THE CROSS OF HELPLESSNESS.
“MY land alive!”
That was what Mrs. Erskine said, when Ruth told her the news. You may
have observed that those three words constituted a favorite expression
of hers—one which she was apt to use on all occasions, greatly to her
stepdaughter’s discomfiture. She winced under it now, it seemed so
ridiculously inappropriate to the disaster that had come into their
midst. While she was trying to impress the situation on the mother and
Susan, Dr. Bacon returned. He came directly into the library, as one
who had laid aside all the ceremonies of private life, and adopted
the business style. He hurried into the midst of the difficulties,
being one who, while capable of feeling the most intense and practical
sympathy for others, had never learned the art of expressing it other
than by actions.
“Miss Ruth, I am afraid it is going to be almost impossible to get a
proper nurse for your father. There is a good deal of this abominable
disease in the city, now, and the nurses are taxed to the utmost.
Ordinary nurses, you know, will not come, and would not do, anyway. So
we shall have to manage as well as we can, for a little, until I can
look around me and get somebody.”
Then Mrs. Erskine came to the front.
“What are you talking about—_nurses_? Who wants one of ’em? miserable,
half-awake creatures; not but what I’ve seen some good ones in my day,
but I could beat any of ’em, when it come to a real up-and-down case of
sickness; and I can nurse my own husband, you’ll find, better than the
best of ’em. I brought him back from death’s door once, and I will try
hard to do it again. A _nurse_ is the last kind of a creature that I
want to help me.”
“But, Mrs. Erskine, I ought not to conceal from you that this is going
to be a very decided case of small-pox. The chances of infection, to
one who nurses him, will be very great.”
“I can’t help _that_, you know,” she said, determinedly; “_I’ve_ got to
be with him, of course. Who would, if his wife wasn’t? I don’t believe
I’ll take it. I never was one of them kind that always took things.
I have the sick-headache, and that’s every blessed thing I do have,
except a touch of the rheumatism, now and then; but I never did have
a bit of headache, nor nothing, when there was any real sickness on
my hands. All the time Susan had the fever I sot up nights, or stood
up—a good deal of the time she was that sick that I didn’t set down;
I jest kept on the trot all night, doing one thing and another. But,
all the while, I never had an ache nor a pain about me; and, if I do
take it, I might as well as the next one. I ain’t a mite afraid of it;
not that I’d run into it any quicker than you would, but, when it runs
into your own house, and gets hold of your own flesh and blood, or your
husband—which is the next thing to that—why, then, I’m one of them
kind that has to be on hand. There’s no use talkin’—_I’m a going to
nurse him_, and all the doctor’s in the city can’t stop me.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Erskine, I haven’t the least desire to do so. On
the contrary, I appreciate your devotion.”
The doctor’s tone was earnest—his manner respectful. Mrs. Judge Erskine
had evidently risen several degrees in his esteem. She was not a piece
of putty, to be gotten out of the way in the least troublesome manner;
but a live and very energetic factor in this business. A woman who not
only was not afraid of small-pox, but could calmly insist on her right
to attend a very bad case of it, was deserving of all respect from
him; and he did not, in the least, care how many grammatical errors
she made in expressing her determination. In less time than it takes
me to tell you of it, the question of attendant on the sick man was
settled, and Mrs. Erskine installed as nurse by the relieved doctor,
to the satisfaction of all but Ruth. She thought, in dismay, of the
misery which her father would be called to endure. How was he, sick and
nervous—and she knew he could be fearfully nervous, when only a little
ill—to bear the strain of that woman’s tongue, when, in health, it was
more than he could endure? What would he say to the plan? Would he feel
that she might have shielded him from it? Yet how could _she_ help it?
and, indeed, what else could be done? She had been very nervous over
his being left alone. It had seemed to her that she must disregard his
positive command and go to him; and it had been such a source of relief
and comfort when Judge Burnham announced his intention of going, that
she felt she could never forget it. Certainly it would not do to leave
him without an attendant. Yet she could not be grateful to the wife for
proposing it.
“He can never endure it!” she murmured; and she looked her distress so
completely that the doctor was moved to soothe her, when he came back
from installing Mrs. Erskine, and giving her directions.
“It will do for a few days, my dear girl; or, at least, for a few
hours, until we can look about us, and secure professional assistance.
There is not the slightest danger of her taking the disease _now_, you
know; indeed, you might be with him yourself, only he is so nervous
about you that he will not listen to reason. But she will take good
care of him. I really think she understands how to do it.”
Ruth made no reply; she could not. She wanted to ask what her father
said, and whether he was likely to bear up under such an added weight
of misery as this last. But, reflecting that it would not do to say
anything of the kind, she took refuge in silence. And the work of
rearranging this disorganized and disordered household went on.
In an incredibly short space of time, considering all that had to
be planned and arranged, the doctor had done his share of it, given
explicit and peremptory directions as to what should, and what should
_not_ be done, and was gone. As for Judge Burnham, he had gone directly
from the sick-room to Judge Erskine’s office, on a matter of business
for the latter. So the two sisters were left alone in the library, to
stare at each other, or out into the street, as they chose.
Susan Erskine had been a very silent looker-on at this morning’s
confusion. Ruth could not tell what she thought. Beyond the first
exclamation of surprise, she had expressed no dismay. A little touch
of some feeling (what was it?) she had shown once, when her mother was
planning, and announcing that she did not intend to take the disease,
and, if she did, _she_ might as well as anyone.
“Oh, mother!” Susan had said, in a low, distressed tone—a tone full
of suppressed feeling of some sort—and her mother had turned on her
sharply, with a—
“Well, child, what?”
“Nothing,” Susan said, as one who had checked her sentence and was
holding herself silent. And thereafter she made no sign.
And so at last these two sisters were stranded in that deserted
library. Ruth, on her part, gazing blankly out of the window, watching
the hurrying passers-by with a curious sense of wonderment as to what
they would think could they know what was transpiring inside. Suddenly
she turned from the window with an exclamation of dismay—a thought,
which until now had dropped into the background, returned to her.
“There isn’t a servant in the house!”
“Why, what has become of them?”
“They fled at the very first mention of the trouble. Never was anything
accomplished more rapidly. I thought they had hardly time to reach
their rooms when they disappeared around the corner.”
“Is it possible!” Susan said, after a moment’s silent contemplation.
She was both surprised and disappointed. There was nothing in her
nature that could respond to that method of bearing one another’s
burdens, and she did not understand human nature well enough to expect
developments in others which were foreign to her own.
“What shall we do about dinner?” Ruth asked, after another interval of
silence.
“Why, get it,” Susan answered, lightly. She could not comprehend what
an impossible thing this was in Ruth’s estimation.
“But I—why, I know nothing about it,” Ruth said, stammering and aghast.
“I do. There is nothing about a dinner that I do not understand, I
believe—that is, a reasonable and respectable dinner. In fact, I
know how to do several things that are unreasonable. I’ll go right
down-stairs and take a view of the situation.”
“I will go with you,” Ruth said, heroically. “I don’t know anything
about such matters, but I can at least show you through the house.”
Is it your fortune to know, by experience, just what a deserted look
a kitchen can take on in a brief space of time, when the regular
inhabitants thereof have made a sudden exit? Just let the fire in the
range go down, with unswept ashes littering the hearth, and unwashed
dishes filling the tables, and a general smell of departed cookery
pervading the air, and you need no better picture of dismalness.
Especially is this the case if you survey the scene as Ruth did,
without being able to conceive how it was possible ever again to bring
order out of this confusion.
“Why, dear me!” said Susan, “things look as though they had stirred
them up to the best of their abilities before they left. Where is the
hearth-brush kept, Ruth?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” Ruth said, and she looked helpless and
bewildered.
“Well, then, I’ll look for it. We must have a fire the first thing. I
wonder where the kindlings are?”
Then she began to open little doors and crannies, in a wise sort of
way, Ruth looking on, not knowing that there were such places to search
into. Both hearth-brush and kindlings were found, and Susan attacked
the range, while Ruth took up a china cup and set it down again, moved
a pile of plates to the side of the table and moved them back again,
looking utterly dazed and useless.
“I wonder if this damper turns up or down?”
This from Susan, and her sister turned and surveyed the damper with a
grave, puzzled air before she spoke.
“It is no sort of use to ask me. I never even examined the range. I
know no more about the dampers than the people on the street do.”
“Never mind,” said Susan, “the smoke does. It puffs out with one
arrangement, and goes up the chimney, as it should, with the other.”
“I don’t know how we are ever to do it,” Ruth said.
“What, make the fire? Why, it is made already! Don’t you hear it roar?
This is a splendid range; I should think it would be fun to cook with
it. Our stove was cracked, and one door-hinge was broken, and besides
it wouldn’t bake on the bottom. The _stove_ wouldn’t, you know—not the
broken hinge.”
Susan rarely—indeed, I might say never—indulged in reminiscence, and
therefore Ruth was touched.
“Why did you keep yourselves so poorly provided for?” she asked, a
flush rising on her pale cheek. “I have heard your mother say that you
were well supplied with money.”
“We were. It was one of my mother’s whims, if you choose to call it
so. She was continually troubled with the feeling that some day she or
I, or—more often, I think—_father_, might need all the money she could
save; and I never combated the feeling, except when it intrenched too
closely on her own needs. She seemed fairly haunted with the thought.”
“How absurd!” said Ruth, and her lip curled.
As for Susan, _her_ lips opened, and then closed partly, and whatever
she would have uttered remains in oblivion. She closed the damper
energetically, and said:
“There, that is conquered! Now, what are we to have for dinner?”
“Why, I ordered roast lamb and its accompaniments,” Ruth said,
recalling her minute directions given to the skillful cook (she knew
how to _order_ dinners,) “but, of course, that is out of the question.”
“Why, not at all, if you would like it. I know exactly how to roast
lamb. But, then, who would eat it?”
“Why, Prof. Stevens and his friend are to dine with us. Oh, they must
be sent word not to come! How _can_ we send? Who is there to go?”
And Ruth, the complications of her situation pressing upon her in these
minor details, looked utterly dismayed.
“Why, Judge Burnham will be our errand-boy—he said so. I met him as
he came down-stairs, and he told me to say that he would call as soon
as he had attended to father’s commission, and serve us in any way
that we desired. We will have him first recall the invitation to our
guests, and then we will send him to the ‘butcher’s, the baker’s, and
the candlestick-maker’s.’ I shouldn’t be surprised if he proved a very
useful member of society.”
Susan was bent on being cheerful. “Things are not so bad but they might
have been worse,” she had said, almost as soon as she was told of the
trouble.
“Mother says he might have been taken sick down town, and if they had
known what the disease was they wouldn’t have allowed him to come home.
Think of that! But about the roast lamb,” she said. “Do you think you
and I could compass it, or shall we compel the errand-boy to stay and
divide the work with us?”
Then these two girls did what was perhaps the wisest thing for them to
do, under the circumstances. They laughed—a real _laugh_.
“Why not?” said Susan. “He is not very sick. The doctor said he didn’t
think he would be, because he would be well taken care of at the very
outset; and he will, you may be sure of that. Mother knows how, and her
heart is in it. You may trust her, Ruth, in a time of sickness. And
we shall manage nicely. This disconsolate kitchen shall take on new
features presently. If I were you I would go right up-stairs and be
ready to give Judge Burnham his orders when he comes. He is real good
and kind. I like him. He will help us in every way. And when you come
down again I will have things in train for a first-class dinner.”
A new anxiety occurred to Ruth.
“Do you know how to prepare food for sick people?” she asked.
“Indeed I do! The most appetizing little dishes that you can imagine.
I’ve always thought I had a special talent in that direction. We will
waylay the doctor the very next time he comes, and find out what he
will allow, and then I’ll cook it; and you must arrange it daintily
with silver, and china, and flowers, you know. They will let us have
all sorts of nice things up there for a while, and I think that is
the real secret of serving an invalid, having everything arranged
tastefully and gracefully.”
Ruth turned toward her sister with a very tender smile on her face.
She realized that there had been an effort to make her feel that she
was in a position to do an important service for her father, and the
thoughtfulness of the effort touched her.