THE RELEASE OF ONE.
Jack’s uneasiness grew as days went by. Denham was certainly in a
condition by no means satisfactory. This last heavy blow—the death of
his adored Chief, of the man who had been to him as a guiding star from
boyhood—seemed to have shaken his hold on life, and the old courage and
energy were gone. Though he struggled on, it was in a listless fashion.
Even the assurance as to Polly’s constancy could not arouse him. The
lassitude which oppressed him was unconquerable.
“It is so much the worse for her,” he said dejectedly to Jack. “If she
could forget me, she at least might be happy. She is wasting the best
years of her life in this miserable waiting. I may be out here another
ten years. Or I may never go home.”
“You don’t wish her to forget you, my dear fellow.”
“For her sake I could be glad. Not for my own.”
“Fact is, there’s no manner of use in expecting you to take reasonable
views of things, while your head is in this state,” said Jack.
But he became so troubled that he confided his cares to Lucille. He
could not worry the Colonel or Mrs. Baron, who were anxious enough
already.
“I’m not at all happy about him, and that’s the solemn truth,” Jack
declared confidentially a fortnight or so after his arrival. “I don’t
like the look in his eyes, or here,” drawing a finger across his brow.
“And as for strength, just see him this afternoon. He’s utterly floored
by that stroll on the ramparts. Why, in old days he’d do his twenty
or thirty miles at a stretch, and get back as fresh as he started. He
didn’t know what it was to be done up.”
Lucille had not the least idea why, at this point, she should find
herself to be confiding to Jack a secret which she had told to nobody
else. She and he were becoming extremely good friends. Jack had taken
to Lucille on the spot, when they were first introduced, and the
feeling was returned. Still Lucille had not meant to let anybody know
what she had done. Somehow it slipped out.
She had long wondered whether it might not be possible to obtain
leave for Denham to return home. Some few among the détenus had been
permitted by the Emperor to do so, under exceptional circumstances. And
Captain Ivor was a soldier. It was well known that, if Napoleon were
chivalrous to anybody, he would be so first of all to a soldier. He was
always harder upon civilians.
At the Emperor’s Court an old friend of hers moved—one who had been
formerly a Royalist, and who now for some years had attached himself to
the fortunes of Buonaparte. Lucille had found it hard to pardon this
change of front in her old friend—more strictly her parents’ friend—and
intercourse between the two had been almost dropped. Yet Lucille had
heard of him from time to time, and she knew that he was not one to
forget the past, the more so in her case since that past included a
heavy debt of gratitude from him to Lucille’s father.
It had one day occurred to her that she might write to this friend,
explaining about Captain Ivor’s failing health, and begging him to
intercede with the Emperor for permission for Ivor to go home. Lucille
did not tell Jack—it was not needful—how many days she had held out
against this notion. Not for Denham’s sake, but for her own. He had
been so long the main centre of thought in her quiet existence, that
she could hardly now picture life at Verdun without him. Not that she
was exactly in love with Ivor, because from the very beginning she had
always known him to be Polly’s, and she had not permitted him to become
to her what he might easily have become. But she was very much his
friend.
So she hesitated, till one day the selfishness of her own hesitation
broke upon her, awakened by some fresh view of his altered looks. Then
at once she acted. She wrote to the friend, putting the matter before
him, frankly stating her own belief that Ivor was in point of fact
slowly dying of captivity, and entreating him, in memory of old days,
to interest himself in the matter, and, if possible, to get permission
for Ivor’s return to England.
The friend, whose name Lucille did not mention to Jack, had answered
her letter. He had written kindly, cordially, promising to take an
opportunity sooner or later to lay the matter before the Emperor. He
might or might not meet with success; but, at least, Mademoiselle de
St. Roques could depend upon him to do his best for her English friend.
“And you think there is the smallest hope?” Jack said incredulously.
He did not know that, at this very time or soon after, Major Charles
Napier, taken prisoner in the Battle of Coruña, was generously released
by Marshal Ney and sent to England, because he had there an old blind
mother. The proviso was made only that he should count himself a
prisoner on parole, debarred from fighting, until an exchange had been
arranged for him, which in the course of a few months was done. Ney
took this step on his own responsibility out of sheer kindliness of
heart, not knowing whether the Emperor might not be seriously angry
with his action. But the Emperor endorsed his decision with a readiness
hardly to have been expected from that man of fire and blood. Even
Napoleon was not so utterly bad in all respects as he was painted by
some of his contemporaries. He might and did hate with a virulent
hatred the British nation as a whole, he could be harsh to civilian
détenus, and he was brutal to women; but to the individual English
soldier he was quite capable of showing generosity.
“I cannot tell. There is no certainty—none,” Lucille answered. “But,
until I hear from my friend that all is hopeless, I will not give up
hope. You will not say one word to the Colonel or to Mrs. Baron—least
of all to Captain Ivor?”
“Trust me—I’m staunch!” declared Jack. “Never do to raise his hopes for
nothing.” Jack himself had not the faintest expectation of any result
from Lucille’s efforts. None the less, he was gratified to be treated
as her confidant. He liked her immensely and increasingly.
As a matter of course Jack had taken up his abode under the same roof
with the Barons. Roy’s former room was given to him, and he made a
markedly cheerful addition to the family circle.
One evening, some ten days later, they were together after dinner.
Jack was dictating a letter to Molly, having pressed Lucille into
his service as amanuensis. Whether the letter would ever reach its
destination was doubtful; but Jack had resolved to send it off, and
his right arm was still incapable. The Colonel was reading, his wife
was working, and Denham for an hour past had not stirred or spoken.
They all knew what this meant, and mercifully left him alone, speaking
themselves in subdued tones. Jack’s glance wandered often towards the
motionless figure in the sofa corner, and in the midst of his dictation
he paused to murmur—
“Head as bad as ever.”
“Oui!” Lucille said with a sigh. “All day; and now he is quite ‘done,’
and can keep up no longer. It is always so. What am I to write next?
Ah, I am called! Somebody wants me. Will you excuse—till I come back?”
Jack amused himself during her absence by scrawling caricatures with
his left hand upon the unfinished sheet. Then Lucille came swiftly in,
running, as if with joy, while her eyes were full of tears. Her face
seemed to shine, and a suppressed sob could be heard in her voice as
she panted—
“Something for Captain Ivor!”
Denham looked up slowly as she came to his side; and, though he
received the packet from her hand, he would have put it aside without
attention.
“Ouvrez-le, ouvrez-le, vîte!” she urged impatiently.
“Who brought it?”
“A gentleman travelling from Paris. Ouvrez-le!”
Denham roused himself with difficulty to obey.
“A passport!” he said with listless surprise and a slight laugh. “Not
the passport for Roy surely? Rather late in the day.”
“But read—read!” implored Lucille; and he made an effort to do so. Then
a rush of colour came, and he looked at Lucille, a strange gleam in his
eyes.
“This!—What does it mean?”
“It means that you are free! Free to go home.”
From the others broke a chorus of exclamations.
“Buonaparte’s signature! It must be all right!” Ivor spoke in a
bewildered tone. “But what can have made him choose me? Why not Colonel
Baron?”
“Are you not glad?”
“Glad!” The word was too absurdly inadequate. He walked across to
Colonel Baron. “Will you read this, sir? Tell me if I understand it
rightly.”
Colonel Baron complied, then passed the papers on to his wife and Jack,
while he grasped Ivor’s hand.
“I congratulate you with all my heart,” he said. “Nothing could have
given me greater delight. For your sake, not for ours.”
“But to leave you all here still——”
“Don’t think of that. Your duty is to go. Your being here does not make
our captivity easier. No”—decidedly, in answer to a glance—“not when
you look as you have done lately.”
“What are the conditions? I can’t read to-day.”
“Not to bear arms against the French Army for twelve months from the
date of your reaching England, unless an exchange is arranged sooner.
It will not be, of course! There is no exchange for détenus. That only
means that for one year you will be still a prisoner on parole; only
in England instead of in France. It will take you some months to grow
strong enough for fighting.”
“I am strong already,” was the answer; and even in those few minutes it
was remarkable how his face had changed, gaining a healthier tint and
losing its languor, while the very hollows seemed to be already filling
up. “One year from the day I arrive in England! Then I must be off at
once—not lose a day.”
“Next week,” suggested Jack.
“To-morrow. But I cannot understand. What can have induced the Emperor
to free me? Why me more than any other détenu?”
“Ask Mademoiselle de St. Roques,” said Jack; and this brought upon
Lucille a flood of questions. She related simply, and in few words,
what she had done, not specifying, as she had specified to Jack, the
precise manner of description given of Ivor’s health.
Denham lifted her hand to his lips.
“It is you, then, whom I have to thank!” he said, much moved. “But no
thanks could repay what you have done. I can never forget this debt.”
Then he turned to Mrs. Baron.
“You have said nothing yet!”
“Dear Denham, how can I not be pleased—for you?” she asked tearfully.
“You would not wish me to pretend that we shall not miss you
terribly—every hour! But indeed I am thankful. I know how you have
suffered. And this will do you good. He is better even now, is he not,
Lucille?”
“Jack seems to have come in time to take my place,” remarked Denham,
which Jack declared to be “a truly heartless observation.”
“Mademoiselle de St. Roques will have to petition the Emperor next on
my behalf! Eh, Mademoiselle?”
One grey shadow lay on Ivor’s happiness, of which Jack alone was
allowed a glimpse, when the two were together late at night.
“If it had but been to serve once more under _him_!” broke from Denham,
in a tone which Jack too well understood. The sorrow of that loss, to
those who had known John Moore personally, could end only with life
itself.
(_To be continued._)
A LITTLE ADVICE TO AMATEUR NURSES.
BY “THE NEW DOCTOR.”
[Illustration: The Hospital Nurse]
There was a time when every man was nursed through sickness by his
wife or daughter. Then there appeared upon the scene a class of women
who were styled “monthly nurses,” who took over the more onerous part
of nursing, but who did not overthrow the whole of the duties of the
invalid’s relations.
These monthly nurses were for the most part ignorant women, and often
slovenly and drunken. They threw over the old and best system of
nursing, and in its place introduced the worst.
A little later the monthly nurse gave place to the certified nurse,
who is taught her profession and is in all respects a very great
improvement upon her prototype.
Nowadays it often happens among the wealthier classes that as soon as
a member of the family is ill, a physician is sent for; a nurse is
appointed; and the relatives practically desert the invalid till he is
well again.
Fortunately the wealthy classes are a small minority, and but few of us
can afford the great expense of this treatment. We said fortunately,
for though it has its advantages, it has very great drawbacks. And we
are of opinion that in most cases of sickness the best nurse for an
invalid is his nearest female relative.
People think that physicians always advise a certified nurse and object
to a patient’s wife or sister turning amateur nurse for the time
being. We can assure you that this is not the case. Of course, it is
an advantage to the physician if he can have a nurse whom he knows to
look after his case; but, as a general rule, he is indifferent in the
matter, except in some diseases, when the aid of a person skilled in
nursing those suffering from that disease is indispensable.
We address these notes to amateur nurses; but really you are as
much professionals as are your trained colleagues. Nursing, like
housekeeping or cooking, is one of the duties of the gentler sex, and
is not a profession at all.
Every woman is by right of her sex a nurse, but every woman is by no
means a good nurse. To be a really good nurse requires a great many
qualities and a certain amount of knowledge which many have not got.
Nursing—even nursing one’s dearest relative—is a difficult and onerous
duty, and the first and most important virtue which must be possessed
by nurses is patience.
We call a sufferer a “patient,” but the term would be better applied to
the nurse. For the good nurse is patient when she could, if she willed
so, be impatient; but the sufferer makes a virtue of necessity when he
is patient—and very often he is by no means patient.
The second virtue required is kindness. Oh, always be kind when you are
nursing an invalid. It is here where an invalid’s relatives are more
desirable than paid nurses. It is a most brutal thing to be unkind to
an invalid. All the knowledge of nursing in the world is not worth half
so much as patience and kindness.
In the course of our professional duties we have become acquainted with
many nurses, including some of the most famous of the time. And if you
ask us what is the chief difference between these best nurses and the
ordinary probationers, we answer without hesitation, “They are more
kind and patient.” Of course they are more skilled, more experienced,
and—take it to heart—more obedient; but kindness is their chief
characteristic.
The nurse must always be absolutely obedient to the physician, and
she must carry out his directions to the letter, and neither add to
nor deduct from his treatment. It is not only the good nurse who is
obedient. A woman who departs from the mandates of the physician
is an encumbrance—nay, more than an encumbrance—she is distinctly
detrimental to the health of the patient.
“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” especially in medicine.
Nurses—I mean certified nurses—have a little knowledge of medicine; and
if they lack obedience, their knowledge becomes a very dangerous thing
indeed.
If you are patient, gentle and kind, obedient and ready to do your
duty, however irksome it may be, and if also you are clean, you will
make a good nurse. As regards the knowledge of nursing—well, it
really is of very secondary importance! If you are nursing and you
are a little doubtful about any point, you have only got to ask the
physician, and he will make all clear.
But there are many points in nursing which everyone ought to know.
Probably most of you do know them; but repetition will do no harm, for
we are all liable to forget.
It is thought by some persons that all advice on nursing should be
written by nurses. But here we object. Surely the physician is entitled
to say what he requires?
We certainly consider that we have a right to have our say in a matter
which concerns us more than anyone else save the patient. We physicians
are responsible for the well-being of the sick. We are to blame, and we
are blamed, when the results are disastrous. If we employ a careless
nurse, and she, by her bungling, thwarts recovery, we are to blame. It
is upon us, not upon the nurses, that retribution falls. And perfectly
rightly. We do not complain at this. Still, we consider that we have a
right to advise those who wish to nurse our patients.
And so this will explain the apparent anomaly of a physician writing a
paper on nursing.
The sick-room must be large and airy, but free from draughts. There
should be at least two windows in the room, and, if possible, they
should have a south or west aspect. Before the invalid takes to this
room, the floor, the windows, all the paint, etc., should be thoroughly
cleaned by ways of which you know more than we do. If the ceiling
has a cornice this should be dusted. The chimney should be swept and
everything seen to so that a fire may be lighted at any minute, and
that it may light and draw without any of the unpleasant accidents
which so often occur when a fire is lighted in a room for the first
time.
Not only in winter but at any season, even in the middle of summer, the
fire should be ready. In our uncertain climate we often have a bitterly
cold and wet day in the midst of very hot weather. We have seen trouble
from neglecting this precaution.
Then everything in the room should be dusted or cleaned. Any
superfluous objects which are likely to hold dust should be removed;
but do not let the room look like a prison cell. An invalid spends
most of his time looking about him, and an empty room will soon become
distressing to him. Personally we prefer a carpet in a sick-room—at all
events, unless the floor is polished, and there are no cracks. But the
carpet should be beaten before the room is occupied.
Of course, we do not know whether you yourself will have to do this
work, but if it is done by another, you must see that it is properly
done. It is the duty of the nurse to see that the room is in good
order, even through she does not clean it herself.
The bed should always have a hard mattress. A water bed may be
required, but under no circumstances should an invalid have a feather
bed. See that there are one or two good new blankets on the bed. Flimsy
quilts may well be dispensed with. It is better to let the bed stand
out in the room, and not be placed in an alcove or near a wall.
The bed of an invalid should be made every day—made properly, not
merely the sheet pulled up and the upper blanket rearranged. Creases in
the lower sheet are very wrong, for they make the patient uncomfortable
and predispose to bed-sores. Crumbs in a bed are worse still, and very
great care must be taken to see that the bed is perfectly free from
them.
The patient must have his hands and face washed every morning and
evening. He should always be washed with warm water. To tell if the
water is of the right temperature, dip the tip of your elbow into it.
Your hands are not sufficiently sensitive to warmth to be safe guides.
Hot bottles are often needed by invalids. They should never be filled
with boiling water. They must be made of earthenware and covered with
flannel jackets. The water must be of a temperature of about 100° to
120° Fahrenheit. They should never be left in the bed after they have
got cold. Another point to remember is that you must see that the
bottles do not leak. We have seen a nurse place an uncovered bottle
of boiling water at the feet of a patient with paralysis. He did not
feel the heat, but next morning the nurse found, to her horror, that
the patient’s feet had been burned out of all recognition, and from
these burns he died. We have seen and heard of many similar cases, but
fortunately the result is not often so disastrous.
The ventilation of the sick chamber is very important. Unless the room
is very draughty, it is usual to leave the window open throughout the
day. If the weather is gusty, or the situation is exposed, some other
method of ventilation may be acquired. A fire is a very satisfactory,
though not a theoretically perfect, method of ventilating a room. As a
matter of fact, the ventilation of the room depends entirely upon the
room itself and its arrangement. On his first visit you should ask the
physician how the room should be ventilated, and this will relieve you
from any responsibility in the matter. Remember that the commonest of
all mistakes in the treatment of illness is insufficient ventilation.
We were going to devote the whole of this article to the question
of diet in sickness, but our space is more than half taken up by
preliminary matters, so we must be brief.
The question of feeding invalids is always a troublesome one. People
who are sick and are in bed all day, lose their appetite, take violent
dislikes to some articles, and develop an abnormal desire for dietetic
curiosities which they would never eat when they are healthy.
We remember attending a woman who refused to eat anything we put before
her. We tried milk, very nice puddings, and chickens, and we do not
know what not. But, no, all to no purpose! She would eat nothing. The
matter was becoming serious, for the poor woman had had nothing to our
knowledge for three days, and we were thinking whether forcible means
would have to be used to give her nourishment. But the extraordinary
part of it was that she gained strength and was recovering from her
disease by rapid strides.
But we solved the mystery by entering the room suddenly and finding
her munching a little green apple and a tartlet! Apparently she
had developed an extraordinary desire for green apples, pastry and
cocoanuts! Knowing that had she asked to be allowed to have these
things, she would have been refused, she worried a lady-visitor into
buying the things for her. And she had been living on green apples,
pastry and cocoanuts for four days! When asked what quality she so much
fancied in this strange dietary, she said—
“The apples are so nice and sour, and the cocoanut is so scrunchy!”
Whatever you put before an invalid in the way of food must look
appetising. We have seen great greasy chops, half cold, served up to
an invalid—a meal which would disgust a labourer. You cannot be too
careful about the appearance of food given to people whose appetites
are not what they should be. Let the cloth be spotlessly white, let the
glass be nicely cleaned with a glass cloth and no stray fluffs left
upon it, let the plate be hot and the cover—never forget the cover
from a dish given to an invalid—brightly polished, and let the dish
smell nice and be tastefully arranged. Never serve up food in large
quantities except to convalescents, who never seem to be satisfied.
You may think these details are trifling, but it is attention to these
trifles which distinguishes a good from a bad nurse.
Then as to the food itself. Of course you must never give an invalid
anything without first asking the physician whether he may have it. We
shall never forget calling to see a patient who had typhoid fever. It
was our second visit, and as we entered the room, we saw the patient—a
young girl—vigorously attacking a beef-steak! And the nurse—she was
a trained nurse—looking on with approval. We asked why the girl had
been allowed meat when we had expressly said that she was under no
circumstances to have any other food than milk. The nurse replied—
“Oh, sir, I do not believe that patients with typhoid fever should be
fed on milk. I think it is far better to give them solid food!”
We are afraid that we lost our temper at this criminal disobedience.
What answer we gave we do not remember, but we secured the nurse’s
discharge within an hour. Whether it was due to this unfortunate affair
or not we cannot say, but certainly this was one of the worst cases of
typhoid that we have seen.
Whatever you give to an invalid must be of the very best. Let your
custards be made with new-laid eggs—oh, you may laugh! but custards are
sometimes made with bad eggs. Let the chicken be young and the fish
fresh and nicely boiled, or if it is fried let it be nice and brown and
free from grease.
You should never give food to an invalid which has been kept overnight,
and never serve up the same dish two days running. Invalids very
rapidly tire of everything, and as varied a diet as possible must be
provided for them.
The drinks of persons suffering from fevers often occasion considerable
difficulty. Nowadays we let fever patients have as much to drink as
they like, though in the old days the fluids were restricted.
Invalids should always have tables at their bedsides, and a drink of
some sort should be placed beside them that they may quench their
thirst whenever they please.
Whatever drink they are taking, it should be prepared fresh every
morning and evening. It is a great mistake to leave jugs of stale
lemonade or other drinks in a sick-room.
In cases of fever, and indeed in all diseases, it is well to have
plenty of ice on the premises. You will find that many invalids prefer
sucking ice to drinking, and it is better for them, because it is less
likely to injure the stomach.
Lemonade made from fresh lemons and boiling water, strained and iced,
is perhaps the best drink for invalids. Aerated lemonade should not be
given, but the other aerated waters may be administered freely in most
cases.
Talking about ice, you must be very careful where you get it from. In
London the ice supplied is usually quite pure, but in the country,
and still more abroad, you must be very careful about ice. If it is
possible to obtain it, the best ice is that made at home from distilled
water with a freezing machine.
Milk given to invalids should always be scalded. Barley-water must be
made fresh at least once a day. Under no circumstances may it be kept
overnight, for it rapidly decomposes, and sometimes becomes highly
poisonous. Toast-and-water, our pet aversion when we had measles, is a
thing of the past. We have never ordered it nor seen it ordered.
From diet we pass to medicine. You cannot carry out the instructions
of the physician too carefully. Always measure out physic with a
clean glass measure. A “drop” or a “teaspoonful” is a most uncertain
quantity. Remember that a drop is a minim, a teaspoonful is a dram,
and a tablespoonful is half an ounce. But these measures are now
old-fashioned, and in a few years will be obsolete.
We now use the decimal system, and order so many “c.c.’s” of fluid
(_i.e._, so many cubic centimetres) to be taken. One cubic centimetre
equals not quite seventeen minims. You can easily obtain decimal
measures at the same rate as the old forms.
The time of the day at which medicines are given is extremely
important. We will give you an example of this. We ordered Mrs. —— a
sleeping draught containing chloral to be given at 9 P.M. The nurse,
Mrs. ——’s daughter, forgot to give the draught at the time stated, so
she gave it her as soon as she woke up in the morning! If you forget
to give physic at the time stated—especially if it is a draught to be
given at bedtime—do not give it at all until you have again seen the
physician. But there is no excuse for anyone to forget to give the
patient his medicine at the right time.
Before the physician calls see that the room is tidy and the place well
arranged. Of course we can do our business as well in a coal-cellar
as in a palace. But you have no idea what a difference it makes to
yourself and your patient if the physician is not inconvenienced in any
way. We are all human, and if we see that the nurse is doing her best
to make her patient comfortable, it stimulates us to do all that we
possibly can. And if the nurse is an amateur, and we see that she is
giving her whole attention to her work, we are more likely to relieve
and instruct her as far as lies in our power. If when we call we see
the room is in disorder, with stale food about the place and signs of
negligence on the part of the nurse, we are inclined to get away as
soon as possible, knowing that whatever we order stands a very fair
chance of remaining undone.
One last word. You have a very great advantage over trained nurses in
that, as you are related to the invalid, you can cheer him, you can
read to him, and generally comfort him.
We have nothing to say against trained nurses. In some diseases the
help of a woman skilled in nursing is essential. What we want to do is
to impress upon every woman the fact that it may become her duty to
nurse her relative or friend, and that, if she will put her whole mind
into the work, she will be as competent to nurse invalids through most
diseases as are her specially skilled sisters.
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen
Sisters,” etc.