, and
became very anxious, for she perceived that Pansy’s distress had a
deeper source than ‘a little tiff.’
‘You do not mean to say that Caleb is not the one you care most for?’
There was sullen silence.
Now, of all the feminine frailties which nature and training had taught
Madge to shun, coquetry stood foremost. An acted falsehood!—What could
be more abominable? A falsehood which, by inspiring baseless hopes,
may cause an honest heart long days and nights of pain, when the truth
becomes known? Can there be pleasure in seeing another suffer? There
are women who consider coquetting with any decent-looking fellow a
legitimate form of amusement, and avail themselves of it without a
suspicion of immodesty or a single pang of conscience; yet the same
women would scream at a mouse or at sight of a bleeding scratch. Demure
glances, soft tones, a confiding touch on the arm—meaning nothing more
than to gratify a mania for admiration at any cost—have played the
mischief in high and low life many a time.
If anybody might claim a privilege to coquet, Pansy might, for she had
been praised and flattered by everybody, whilst she had been guarded
by her father as if she had been a flower almost too precious for the
common eye. Hitherto, she had shown few symptoms of the weakness which
too often makes such a position dangerous. Although there were many
lads in the district who would fain have been suitors, not one dare say
that she had deceived him by word or look. Caleb Kersey could say it
now.
‘Come and sit down, Pansy, and let us talk about this; you will feel
better when you have told me all about it. Besides, it will do you good
to have a little rest before we start for the doctor’s.’
There was really no need to hurry to the doctor, as the wound had been
dressed so cleverly. Madge drew her gently down on the chair and,
holding her hand sympathetically, waited. Like a glow of sunlight
breaking through a rain-cloud, the sullen gloom was dispersed with a
sob and a burst of tears. Pansy’s head rested on her friend’s shoulder,
whilst she clutched her hand, as if seeking courage and support in the
assurance of her presence. The time for words had not come yet.
By-and-by, the girl lifted her head and wiped her eyes with a corner of
the big white apron which covered her from the neck to the ankle.
‘I’m right ashamed at myself for taking on this way—that I am,’ she
said bashfully; ‘and there ain’t no reason in it either, barring that
I’m vexed for vexing him, and that he’ll feel worse when he finds
there’s no help for it.’
‘Why have you not answered my question, Pansy?’
‘There ain’t no answer.’
‘Somebody else has spoken to you before Caleb, and has been luckier
than he.’
‘Nobody else has spoken to me—if you mean in the way of asking me.’
This cleared away a simoom of disagreeable speculations which had been
whirling through Madge’s brain. Caleb’s happiness was not wrecked yet.
‘And there is nobody you expect to ask you?’
‘Oh, I don’t say that—I don’t know. Who can tell what may happen? But
there’s no use speaking about that. I wish things hadn’t gone so far
with Caleb.’
Madge agreed that there was no use speaking any more at present; but
although she did not feel quite so assured as she had done a moment
before of Caleb’s speedy restoration to favour, she was hopeful that he
would be in the end, since no one else had spoken. At the same time,
she was satisfied that there was another who had contrived to catch the
wayward fancy of the girl by touching some hidden spring of vanity.
Worst of all, there was the unpleasant probability that this ‘other’
who disturbed the peace of two honest folk was one whose position
was so different from her own that the girl was afraid or ashamed to
confess her folly at once. But this would be transient, and Pansy would
come back to her senses in good time. Clearly, whatever silly notions
possessed her for the moment, it was Caleb she loved, or she would
never have been so much worried on his account.
Having, however, some conception of the headstrong nature of the man,
Madge was aware of the importance of promptitude in clearing up the
misunderstanding between the lovers, and she did not see how that could
be done unless Caleb remained steady and patient. She and Philip must
persuade him to be so. For the present, nothing more could be said to
Pansy with advantage.
The girl was glad of the excuse to go to the doctor’s, as it afforded
her time to recover self-possession before she came under the keen eyes
of her father. On their way through the forest, no further reference
was made to Caleb, although Madge talked about Philip’s work, and
the happy future which they believed was in store for every man who
laboured under him. Of course she intended her companion to understand
that Caleb would share largely in that brilliant future. Whether it
was this suggestion or the brisk exercise which had the effect, Pansy
looked sufficiently composed on their arrival in the village not to
attract the particular attention of passing acquaintances.
The injured hand was attended to, and Dr Joy complimented Madge on her
skill as a dresser.
‘There will be no need to ask you to come to my lecture on the art of
dressing ordinary wounds,’ said the little doctor gallantly; ‘but I
hope you will come, for I shall then feel that there will be at least
two people in the room who have some idea of the subject—you and the
lecturer. Meanwhile, you are not to go away without seeing Mrs Joy.
She has one of her patients with her—a poor woman who has got into a
dreadful muddle with her domestic economies. What a pity that we cannot
get the simple rule driven into their heads, that a penny saved is a
penny gained.—That’s her going now. Come this way; and you’ll excuse
me—I have a couple of patients to see immediately.—My dear, here is
Miss Heathcote with Pansy Culver.’
The doctor hurried away as Mrs Joy advanced with both hands extended to
Madge.
‘I am so delighted to see you, dear; I have’—— She interrupted herself,
and without releasing Madge’s hands, said in parenthesis: ‘How do you
do, Pansy; and how is your father? Please sit down.’ Without waiting
for a reply, she proceeded with what she had been about to say to
Madge. ‘I have such an interesting case to report to you. Of course
you remember Edwin’s lecture last year called “Penny wise and Pound
saved”—that is his playful way of dealing with that wicked saying of
“penny wise and pound foolish,” which has done incalculable harm to
poor people—and rich people too, I am sure. You remember it?’
‘I am sorry to have to own that I missed the lecture.’
‘What a pity! However, there was a poor labourer present—Wolden is
his name—and he was so deeply impressed by what he heard, that he
determined to lay by one penny regularly every week. That is a most
gratifying proof of the benefit of real practical counsel: but what
is most gratifying is that the man actually carried out his good
resolution. Think of that! He has fourteen shillings a week, and out
of each payment he regularly put by one penny in a hole above the
fireplace, which was only known to himself and his wife. Well, he kept
to his good resolution in spite of many temptations, and he only wanted
three weeks to make out a complete year of that noble self-denial.
Think!—what a glorious proof of the value of the lessons which Edwin
and I have been teaching. This man, who never before had a shilling
he could call his own, had actually stored away in the course of
forty-nine weeks four shillings and one penny!... It is so delightfully
marvellous to observe how atoms grow and multiply into mountains!’
Mrs Joy was so much pleased with the idea which the last words conveyed
to herself, that she paused to repeat and admire them with a view to
their future use when she should offer herself as a candidate for the
local School-board.
‘The doctor and you must be greatly pleased,’ said Madge, cordially
appreciating the effect of Dr Joy’s wise admonitions.
‘We are—we were; but’—here Mrs Joy shook her head with a smiling
regretfulness at being obliged to own the existence of human
weakness—‘but to-day there came to him a friend who required him to
take a parcel into London—a parcel for a friend of yours, Mr Philip
Hadleigh. His fare there and back was to be paid, and half-a-crown for
the service. Wolden had often thought, if he were in London, he would
buy something useful with his savings. Here was the opportunity. He ran
home for his savings; and what did he find? The hole in the wall was
empty; and his wife was obliged to own that she had used the money for
a pair of boots for one of the children. Think!’
Madge did think; but it was not about the doctor’s lecture or the
misfortune of his convert—it was about the person who had been suddenly
employed to carry a parcel to Philip. Pansy’s thoughts jumped in the
same direction.
‘How unfortunate,’ said Madge; ‘the poor man’s disappointment must
have been awful. But who gave him the parcel for—Mr Hadleigh?’
‘Most unfortunate—terribly disappointing,’ proceeded Mrs Joy,
apparently unconscious of the question which had been asked. ‘The man
became so wild, that the poor woman ran out of the house and came to me
for advice and assistance. I scolded her, I can tell you—scolded her
roundly for having deceived her husband in such a way. She was very
penitent. I always scold, and they are always penitent. She promised
never to do anything of the kind again; and I gave her the money, in
order that she might start on her new course with a clear conscience.
You should have seen how grateful she was, dear; and it is most
delicious to feel that one can save a household from destruction by
such simple means—good advice and four shillings and a penny!’
Mrs Joy was so lost in contemplation of the small expense at which
morals and domestic economy could be instilled into the minds of the
people, that she did not observe the anxious expression of Madge, or
the frightened look of Pansy.
‘Forgive me, Mrs Joy, but I have a reason for again asking you who was
the sender of the parcel to Mr Hadleigh?’ said Madge.
‘Oh, how ridiculous of me to forget. It was Caleb Kersey.—It seems that
he has some idea of emigration; and this poor fellow Wolden caught up
the notion, and threatened to leave his wife and family to the parish.
That was what put the woman in such a state; but he will stay at home
now that he has got back his four shillings and a penny.’
‘Caleb Kersey going to emigrate!’
‘That was what she said.’
Madge looked at Pansy. Her face was white and lips quivering.
‘Will you excuse us, Mrs Joy? We must go now.’
SOME LEGAL DECISIONS.
Theoretically, every one is supposed to be familiar with the law of the
land he lives in, and to know exactly what he may do unto others, and
what others may do unto him. Practically, lawyers themselves have too
often to acquire that knowledge at the expense of a client, the burden
of whose song might be, ‘From court to court they hurry me,’ if Law
were not much too dignified a dame to hurry herself or those having
dealings with her.
It was not until the matter had been disputed for a couple of
centuries, that it was settled that ‘from the date’ and ‘on and
from the date’ were synonymous phrases. But for the perseverance of
a stubborn gentleman, who was not satisfied by being beaten in two
courts out of three, we should not now know wherever the words ‘value’
or ‘annual value’ are used in a statute that they mean ‘net,’ not
‘gross’ value. It took the Canadian Court of Queen’s Bench half a year
to decide whether ‘Old Tom’ came under the definition of ‘spirits.’
A majority of experts were of opinion that it did not, being only
a compound of spirits, sugar, and flavouring matter; but the Court
ultimately decreed that Old Tom belonged to the family of spirits, and
that to hold otherwise would be a mere trifling with words.
The courts of the United States have found it more difficult to settle
what is and is not a ‘saloon.’ In Michigan, it may be a place for
the sale of liquors, or it may be a place for the sale of general
refreshments. In Texas, a saloon may be a room for the reception of
company, or one set apart for the exhibition of works of art. The legal
luminaries of Connecticut hold that neither an inclosed park nor an
uninclosed platform, where lager beer is retailed, can be considered
to be a saloon, house, or building, within the meaning of the statute
forbidding the sale of intoxicating liquors upon Sunday; while in
Massachusetts it has been declared that a cellar is a house, when used
for that purpose. In New Hampshire, ‘spirituous liquors’ are not to be
confounded with ‘fermented liquors.’ In Indiana, the mere opinion of a
witness that brewer’s beer is intoxicating is no sufficient proof that
it is so, unless that opinion is founded on personal experience of its
effects; but in Massachusetts, the evidence of a man who had merely
smelt some ale was accepted as proof of its overcoming quality. In
Iowa, wine is not an intoxicating drink if made from grapes, currants,
or other fruits grown within the state; while in Maine, wine and cider
of native growth are intoxicating liquors—if a jury chooses to think
them so.
What is a date? Certain would-be voters for Marylebone sent in their
claims, properly filled up and signed, but dated merely ‘August
1883.’ After a week’s cogitation, the revising barrister came to the
conclusion that that was a sufficient date, as it showed that the
claims were made between the first and the twenty-fifth of August,
as required by the Act; the fact of their being in the hands of the
overseers proving delivery on or before the twenty-fifth day of
the month. What is a vacant and what an unoccupied house, were two
questions submitted to a court in the United States, under rather
peculiar circumstances. A gentleman owning a house in which he and his
family lived from May to November, left it for the rest of the year
to be looked after by a farmer living near, visiting it occasionally
himself to see that all was right. This house he insured under two
separate policies. It was burned down; and when called upon to pay,
the insurers repudiated all liability. By the terms of one policy they
undertook to make good the value of the house, if burned, ‘unless it
should become vacant _or_ unoccupied;’ by the terms of the other, their
liability ceased if the house ‘became vacant _and_ unoccupied.’ The
court determined that no claim could arise on the first policy, since,
to be occupied, a house must have human beings in it, using it as their
customary abode; but the Company was liable under the second policy,
as, although the house was unoccupied, it was not vacant, so long as
the furniture and cooking-utensils were in it.
A very nice question was raised by an English Accident Insurance
Company, anxious to escape paying a thousand pounds to the
representatives of a policy-holder who was drowned in a river near
Edgbaston. It was contended that the unfortunate man fell into the
shallow stream, and was suffocated through being unable to raise his
head above the water from exhaustion caused by a fit; and that the
Company was not liable for any injury consequent upon natural disease
or exhaustion, while one of the conditions of the policy specified
that no claim should arise ‘for any injury from any accident, unless
such accident shall be caused by some outward and visible means.’ The
court held that the insured died from drowning in a brook while in an
epileptic fit, and drowning had been decided to be an injury caused
by an accident from outward and visible means. The death did not come
within the words ‘natural disease or exhaustion,’ but resulted from an
accident, which was drowning, and the Company must pay.
Thief-catching is best left to the police, amateurs may so easily
overreach themselves. Hearing a noise outside their house, after
they had gone to rest, a worthy couple arose, and ascertaining that
a man was prowling around, came to the conclusion he was bent upon
robbery; so they unbolted the outer door, and waited. Sure enough,
the man entered, was promptly seized, handed over to the police, and
committed for trial at the Manchester assizes; but the grand-jury,
under the judge’s instructions, threw out the bill—the accused could
not be charged with breaking into a house which he had entered by
merely raising the latch. As lucky a let-off awaited the American actor
Frayne, when arraigned for the manslaughter of Miss Behren, by shooting
her upon the stage, in performing a modern version of Tell’s feat. The
defence was, that Frayne did not point his rifle at the actress, but at
an apple a few inches above her head; and the court holding that the
gun being pointed at an object, and not at the person, there could be
no charge of manslaughter, the prisoner must be discharged.
Some recent decisions of the courts of the United States are notable
for their common-sense. In a lawsuit against a Railway Company, in
which the relatives of a young man who had been run down by a train,
sought to recover ten thousand dollars by way of compensation for their
loss, Judge Love gave judgment in favour of the Company, saying, the
young man had no business walking on other people’s property, while the
Company did have business running its trains there; a railway is not
a public highway, but private property, and people must not trespass.
In another court it was decided that a Telegraph Company could not
limit its liability by printing on its forms a notice disclaiming
responsibility for mistakes unless the message was repeated—of course,
at the customer’s cost. Any rule or regulation seeking to relieve the
Company from performing its duty with integrity, skill, and diligence,
was in contravention of public policy; and if it were necessary, in
order to secure correctness, to repeat a message, the duty of repeating
it devolved upon the Company. Per contra, a Company’s customers must
use their rights with discretion. A subscriber to the telephone in
Cincinnati was deprived of his privilege by the Company because of his
using a word—which is too frequently in the mouths of Englishmen—in
his communications. He sued to be reinstated. One judge said the
obnoxious word was not profane according either to the decalogue,
the dictionary, common law, or statute law; but the majority of the
court were of a different way of thinking, and declared the word to
be coarse, unbecoming, and profane, or if not profane, improper. The
rule prohibiting improper language was a reasonable one. The telephone
reached into all classes of society, and into many family circles. It
is possible for a communication intended for one individual to reach
another. Moreover, the operators are in many cases refined ladies,
and even beyond this, all operators are to be protected from insult.
The inventors, too, have a right to be protected, and to have the
instrument placed in a respectable light before the world, otherwise
it might go out of use. For all which reasons they concurred in
non-suiting the profane plaintiff.
TERRIBLY FULFILLED.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.
‘I can’t stand it any longer, and I won’t! It isn’t so much that he
jeers at me and ill-treats me; perhaps I could manage to put up with
that, if he gave me a kind word now and then, and didn’t leave me so
much alone. But he is away sometimes for days and nights together;
and where he goes to I don’t know, though of course I can guess
pretty well; and he will never tell me anything except to mind my own
business. And when he _is_ at home, he never speaks except to taunt
and sneer at me because I’m not a lady, as he says. He hates me, and
I’ve come to hate him, and I’m afraid of my life with him. You can’t
imagine what he’s like when he’s in a temper. I cannot, indeed, bring
myself to tell you of all the shame and the infamy he puts upon me.’
And the Honourable Mrs Ferrard buried her face in her hands and sobbed
despairingly.
Mr Cross, auctioneer, rested his great square chin on his hands, and
gazed across his library table at the flushed and weeping figure before
him. ‘So it has come to this at last, Amy?’ he said. ‘You deceived and
disobeyed your old father, that loved you, and deserted him, and pretty
well broke his heart, all for the sake of this grand husband of yours;
and now you have to come to me to help you against him. Well, well; I’m
not a bit surprised, my girl. I’ve been expecting you. I wasn’t coming
to you, you know; I knew you would have to come to me, sooner or later.
Now, sit still and quiet yourself, while I think a bit.’
He continued to gaze across his writing-table, but with eyes that saw
nothing. This was his only child, all that was left to him of her dead
mother; and he had loved her, and still loved her, with an intensity
which her insignificant little intelligence was far from comprehending.
It had been his study from her childhood to gratify every fancy which
entered her shallow pate; all that money could buy had been lavished
upon her—except the training and education of a lady. ‘I’m not going
to have my girl,’ said he, ‘brought up so that she’ll be ashamed of
her father and her father’s friends. No; let her learn to play the
piano, if she cares to—I always liked a good tune—and to draw and paint
and talk French, so that it don’t worry her. But none of your fine
finishing schools for me, where she’ll mix with a lot of stuck-up fools
and get all sorts of notions into her head.’
So Amy Cross went to a very respectable establishment in North London,
where she acquired, to a limited extent, all the above accomplishments;
and was sent back to her home very pretty, vain, and vulgar, very proud
of her piano and her French, and without a single useful or graceful
idea in her head.