THE NURSE.
Dolly made her mother's excuses, which seemed to her visitor perfectly
natural, and ushered him down to the supper laid in the little kitchen;
Dolly explaining very simply that her mother and she had lived there
since there had been sickness in the house, and had done so for want of
hands to make other arrangements possible. And Mr. Shubrick seemed also
to find it the most natural thing in the world to live in the kitchen,
and for all that appeared, had never taken his meals anywhere else in
his life. He did justice to the supper too, which was a great
gratification to Dolly; and lifted the kettle for her from the hob when
she wanted it, and took his place generally as if he were one of the
family. As for Dolly, there came over her a most exquisite sense of
relief; a glimpse of shelter and protection, the like of which she had
not known since she could hardly remember when. True, it was transient;
it could not abide; Mr. Shubrick was sitting there opposite her like
some one that had fallen from the clouds, and whom mist and shadow
would presently swallow up again; but in the meanwhile, what a gleam of
light his presence brought! He would go soon again, of course; he must;
but to have him there in the meantime was a momentary comfort
unspeakable. More than momentary; he would stay all night. And her
mother would get a night's sleep. For her own part, this feeling of
rest was already as good as sleep. Yes, for once, for a little, a
strong hand had come between her and her burdens. Dolly let herself
rest upon it, with an intense appreciation of its strength and
sufficiency.
And so resting, she observed her new helper curiously. She noticed how
entirely he was the same man she had seen that Christmas Day in Rome;
the same here as there, with no difference at all. There was the calm
of manner that had struck her then, along with the readiness for
action; the combination was peculiar, and expressed in every turn of
head and hand. Here, in a strange house, he was as absolutely at ease
and unconstrained as if he had been on the quarterdeck of his own ship.
Is it the habit of command? thought Dolly. But that does not
necessarily give a man ease of manner in his intercourse with others
who are not under his command. Meanwhile, Mr. Shubrick sat and talked,
keeping up a gentle run of unexciting thoughts, and apparently as much
at home in the kitchen of Brierley Cottage as if he had lived there
always.
"When have you seen Christina?" Dolly asked.
"Not in some months."
"Are they at Sorrento yet?"
"No; they spent the winter in Rome, and this summer they are in
Switzerland. I had a letter from Miss Thayer the other day. I mean, a
few weeks ago."
It occurred to Dolly that one or the other of them must be a slack
correspondent.
"I almost wonder they could leave Sorrento," she remarked.
"They got tired of it."
"I never get tired of lovely things," said Dolly. "The longer I know
them the better pleasure I take in them. I could have stayed in Venice,
it seemed to me, for years; and Rome--I should never have got away from
Rome of my own accord, if duty had not made me; and then at Naples, I
enjoyed it better the last day than the first. And Sorrento"----
"What about Sorrento?"
"Oh, it was--you know what Sorrento is. It was roses and myrtles and
orange blossoms, and the fire of the pomegranate flowers and the grey
of the olives; and the Italian sun, and the Italian air; and, Mr.
Shubrick, you know what the Mediterranean is, with all its colours
under the shadow of the cliffs and the sunlight on the open sea. And
Vesuvius was always a delightful wonder to me. And the people were so
nice. Sorrento is perfect." A soft breath of a sigh came from Dolly's
heart.
"You do not like England so well?"
"No. Oh no! But I could like England. Mr. Shubrick, my time at Sorrento
was almost without care; and you know that makes a difference."
"Would you like to live without care?" said he.
Dolly looked at him, the question seemed so strange. "Without anxious
care--I should," she answered.
"That you may, anywhere."
"How is it possible, sometimes?" Dolly asked wistfully.
"May I be Yankee enough to answer your question by another? Is it any
relief to you to have me come in and take the watch for to-night?"
"The greatest," said Dolly. "I cannot express to you how great it is;
for mother and I have had it all to do for so long. I cannot tell you,
Mr. Shubrick, in what a strange lull of rest I have been sitting here
since we came downstairs. I have just let my hands fall."
"How can you be sure it is safe to do that?" he said, smiling.
"Oh," said Dolly, "I know you will take care; and while you do, I need
not."
Mr. Shubrick was silent. Dolly pondered.
"Do I know what you mean?" she said.
"I think you do," he replied. "Do you remember it is written,
--'Casting your care upon Him, _for He careth for you_'?"
"And that means, not to care myself?"
"Not anxiously, or doubtfully. You cannot trust your care to another,
and at the same time keep it yourself."
"I know all that," said Dolly slowly; "or I thought I knew it. How is
it, then, that it is so difficult to get the good of it?"
"Was it very difficult to trust me?" Mr. Shubrick asked.
"No," said Dolly, "because--you know you are not a stranger, Mr.
Shubrick. I feel as if I knew you."
He lifted his eyes and looked at her; not regarding the compliment to
himself, but with a steady, keen eye carrying Dolly's own words home to
her. He did not say a word; but Dolly changed colour.
"Oh, do you mean _that?_" she cried, almost with tears. "Is it because
I know Christ so poorly that I trust Him so slowly?"
"What else can it be? And you know, Miss Dolly, just that absolute
trust is the thing the Lord wants of us. And you know it is the thing
of all others that we like from one another. We need not be surprised
that He likes it; for we were made in His image."
Dolly sat silent, struck and moved both with sorrow and gladness; for
if it were possible so to lay down care, what more could burden her?
and that she had not done it, testified to more strangeness and
distance on her part towards her best Friend than she liked to think
of. Her musings were interrupted by Mr. Shubrick.
"Now may I be introduced to Mr. Copley?" he said.
Dolly was rather doubtful about the success of this introduction.
However, she brought her mother out of the sick-room, and took Mr.
Shubrick in; and there, in obedience to his desire, left him, without
an introduction; for her father was asleep.
"He will never let him stay there, Dolly," said Mrs. Copley. "He will
not bear it at all." And Dolly waited and feared and hoped. But the
night drew on, and came down upon the world; Mrs. Copley went to bed,
at Dolly's earnest suggestion, and was soon fast asleep, fatigue
carrying it over anxiety; and Dolly watched and listened in vain for
sounds of unrest from her father's room. None came; the house was
still; the summer night was deliciously mild; Dolly's eyelids trembled
and closed, and opened, and finally closed again, not to open till the
summer morning was bright and the birds making a loud concert of their
morning song.
Mr. Shubrick, left alone with his patient, sat down and waited;
reviewing meanwhile the room and his surroundings. It was a
moderate-sized, neat, pretty room, with one window looking out upon the
garden. The casement was two-leaved, and one leaf only was part open.
The air consequently was close and hot. And if the room was neat, that
applies only to its natural and normal condition; for if neatness
includes tidiness, it could not be said at present to deserve that
praise. There was an indescribable litter everywhere, such as is
certain to accumulate in a sick-room if the watchers are not imbued
with the spirit of order. Here were one or two spare pillows, on so
many chairs; over the back of another chair hung Mr. Copley's
dressing-gown; at a very unconnected distance from his slippers under a
fourth chair. On still another chair lay a plate and knife with the
remains of an orange; on the mantelpiece, the rest of the chairs, the
tables, and even the floor, stood a miscellaneous assortment of cups,
glasses, saucers, bottles, spoons, and pitchers, large and small,
attached to as varied an assemblage of drinks and medicines. Only one
medicine was to be given from time to time, Mr. Shubrick had been
instructed; and that was marked, and he recognised it; what were all
the rest of this assemblage doing here? Some books lay about also, and
papers, and magazines; here a shawl, there some articles of female
apparel; and a basket of feminine work. The litter was general, and
somewhat disheartening to a lover of order; Mrs. Copley being one of
those people who have nothing of the sort belonging to them, and indeed
during the most of her life accustomed to have somebody else keep order
for her; servants formerly, Dolly of late. Mr. Shubrick sat and looked
at all these things, but made no movement, until by and by his patient
awoke. It was long past sunset now, the room in partial twilight, yet
illumination enough still reflected from a very bright sky for the two
people there to see each what the other looked like. Mr. Copley used
his eyes in this investigation for a few minutes in silence.
"Who are you?" he inquired abruptly.
"A friend."
"What friend? You are a friend I don't know."
"That is true; but it will not be true to-morrow," Mr. Shubrick said
quietly.
"What are you here for?"
"To act the part of a friend, if you will allow me. I am here to wait
upon you, Mr. Copley."
"Thank you, I prefer my own people about me," said the sick man curtly.
"You may go, and send them, or some of them, to me."
"I cannot do that," said the stranger, "and you must put up with me for
to-night. Mrs. Copley and your daughter are both very tired, and need
rest."
"Humph!" said the invalid with a surprised grunt. "Did _they_ send you
here?"
"No. They permitted me to come. I take it as a great privilege."
"You take it before you have got it. I have not given my leave yet.
What are you doing there?"
"Letting some fresh air in for you." Mr. Shubrick was setting wide open
both leaves of the casement.
"You mustn't do that. The night air is not good for me. Shut the
window."
"You cannot have any air at night _but_ night air," replied Mr.
Shubrick, uttering what a great authority has since spoken, and leaving
the window wide open.
"But night air is very bad. I don't want it; do you hear?"
"If you will lie still a minute or two, you will begin to feel that it
is very good. It is full of the breath of roses and mignonette, and a
hundred other pleasant things."
"But I tell you that's poison!" cried Mr. Copley, beginning to excite
himself. "I choose to have the window shut; do you hear me, sir?
Confound you, I want it shut!"
The young man, without regarding this order, came to the bedside,
lifted Mr. Copley's head and shook up his pillows and laid him
comfortably down again.
"Lie still," he said, "and be quiet. You are under orders, and I am in
command here to-night. I am going to take care of you, and you have no
need to think about it. Is that right?"
"Yes," said the other, with another grunt half of astonishment and half
of relief,--"that's right. But I want the window shut, I tell you."
"Now you shall have your broth. It will be ready presently."
"I don't want any broth!" said the sick man. "If you could get me a
glass of wine;--_that_ would set me up. I'm tired to death of these
confounded slops. They are nothing for a man to grow strong upon. Never
would make a man strong--never!"
Mr. Shubrick made no answer. He was going quietly about the room.
"What are you doing?" said the other presently, watching him.
"Making things ship-shape--clearing decks."
"What do you know about clearing decks?" said Mr. Copley.
"I will show you."
And the sick man watched with languid amusement to see how, as his new
nurse went from place to place, the look of the room changed. Shawls
and clothing were folded up and bestowed on a chest of drawers;
slippers were put ready for use at the bedside; books were laid
together neatly on the table; and a small army of cups and glasses and
empty vials were fairly marched out of the room. In a little while the
apartment was in perfect order, and seemed half as large again. The
invalid drew a long breath.
"You're an odd one!" said he, when he caught Mr. Shubrick's eye again.
"Where did you learn all that? and who are you? and how did you come
here? I have a right to know."
"You have a perfect right, and shall know all about me," was the
answer; "but first, here is your broth, hot and good." (Mr. Shubrick
had just received it from the little maid at the door). "Take this now,
and to-morrow, if you behave well, you shall have something better."
Mr. Copley suffered himself to be persuaded, took the broth, and then
repeated his question.
"I am Sandie Shubrick, lieutenant in the United States navy, on board
ship 'The Red Chief;' just now on furlough, and in England."
"What did you come to England for?"
"Business and pleasure."
"Which do you call this you are about now?"
"Both," said Mr. Shubrick, smiling. "Now you may lie still, and keep
the rest of your questions for another time."
Mr. Copley yielded, and lay looking at his new attendant, till he dozed
off into unconsciousness. Waking then after a while, hot and restless,
his nurse brought water and a sponge and began sponging his face and
neck and hands; gently and soothingly; and kept up the exercise until
restlessness abated, breaths of satisfied content came at easy
intervals; and finally Mr. Copley slumbered off peacefully, and knew no
more. When he awoke the sun was shining on the oaks of Brierley Park.
The window was open, as it had been all night, and by the window sat
Mr. Shubrick, looking out. The sick man eyed him for a while.
"Are you asleep there?" he said at last, growing impatient of the
silence. Mr. Shubrick got up and came to him.
"Good morning!" said he. "How have you rested?"
"I believe it's the best night I've had yet. What were you doing to me
in the night? using a sponge to me, weren't you? It put me to sleep. I
believe it would cure a man of a fever, by Jupiter."
"Not by Jupiter," said Mr. Shubrick. "And you must not say such things
while I am here."
"Why not?" Mr. Copley opened his eyes somewhat.
"It is no better than counterfeit swearing."
"Would you rather have the true thing?"
"I never permit either, where I am in authority?"
"Your authority can't reach far. You've got to take the world as you
find it."
"I dispute that. You've got to take the world and make it better."
"What do you do where your authority is not sufficient?"
"I go away."
"Look here," said Mr. Copley. "Do you call yourself in authority
_here?_"
"Those are the only terms on which I could stay," said Mr. Shubrick,
smiling.
"Well, see," said the other,--"I wish you would stay. You've done me
more good than all the doctor and everybody else before you."
"I come after them all, remember."
"I wish you had come before them. Women don't know anything. There's my
wife,--she would have let the room get to be like a Jew's old clothes
shop, and never be aware of it. I didn't know what was choking me so,
and now I know it was the confusion. You belong to the navy?"
"I told you so last evening," said Mr. Shubrick, who meanwhile was
sponging Mr. Copley's face and hands again and putting him in order
generally, so as a sick man's toilet might be made.
"By Jupiter!--I beg your pardon--I believe I am going to get over this,
after all," said Mr. Copley "I am sure I shall, if you'll stay and help
me."
"I will do it with pleasure. Now, what are you going to have for your
breakfast?"
"But, look here. Why should you stay with me? I am nothing to you.
Who's to pay you for it?"
"I do not come for pay; or rather, I get it as I go along. Make
yourself easy, and tell me about your breakfast."
"How do you come here? I don't know you. Who does know you?"
"I have been a friend of your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Thayer, for many
years."
"Humph. Ah! Well. About breakfast, I don't know what they have got for
me downstairs; some lolypop or other."
"We'll do better for you than that," said Mr. Shubrick.
The morning meanwhile had come to the other inmates of the house. Dolly
had left the sofa where she had spent the night, with a glad
consciousness that the night was over and there had been no
disturbance. Her mother had slept all the night through and was
sleeping yet. What refreshment and comfort it was. What strength and
rest, to think of that kind, calm, strong, resolute man in her father's
room; somebody that could be depended upon. Dolly thought Christina
ought to be a happy woman, with always such a hand to support her all
her life long. "And he drinks no wine," thought Dolly; "that temptation
will never overtake him; she will never have to be ashamed of him. He
will hold her up, and not she him. She is happy."
The worst thing about Mr. Shubrick's coming was, that he must go away
again! However, not yet; he would be seen at breakfast first; and to
prepare breakfast was now Dolly's next care. Then she got her mother up
and persuaded her to make herself nice and appear at the meal.
"You are never going to bring him down into the kitchen?" said Mrs.
Copley, horrified, when she got there.
"Certainly, mother; it is no use trying to make a fuss. I cannot give
him breakfast anywhere else."
"Then I would let him go to the village, Dolly, and get his breakfast
there."
"But that would be very inhospitable. He was here at supper, mother; I
don't think he was frightened. He knows just how we are situated."
"He doesn't know you have nobody to help you, I hope?"
"How could he help knowing it? The thing is patent. Never mind, mother;
the breakfast will be good, if the breakfast-room is only so so. If you
do not mind, nobody else will."
"That you should come to this!" said Mrs. Copley, sinking into a chair.
"My Dolly! Doing a servant's work, and for strangers, and nobody to
help or care! And what are we coming to? I don't see, for my part. You
are ruined."
"Not yet," said Dolly cheerfully. "If I am, I do not feel like it. Now,
mother, see if you can get Mr. Shubrick down here before my omelette is
ruined; for that is the greatest danger just at present."
It was not quite easy to get Mr. Shubrick down there, however; he
demurred very seriously; and I am afraid the omelette was something the
worse before he came. But then the breakfast was rather gay. The
watcher reported a quiet night, and as he was much inclined to think,
an amended patient.
"Quiet!" echoed Mrs. Copley. "How could you keep him quiet?"
"I suppose I imagined myself on board ship," said the young man,
smiling, "and gave orders, as I am accustomed to do there. Habit is a
great thing."
"And Mr. Copley minded your orders?"
"That is understood."
"Well!" ejaculated Mrs. Copley. "He never would do the least thing I or
Dolly wanted him to do; not the least thing. _He_ has been giving the
orders all along; and as fidgetty as ever he could be. Fidgetty and
nervous. Wasn't he fidgetty?"
"No; very docile and peaceable."
"You must be a wonderful man," said Mrs. Copley.
"Habit," said Mr. Shubrick. "As I said, it is a great thing."
"He has been having his own way all along," said Mrs. Copley; "and
ordering us about, and doing just the things he ought not to do. He was
always that way."
"Not the proper way for a sick room," said Mr. Shubrick. "You had
better install me as head nurse."
How Dolly wished they could do that! As she saw him there at the table,
with his quiet air of efficiency and strength, Dolly thought what a
treasure he was in a sick house; how strong she felt while she knew he
was near. Perhaps Mrs. Copley's thoughts took the same turn; she sighed
a little as she spoke.
"You have been very kind, Mr. Shubrick. We shall never forget it. You
have been a great help. If Mr. Copley would only get better now"----
"I am going to see him better before I go."
"We could not ask any _more_ help of you."
"You need not," and Mr. Shubrick smiled. "Mr. Copley has done me the
honour to ask me."
"Mr. Copley has asked you!" repeated Mrs. Copley in bewilderment.
"What?"
"Asked me to stay."
"To stay and nurse him?"
"Yes. And I said I would. You cannot turn me away after that."
"But you have your own business in England," Dolly here put in.
"This is it, I think."
"Your own pleasure, then. You did not come to England for this."
"It seems I did," he said. "I am off duty, Miss Dolly, I told you; here
on furlough, to do what I like; and there is nothing else at present
that I should like half so well."
Dolly scored another private mark here to the account of Mr. Shubrick's
goodness; and in the ease which suddenly came to her own mind, felt as
if her head were growing light and giddy. But it was no illusion or
dream. Mr. Shubrick was really there, finishing his breakfast, and
really going to stay and take care of her father; and Dolly felt as if
the tide of their affairs had turned.
So indeed it proved. From that time Mr. Shubrick assumed the charge of
the sick-room, by night and also by day. He went for a walk to the
village sometimes, and always got his dinner there; the rest of the
time he was at the cottage, attending to everything that concerned Mr.
Copley. Dolly and her mother were quite put away from that care. And
whether it were the moral force of character, which acted upon Mr.
Copley, or whether it were that his disorder had really run its length
and that a returning tide of health was coming back to its channels,
the sick man certainly was better. He grew better from day to day. He
had been quiet and manageable from the first in his new nurse's hands;
now he began to take pleasure in his society, holding long talks with
him on all possible subjects. Appetite mended also, and strength was
gradually replacing weakness, which had been very great. Anxiety on the
one score of her father's recovery was taken away from Dolly.
Other anxieties remained, and even pressed harder, when the more
immediately engrossing care was removed. In spite of Mr. Shubrick's
lecture about casting off care, Dolly found it difficult to act upon
the truth she knew. Her little fund of money was much reduced; she
could not help asking herself how they were going to live? Would her
father, as soon as he was strong enough, go back to his former ways and
be taken up with his old companions? and if he did, how much longer
could the little household at Brierley struggle on alone? What had
become of all her father's property in America, from which in old time
the income had always been more than sufficient for all their wants and
desires? Was it gone irrevocably? or had only the ready money accruing
from it been swallowed up in speculation or pleasure? And whence could
Dolly get light on these points, or how know what steps she ought to
take? Could her weakness do anything, in view of that fact to which her
mother had alluded, that Mr. Copley always took his own way? It was all
utter and dark confusion as she looked forward. Could Dolly trust and
be quiet?
In her meditations another subject occupied her a good deal. The
presence of Sandie Shubrick was such a comfort that it was impossible
not to think what she would do without him when he was gone. He was a
universal comfort. Since he had taken charge of the sick-room, the
sickness was disappearing; while he was in command, there was no
rebellion; the affairs of the household worked smoothly, and Dolly had
no need to draw a single long breath of perplexity or anxiety. The
sound of that even, firm step on the gravel walk or in the hall, was a
token of security; the sight of Mr. Shubrick's upright, alert figure
anywhere was good for courage and hope. His resolute, calm face was a
light in the house. Dolly's thoughts were much busied with him and with
involuntary speculations about him and Christina. It was almost
unavoidable. She thought, as indeed she had thought before, that Miss
Thayer was a happy woman, to have so much strength and goodness
belonging to her. What a shielded life hers would be, by this man's
side. He would never neglect her or prefer his interests to hers; he
would never give her cause to be ashamed of him; and here Dolly's lips
sometimes quivered and a hot tear or two forced their way out from
under her eyelids. And how could possibly Christina so play fast and
loose with him, do dishonour to so much goodness, and put off her
consent to his wishes until all grace was gone out of it? Mr. Shubrick
apparently had made up his mind to this treatment and was not cast down
by it; or perhaps would he, so self-reliant as he was, be cast down
utterly by anything?
I think perhaps Dolly thought too much about Mr. Shubrick. It was
difficult to help it. He had brought such a change into her life; he
was doing such a work in the house; he was so very pleasant a companion
at those breakfasts and suppers in the kitchen. For his dinner Mr.
Shubrick persisted in going to the village inn. He said the walk did
him good. He had become in these few days quite as one of themselves.
And now he would go. Mr. Copley was fast getting well, and his nurse
would go. Dolly could not bear to think of it.