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NO. 39.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
HOME-NURSING.
BY A LADY.
THIRD ARTICLE.
In our last paper we spoke of the choice of a sick-room; we shall
now proceed to discuss its management. In commencing to nurse a case
that promises to be anything like lengthy, it is well to consider
how to save unnecessary dust and unnecessary labour, whilst keeping
the room in its proper state of cleanliness. With this end in view,
heavy woollen draperies, retaining dust and bad smells, should be
avoided; and if curtains are used at all, they should be of lace, or
some light, washing material. The best chairs are those with simple
wooden frames and cane seats and backs. Should a sofa be necessary,
and a regular invalid couch not procurable, nothing is better than a
chair-bed—provided it does not creak—fitted with washing-covers to its
cushions. Much has been said for and against the use of carpets in a
sick-room; and taking all into consideration, we see no reason for
changing our opinion that, in ordinary cases, it is better to let them
remain; they make a room pleasanter and more natural, and do away with
the noise of scrubbing, incidental to a boarded floor.
If there are cupboards, they should be cleaned out before beginning
to nurse, and in no case must they be used as receptacles for food or
for anything that has become soiled in using. A chest of drawers is a
comfort if used with discretion; but in home-nursing, it often proves
the reverse of useful, and serves as a treasury for all sorts of things
which have no business in a sick-room.
Pictures have a brightening effect, but they must hang straight, or
your patient may worry himself with endless efforts to make them fit in
with the pattern of the paper; though, if possible, the paper should be
without those decided markings which so often add to the distress of
unduly sensitive nerves.
Growing-plants have a cheerful look, and are not deleterious, as many
suppose; cut flowers may also be indulged in, with the exception of
those which have a heavy, sickly smell; but it is better to remove them
at night. In summer, it is necessary to take precaution against the
patient’s being disturbed by the buzz of insects; a fly-catcher at the
open window will generally be sufficient; but such things in the room
itself are worse than useless.
Small washable ornaments may be allowed to remain, but not to a greater
extent than suffices to give the room its customary appearance, for it
must be remembered that all useless articles increase the number of
dust-receptacles and make the process of tidying-up more lengthy. I
have seen mantel-boards and brackets covered with cloth, and literally
crowded with ornaments, which have not been properly dusted for weeks
because it made the patient sneeze! Such instances point the moral in
regard to cloth-coverings as well as superfluous ornaments.
A folding-screen is an almost indispensable article of sick-room
furniture; it not only serves to keep off draughts and the glare of the
fire, but in convalescence is useful for putting round the invalid’s
chair. By its help, too, ventilation is made so much easier, that,
if nothing pretty and ornamental is to be had, it is worth while to
extemporise a screen with an ordinary clothes-horse and sheet; but a
chintz or holland cover, bound with braid and made to tie on, is much
more cheerful than the dull expanse of a sheet.
And now for the most important article of furniture, the bed, on which
depends so much of the patient’s comfort or discomfort. If possible,
have a light iron frame without a foot-rail, or with only a low one.
For an adult, the bed should measure not less than six feet three
inches in length and about three feet in width. Greater width increases
the difficulty of reaching the patient, and it is astonishing the
journeys such a thing as a handkerchief will make over a large surface
of bed. The height of the bed is another serious consideration, for
should it be too low, the nurse will find it add considerably to
the back-aching tendency of nursing; and if too high, the constant
straining up to the patient will be quite as bad. The rule then,
is, that the bed when made shall be so proportioned to the nurse’s
height as to enable her to lift and attend to the patient without any
undue effort. In home-nursing, the bed question is often overlooked
altogether, or made much more of a difficulty than it need be; and
though that relic of unenlightened days, the four-poster, is almost
extinct in some households, most of the beds are large, and to alter
the furnishing of a room seems beyond the imagination of the ordinary
housekeeper. But surely, in time of illness, the first consideration
should be how best to mitigate the patient’s sufferings and lighten
the nurse’s labours; and in all but quite slight cases, it is worth
considerable effort to secure the right kind of bed and bedding.
This brings us to another home-nursing difficulty; for in spite of
recent progress in hygienic knowledge, there are still not a few
individuals who are foolish enough to prefer the unwholesome softness
of a feather-bed to the healthy firmness of a good hair mattress. Yet
few victims to this enervating habit fail to complain of the lumps,
only to be got rid of by a large expenditure of strength and time. And
if this be so in ordinary life, how much more complicated do matters
become when the patient is too weak to bear to be removed for the
necessary shaking, and is yet in a state to feel every discomfort
with added force. Indeed, so true is this, that in serious illness,
a feather-bed may be reckoned as an invincible enemy to comfort and
cleanliness; and it is better not to allow your patient to remain under
such unfavourable circumstances, even though it involve a few hours
of dissatisfied grumbling. It may make things easier if the change is
ushered in by allowing the feather-bed to remain under the mattress
till the patient has become accustomed to the new order of things, when
it will be well to substitute flock for feathers.
If the nurse’s height will allow of two mattresses, it is a good plan
to alternate them so that the under one of yesterday shall be the upper
one of to-day. Those who have not tried this simple way of securing
a change, will hardly believe the comfort it affords to a helpless
patient.
On the same principle, it is a great alleviation to the monotony of
long illness if the room will allow of two beds, one for day, the other
for night; and this arrangement permits the thorough airing of bed and
bedding, which it is otherwise so difficult to secure.
Bed-hangings are happily following the lead of the ancient four-poster,
and will soon be only remembered as things of the past; and in illness,
even the valance, still in use, had better be banished. Pillows should
be firm and not too soft; and bolsters should have covers of their own,
and not be rolled round in the under-sheet, according to a common and
very shiftless process. I have known the sheet to be tucked round the
bolster in such a careless way that by the patient’s merely getting
into bed it has been pulled out of place, and has continued a fruitful
source of irritation for the rest of the day.
How to keep the under-sheet smooth and free alike from crumbs and
wrinkles is one of the professed nurse’s arts, and is just one of those
apparently small matters, neglected as such by inexperience, which
make home-nursing the unsatisfactory thing it often is. Yet those who
have gone through a tedious illness can hardly fail to remember the
discomfort of what a tiny patient used to call ‘rucks.’ To him, poor
little man, rucks made stopping in bed a misery; and his incessant
demands to have them removed, suggested to even his inexperienced
nurse the idea that there might be a right and a wrong way to such
a commonplace thing as bed-making. The right and only proper way of
arranging a bed for illness is to give special, minute attention to
the placing of under-blanket and sheet. If the former can be dispensed
with, especially in summer-time, it will be well; but very few patients
will agree to this, and it is hardly of sufficient importance to argue
about, except in special cases, when the doctor will probably give his
veto.
In an ordinary way, be careful to choose a thin blanket, without holes
of course, but one that has been pretty well worn, and that, therefore,
will not greatly add to the heat of the patient’s body. Then—more
important still—the blanket must be considerably larger than the bed,
in length as well as width. The mattress being arranged as evenly as
possible, the under-blanket should be laid upon it, and well tucked
in at top and bottom, as well as sides, till there is not a crease or
wrinkle of any sort. The under-sheet must now be put on in the same
way, and the nearer it resembles a drum in tightness the better. A few
minutes spent in extra care at this point will save the patient hours
of discomfort later on.
Should there, unfortunately, be no covered bolster, the sheet, after
being securely tucked in at the bottom, must be drawn tightly upwards,
and the bolster rolled round in the free end and then placed well
up against the bed-head. The difficulty is to get the sheet tightly
stretched without pulling the bolster away from its proper place. The
number of pillows must be regulated by the nature of the patient’s
malady and partly by his previous habits. In ordinary cases, one large
pillow is enough, and it is a good plan to place it lengthways, one
end resting against the bed-head, and the other on the mattress, thus
avoiding the hollow between the patient’s shoulders and the bed, which
is a fruitful source of uneasiness and restlessness. In convalescence
and in many forms of illness, pillows play an important part, and we
shall have more to say about them later on.
We now return to the bed, furnished as far as the under-sheet and
pillow. Should the patient be quite helpless, it will be necessary to
place next, the contrivance known as a draw-sheet, which should consist
of old linen or calico that has been washed to extreme softness. It
should be folded lengthways till just long enough to reach from below
the patient’s shoulders to his knees. This, with an under-piece of
mackintosh, is carefully put in place and tucked in with the same care
and tightness as the under-sheet.
In regard to the upper bed-clothes, they too require care in tucking
in, especially at the bottom; and if so long as to need folding back,
the folding must on no account be done at the top. I have seen patients
with chest complaints literally labouring under the weight of clothes
placed in exactly the wrong place. In illness, as a rule the feet need
extra covering, and the breathing organs no more weight of clothes than
is absolutely necessary. The upper-sheet being light, may be allowed to
turn over for neatness, but blanket and counterpane must only come up
to the patient’s neck. This folding back is such a common error, that
it needs special notice, and in ordinary life, as well as in illness,
should never be tolerated. The number of upper-clothes to be put on
the patient’s bed will vary with circumstances; but, as a rule, in a
room with a fire, one blanket and a counterpane will be enough. The
great point is to secure warmth without weight, and for this purpose,
the ordinary cotton counterpane is about as bad as possible. An
excellent substitute is the kind of blanket known as the ‘Austrian,’
which is cheerful in appearance as well as light and warm. In cases of
exhaustion, nothing is better than a chintz-covered down, which can be
shifted or removed without disturbing the patient.
A good many amateur nurses err on the side of over-heating a patient,
and do not understand its connection with restless tossing and broken
sleep. Should these symptoms occur at night, especially if accompanied
with a flushed face and moist skin, it is well to gradually reduce the
number of coverings, carefully noticing the effect of so doing.
On the ground of their greater warmth, cotton sheets and pillow-cases
are preferable to linen; but some people have a decided fancy for the
latter, and it may safely be used, provided the sheets are warmed just
before being put on the bed. Simple airing is not enough; I have known
the chill of linen set a patient off into a shivering fit, although the
nurse has been particularly strong in the airing line.
It is absolutely necessary that all the bedding used in illness shall
be thoroughly aired, but, of course, it should never be done in the
sick-room. Unhappily, it is by no means rare to find the fire screened
from a patient by clothes-horse or chairs, covered with damp things,
the vapour from which ought to be sufficient warning of the folly of
such a practice. A good rule in this connection is that everything,
down to cups and saucers, shall be removed from the sick-room as soon
as soiled, and only returned to it in a condition for immediate use.
Re-making the patient’s bed is our next consideration. If well enough
to go into another room, he should either be carried there, or laid on
a sofa and wheeled in. As soon as he is out of the way, the window of
the sick-room should be thrown open to its widest, and the bed-clothes
taken off one by one, well shaken, and left so exposed that the air
can circulate freely around them. The mattresses should share the same
treatment, and if possible, be left for a few minutes before being
replaced. The patient will indeed be peculiar who does not enjoy the
refreshment of a bed thus aired.
But in helpless illness, the changing of bedding is a more complicated
matter, and needs practice to make perfect. There are two ways of
changing the under-sheet The first may be used when the patient is
not quite helpless, and the nurse has to work alone. The soiled sheet
is freed at the top, and after the removal of pillows and bolster, is
rolled up to the patient’s head; the clean sheet, after being well
tucked in at the top, is loosely rolled in such a way as to lie close
against the soiled one; they must now be worked down together, rolling
the soiled, and unrolling the clean, the patient raising himself on
elbows and feet just enough for the nurse to pass the sheets under
him. In this way it is possible to get the under-sheet smooth and
tight; but it is not an easy thing, and an assistant should be had if
possible. If help is to be had, and in all cases where the patient
is quite powerless, it is better to adopt the second plan. Remove
the pillows and bolster, so that the patient lies quite flat in bed;
turn him over on his side with his back to you. Loosen the sheet
lengthways, and proceed with the rolling and unrolling as before, till
the rolls come close up to the patient’s back. Depress the mattress
under him, whilst the assistant draws the sheet through, and in so
doing, slowly turns the patient on his back. He will now be lying on
the clean sheet, and the difficulty is over. The trained nurse will be
able to do this without removing the upper clothing, and in no case
should all the coverings be taken away. Draw-sheets may be removed in
the same way, but being small, are easier to manage. Some people tack
or pin the clean to the dirty, and draw through whilst an assistant
keeps the patient raised. Changing the upper clothes is not such a
serious undertaking, though seldom properly managed by amateurs. The
counterpane and blanket may be taken quite off the bed, and given to
an assistant to shake, outside the room; but the sheet must never be
removed without an immediate substitute. A good plan is to loosen the
soiled sheet all round, tuck the clean one well in at the foot, and
draw the free end upwards, under the dirty sheet, which is gradually
drawn away or rolled up. As a general rule, the patient’s bed should be
made and his night-shirt changed at least once a day, and cases where
this is not feasible ought not to come within the scope of home-nursing.
If a pair of clean sheets a day cannot be managed, one may be made to
do, by letting yesterday’s clean upper sheet be to-day’s lower one; but
draw-sheets must be changed as soon as soiled, irrespective of number.
Where mackintosh is used, it should also be frequently changed, washed
over, and thoroughly dried, in the open air if possible.
The patient’s bed, it will be seen from the directions for making it,
must never stand so that one side is against the wall, nor must it be
in a direct current of air; but it is well if it can be so arranged
as to face the fire and at the same time allow the patient to amuse
himself by looking out of window. In badly finished houses, there is
often considerable draught from cracks in door or window frame, and
from this the patient must be carefully guarded by the judicious use of
screens.
We now turn to consider how the sick-room may be kept in that state
of perfect cleanliness essential alike to the patient’s comfort and
recovery; and of all neglected points, this is perhaps the one most
frequently forgotten or ignored; not one in a hundred of home-nurses
having a conception of her duty in this respect. Difficult it
undoubtedly is; but where the patient can be removed to another
room for an hour or two once a week, it is quite possible for even
inexperience to be successful.
We will suppose the weekly removal has taken place, and the nurse has
to make hay while the sun shines. She first strips the bed, sending the
clothes into another room to be aired; and throwing the window open
to its widest, she directs her attention to the grate. The best way
of removing the ashes is to carefully collect all the large pieces of
coal and cinder, and then very gently draw the ashes away into a piece
of stiff paper, which folded over them, will prevent any dust rising
in their transit. After cleaning grate and fire-irons and making up
the fire, the nurse turns her attention to the carpet, which, after
being well strewn with damp tea-leaves, should be briskly swept with a
hand-broom. If the furniture is simple, it may be washed over with a
wet cloth and dried, all cushions or stuffed furniture being beaten out
of the room. The window, often overlooked, should be nicely cleaned;
and then the bed being re-made, the patient may be brought back into
a room thoroughly well cleaned and aired. It is not necessary that a
nurse should herself perform all menial work; indeed, it is much better
she should not; but she ought to see that the above directions are
faithfully carried out. For the rest of the week, the carpet should
be wiped over with a damp (not wet) cloth, tied to the end of a long
broom, and the furniture well and quickly dusted. It is not enough to
merely wipe over furniture and let the dust loose; the duster should
be folded over bit by bit as it becomes soiled, and once or twice
during the process of dusting, shaken out of a window in another room
or in the staircase. A room thus treated will keep in perfect order
for some time; but should the illness be long, an effort must be made
to take the carpet up about every six weeks or two months, that it may
be beaten and thoroughly aired. If carpets are made in the sensible
fashion of squares, secured by brass nails with broad heads, there will
be little difficulty in managing this; but it will not hurt the carpet
to let it remain loose.
In cases where the weekly removal is impossible, the floor must be
wiped over carefully every day with a damp cloth, and tea-leaves used
now and then, the patient being protected from the dust by screens; but
this plan is only for use as a last resource in extreme cases. Under
such circumstances, it is not a bad plan to have a small portion of the
furniture, say a chair or table and an ornament or two, removed each
day and thoroughly cleaned, out of the room; otherwise, it is almost
impossible to keep things in proper order, in spite of daily dusting.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XLVIII.—ANXIETIES.
Madge wakened with the weary sensation of one who has passed through
a long nightmare. It was some minutes before she could recall the
incidents of the previous day; still longer before she could realise
the unhappy meaning of the scene with Philip, and the fact that
Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy had found in her conduct cause for grave
displeasure.
Surely she had been acting very wickedly, when those three, who
were dearer to her than all the world beside, turned from her, and
were vexed as well as pained by what she was doing, so far as they
understood it. Surely Mr Beecham must be mistaken in the course he was
pursuing—she did not even now doubt the goodness and generosity of his
motives. There was only one way in which she could set the minds of
her friends at ease; and that she must adopt, no matter what it might
cost herself. She dare not hope that Philip would be readily satisfied
and come back to her; but at least he should understand that she had
been thinking of his interest more than of herself. And Uncle Dick and
Aunt Hessy would be relieved from anxiety on her account, and then—who
could tell?—maybe they would influence Philip. Maybe Uncle Dick would
overlook his loss of fortune, and tell him that he never meant to
separate them on such a sorry score as that.
The one way which she saw to bring about this desirable consummation
was to inform Mr Beecham that she could no longer keep his secret; and
that, if he did not come to Willowmere within the week to release her,
she would take back the pledge she had given him and explain everything
to her relatives.
Having arrived at this resolution, she was restored to a calm state
of mind which was wonderful in contrast with the fever of the night.
Morning is the time of hope and energy to a healthful nature; and Madge
felt this, although the atmosphere was cold and the sky white with its
load of snow, which was presently to descend in thick flakes, covering
up the last patches of earth and shrub left bare by the glimpses of
sunshine that had succeeded the previous fall.
She went about her duties quietly and resolutely; but it was hard to
meet the wistful eyes of Dame Crawshay without throwing herself into
the arms that would have received her so gladly, and at once tell all.
She had, however, made a bargain, and she would keep to it. Aunt Hessy
would approve of what she was doing, when the time for explanation
came. Uncle Dick was surly at breakfast, and he scarcely spoke to her
at dinner. He did not once refer to the cattle show, and he went out to
inspect his stock, a discontented and unhappy man.
Madge felt assured that Philip would say nothing more unless he heard
from Uncle Dick; nevertheless, she was all day looking out for some
sign from him. Old Zachy the postman came twice, and she saw him
approach, her heart pausing, then beating quick with excitement. But
Zachy brought nothing from her lover. And she was pained as well as
disappointed, although she assured herself again that she had not
expected anything, and that she had no right to expect anything until
Philip received some token of Uncle Dick’s kindly intentions. Besides,
she argued, it was needful to bear in mind the distracted state he
was in about his affairs, and how many things he must have to attend
to which could not be postponed on any account. Indeed, she did
remember all this, and was so keenly sensible of the cruel effect his
misfortunes were producing on his mind, that she was frightened about
him—more frightened than she had been even on the occurrence of the
accident with the horse.
So, when postman Zachy had made his second and last round in the
afternoon, she could not rest until she had consulted Dr Joy regarding
Philip’s health. Having explained to Aunt Hessy where she was going and
why, she started for the village, although the snow had begun to fall
in a way which would have made any town-miss who understood what the
signs meant glad to stay at home. What the snow meant was to fulfil
the threats it had been making for several days, and to come down more
heavily than it had done for years.
Dr Joy was surprised to see her on such a gloomy afternoon; but he
understood the nature of her visit, after a few words of such necessary
explanation as she was at liberty to give.
‘And I want you to tell me plainly what his condition is, doctor,’ she
concluded, ‘for I—that is, we are all very anxious about him.’
The good little doctor looked at her earnestly for a moment, as if to
assure himself that she was not only desirous of hearing the truth but
also able to bear it, and then made reply frankly, but was unable even
then to dismount entirely from the hobby which he and his wife rode so
diligently in theory.
‘You will agree with me, my dear Miss Heathcote, that economy is the
great principle which should regulate our lives—not merely economy in
finance, but likewise in work, in strength, and (most important of all)
in health. I daresay our friend has told you that I spoke to him on
this subject.’
‘When writing, he mentioned that you had visited him,’ she answered,
with some nervous anticipations assailing her.
‘Well, I warned him then that his condition was extremely precarious.
It is, in fact, that condition which when a man has fallen into, it
requires him directly to throw up everything, if he cares to live. It
requires him to sacrifice fortune, prosperity, and to run away anywhere
and do anything to escape it.’
‘But how can he do that?’
Her own observations of Philip’s changing moods recently, formed a
convincing argument in favour of the importance of what the doctor
said. The doctor shook his head and smiled regretfully.
‘That is precisely what he asked; that is what every man to whom the
advice is given asks. My answer is—_don’t_ ask how, but go at once.
Your affairs will be settled much more satisfactorily to all parties
in a year or two if you go, than they can be if you remain and die in a
month or two.’
‘But surely Philip is not so bad as that!’
‘You asked me to speak plainly, and I am quoting extreme cases,’ said
Dr Joy, anxious to mitigate the alarm which he saw his verdict had
created, whilst at the same time holding to his point. ‘Philip is
not quite so bad as that yet; but he will be in a few months, unless
something occurs to relieve him from his present anxieties.’
The doctor’s last words gave her more encouragement than he could have
expected, or perhaps intended to give; and the terror which had made
her pulse seem to stop, was changed to confident hope. She had every
reason to believe that in a few weeks, it might be in a few days,
Philip would be relieved of all his anxieties. But this did not lessen
in any degree her eagerness to have direct and frequent information
as to the state of his health. Dr Joy readily agreed to call at the
chambers in Gray’s Inn on the following day, and report to her on his
return; then they were to arrange about further visits. Thus being
relieved to some extent on this important point, she prepared to take
leave; but Dr and Mrs Joy suggested that she should have a fly to take
her home, as the snow was falling fast, and already lay three or four
inches deep on the ground, whilst it had drifted into an embankment
against the opposite houses.
‘I should not think of your hiring a conveyance,’ said the doctor; ‘but
we have had a long and heavy day, and both my horses are fagged out.’
But Madge would not hear of this kindly proposal. ‘I like the snow,’
she answered, ‘and a brisk walk will do me good.’ At another time, she
would have smiled at the timidity of her friends on account of the
weather.
‘You will catch your death of cold, my dear,’ said Mrs Joy, ‘and then
you will not be able to come to Edwin’s lecture next week. I assure you
it is the most interesting one he has yet delivered.’
Even the danger of missing the doctor’s lecture was not enough to
deter her from walking home. As she was passing the _King’s Head_, the
Ringsford carriage drew up at the door, and out of it jumped Coutts
Hadleigh, in the full uniform of a captain of Volunteers. He was taken
by surprise, and uttered a natural exclamation:
‘Why, what brings you so far from home on such an evening as this?
There is going to be a regular out and outer of a snowstorm, and I
would not be here myself, only this is the night of the feed I give
every year to my men, and all the arrangements were made.’
She was more pleased to meet him than she was generally, for he might
be able to give her some news of Philip. So, without troubling to
answer his inquiries, she put her own.
‘Don’t know anything about him,’ he answered—callously, as she thought,
‘except that he has got into a precious scrape, and will disgrace our
family, unless that uncle of his helps him out of it.’
‘Disgrace?—How is it disgrace to fail in a noble enterprise?’
‘Ah, it’s something worse than failing in a noble enterprise,’ answered
Coutts, returning to his habitual tone of cynical indifference. ‘But
don’t let us talk about it, if you please. I would rather not, even to
you, until all the ins and outs are known.’
‘When will you know about your brother’s affairs?’
‘I cannot say; but he will tell you all about them; and if he doesn’t,
I will. Meanwhile, let me do him a service—get into the carriage,
and Toomey will drive you home. I am sure that is what Phil and the
guv’nor, too, would say, if they found you trudging along the road in
such weather. Do get in, or they will both have me down in their black
books. The carriage is not to come back for me, so you won’t give the
horses any extra work.’
She consented; and Toomey, who was glad enough to turn homeward for
his own comfort as well as that of the horses, wheeled round, and
drove off at a good pace. A little way out of the village they nearly
ran over a man, who, walking in the same direction, had not heard the
carriage making up on him, either on account of the preoccupation of
his thoughts or the thick carpeting of snow on the road.
‘All right,’ growled the man, having saved himself, and Toomey drove on.
Madge recognised the voice of Caleb Kersey. She would have liked to
speak to him, but it was too late. She supposed, however, that he was
on his way to visit Sam Culver, from whom he would learn the cause of
Pansy’s disappearance. Caleb was on this quest, as she surmised, and he
was going to Ringsford, but not to seek information from the gardener.
CHAPTER XLIX.—AT MIDNIGHT.
Coutts Hadleigh relished good wine; but he was cautious in his cups,
as in everything else. On this evening, however, he ‘drank fair,’ as
it is called, with his comrades; and those who were acquainted with
his habits noted the fact with increasing curiosity as the evening
advanced. This was the fifth annual dinner he had given to ‘his men’
since the captain’s commission had been thrust upon him, and he had on
no previous occasion displayed so much hilarity or provided so many
cynical anecdotes for the entertainment of the company. His lieutenant
and sub.—both proprietors of the land they farmed—concluded that the
captain must have made some exceptionally lucky stroke in business
recently. Coutts believed he had.
The members of the Kingshope Volunteer corps were mostly young farmers
and the sons of farmers, who should have possessed the physical
proportions which would have specially qualified them for the soldier’s
career. But it was surprising to observe how few of them presented
these qualifications. When Dick Crawshay first saw them mustered, he
exclaimed in loud indignation, his huge form towering over the whole
troop: ‘What! is that all our county can show in the way of Volunteers?
Why, half a dozen of our old yeomen would scare them into the middle
of next week without a tussle! They are more like a set of town
scarecrows than country-bred lads.... Ah, this comes ov givin’ the land
to people that have money and no muscle, and meddle with things they
know nothing about.’
He was right in a certain degree, for these youths were the sons of
wealthy merchants who take up farming as a hobby, and leaving the work
to hired labourers, are indifferent to losses, and therefore able to
pay rents which the working farmer has struggled for a time to compete
with, and given up in despair, or emigrated. This was a sore subject
with yeoman Dick, and although regularly invited by Coutts to this
annual feast, he regularly refused to go—and even kept within his own
bounds whenever he knew there was a parade. The prejudice prevented him
from learning that a goodly number of these young fellows made up for
physical deficiencies by skill as marksmen and efficiency in drill; so
that the Kingshope Volunteer corps formed a by no means unsatisfactory
body of men for home defence. But had any one dared to hint that
even in some respects they might be favourably compared with the old
yeomanry, he would have made Dick his foe.
On the present occasion, Captain Hadleigh’s company showed that they
had improved slightly on one of the yeomanry practices by keeping up
their revels to a late hour without all getting drunk. The lieutenant
having to pass Ringsford on his way home, and having his gig with
him, drove the captain to the gates of the Manor. The snow had only
ceased falling a little while before the company at the _King’s Head_
broke up, and now it lay deep on the roads, houses, and fields. The
old church looked like a huge snow-house; and the meadows in the dim
moonlight presented a white surface, apparently on a level with the
hedgerows.
The lieutenant’s powerful cob had its work to do, for at every step
its hoofs sank deep in the snow-covered road. But the travellers were
merry, and did not mind the slowness of their progress. Their chief
trouble was to keep the road and avoid the open ditches. They succeeded
in this, and also succeeded in distinguishing the point where the Manor
gates broke the white wall.
Coutts made his way through the side-gate, which shook large pancakes
of snow down upon him as he opened it.
The avenue being guarded by its long arch of tree-branches, the path
was comparatively easy to traverse, and Coutts was soon in front of the
house, which, like the church, was a shapeless white mass, broken by a
few points of light. Underneath these few lights was dark shadow. As
Coutts ascended the steps of the portico, a man stepped out from the
shadow.
‘I want to speak to you a minute, Mr Coutts Hadleigh; I’ve been waiting
all evening for you.’
Coutts was no coward, although his brain was somewhat muddy with wine;
but this sudden apparition made him spring to the top of the steps and
ring the bell, as he exclaimed fiercely:
‘Who are you, and what do you want with me at this hour?’
‘I want to know where is Pansy Culver?’ said the man with enforced
calmness, which contrasted to his advantage with the blustering ire of
the other.
‘Confound your impudence—how should I know?’
‘I saw you with her at the London station. Where has she gone to? Where
did you send her to?’
‘She didn’t tell me where she was going to, and I didn’t send her
anywhere.’
Caleb Kersey’s calmness broke bounds, and he next spoke with savage
determination:
‘You are lying, and you shall tell me the truth.’
‘You’re an insolent fool.’
As Caleb swiftly ascended the steps, he received a vigorous buffet on
the breast, which tumbled him backward on the snow. The door was open;
Coutts entered; the door was instantly closed, bolted, chained, and
locked.
‘Tell that fellow Kersey to go about his business,’ said Coutts to the
attendant who had been waiting up for him; ‘he is drunk or mad. If he
has any business with me, he knows where to find me at proper hours.’
With that he went up-stairs in a furious temper with the man who had
insulted him, and had evidently intended to offer violence to his
person. Before he had reached the first landing, there was an impatient
but not a very loud knock at the door. The servant repeated his young
master’s message, put out the hall lights, and gladly enough went off
to bed.
Caleb stood in the portico hesitating as to what he should do. He had
been waiting there for hours; he had been told that Mr Coutts Hadleigh
was not at home—the servant declined to say where he might be found.
The snow and the cold did not appear to affect him. He waited, and at
last the man had come, but had not given the watcher any satisfaction.
Caleb was aware that his application was untimely: but that was not
his fault: the circumstances were exceptional. He must know from this
villain what he had done with Pansy, and then he would seek her father,
whose authority would rescue her from the evil influence under which
she had fallen.
The poor fellow never thought that his first step ought to have been
to consult Pansy’s father. A natural delicacy, rude and earnest, made
him shrink from the idea, because he felt sure it would cause him pain.
He learned from his friends in the village that Pansy had gone away
somewhere; and as the gardener had no special need or liking to speak
of her grandfather, he had not mentioned to any of his gossips whither
she had gone. So Caleb, sitting in a train which was just starting,
having caught sight of Pansy and Coutts Hadleigh talking together on
the platform at Liverpool Street Station, instantly concluded that
there was something wrong. He would have jumped out of the carriage;
but the other passengers prevented him, and he had to endure cruel
torments of speculation and rage until he reached his destination.
He had no hope of winning Pansy; but he might save her from the fate
to which she seemed to be hasting. He had no doubt she had been taught
to repeat some falsehood to her father, which kept him quiet about
her absence, and he had no doubt of her danger. Then with a sullen
resolution, in which the anxiety of a lover was combined with the
suppressed fury of a maniac, he sought Coutts Hadleigh, determined to
force the truth from him.
In those cold weary hours when he was hanging about the Manor waiting,
the words of Philip frequently recurred to him: ‘Trust her, man;
trust her.’ He imagined that he did trust her; he was sure that she
did not mean to do wrong. But at the same time the wicked comment of
Wrentham also presented itself, reminding him that trust gave the woman
opportunity to deceive. He did not like the man who spoke or the words
he uttered; but the remembrance made him uneasy.
‘Ah, if Master Philip had not been in such a pickle with his own
affairs, I’d have gone to him now, and he would have told me what was
best to do, even though the villain be his own brother. But it would
be a mortal shame to put more trouble on him when he’s down enough
already. I’ll go my own way.’
All these things were careering through his mind, as he stood under the
portico wondering how he should act. He heard a casement open above—it
seemed to be directly over his head—and Captain Hadleigh shouted:
‘You’d better move off quietly, Kersey, or I’ll call our fellows and
send for the police.’
The casement was closed violently, the two sides banging together, the
principal windows of the Manor opening on hinges like doors, in the
French fashion.
Caleb stepped out from beneath the portico and looked up. There was a
ruddy glow—the effect of the light shining through deep maroon-coloured
curtains—in two windows on the first floor. One of these windows opened
on to the top of the portico which formed part of a balcony. That was
the one from which Hadleigh must have spoken, thought Caleb; and was
immediately satisfied on the point by seeing the shadow of a man who
was passing slowly between the light and the curtains.
‘The stable ain’t far off, and I can find a ladder there,’ muttered
Caleb, moving away from the front of the house.
* * * * *
Mr Hadleigh, sen., was seated at his writing-table, his back towards
the windows. Before him lay those sheets of manuscript which he had
written at intervals during the past year. The broad shade on the lamp
cast the soft light down on the table, and had it not been for the
bright glow of a huge fire, the rest of the room—and especially the
upper part—would have been in comparative darkness. As it was, the
flickering flame of the fire made the shadows above and around him
flutter and change like living things.
He was not writing. He was carefully separating certain pages from the
others; having done so, he fastened them together neatly, and with his
hand covering them, as if to hide the words from himself, he leaned
back on his chair. Suddenly he rose and paced the floor slowly in
melancholy reflection.
When he resumed his seat, there was a placid expression on his face,
like that of one who, after a long mental struggle, has come to a
final decision and found peace.
With as much sad deliberation as if he were committing a dear one to
the grave, he placed the separate packets of manuscript in different
envelopes. The first and largest he addressed in a bold clear hand,
‘_To Mrs Philip Hadleigh. To be opened after my death._’
Over the second packet his pen was poised for some moments, and his
hand was not so steady as before when he began to write.
‘_To my son, Philip Hadleigh. To be opened after my death and read by
him alone. When he has read, he shall decide whether to burn at once or
first to show it to his wife. The secret of my life is here._’
As his pen stopped, a chill blast passed through the room, making the
lamplight waver, as if it were about to be extinguished. Mr Hadleigh,
surprised, raised his head slowly, and slowly looked round.
The window behind him was open, and before it stood a tall,
rough-looking, muscular man. Mr Hadleigh’s sallow cheeks became more
sallow, his eyes started, and his lips trembled slightly. He recovered
himself instantly, and rising calmly from his seat, and at the same
moment lifting the shade from the lamp, his eyes remaining fixed all
the time on the intruder, burglar, intending murderer, perhaps.
When the light was uncovered, the man drew back a pace with a kind of
growl of surprise. Mr Hadleigh retained perfect self-possession; but he
was not much relieved from apprehension by recognising in his midnight
visitor the leader of the agricultural agitators who had on various
occasions openly declared antagonism to the master of Ringsford.
(_To be continued._)
A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE _NOT_ DANGEROUS.
A remarkable circumstance recently occurred which brings out strongly
the fact that scientific teaching in medical and surgical matters has
made giant strides of late. On the 8th of July an accident happened
to a ‘marker’ at the ranges of the Civil Service Rifle regiment at
Wimbledon when marking at the five hundred yards’ range. According
to the report, a rifle-bullet seems ‘to have bounded off the corner
of the target and to have entered the marker’s breast.’ Fortunately,
the great annual meeting of the National Rifle Association was to
commence in a day or two, and the Field Hospital prepared for the
meeting was being got ready under the charge of Sergeant Monaghan
and Corporal Melville, both of the Army Hospital Corps. Thither the
wounded man was immediately carried; but there was no surgeon present
or anywhere near. Seeing, however, the serious nature of the case, the
two soldiers, without a moment’s hesitation, took steps to extract the
bullet, which had entered the right breast just under the collar-bone.
Having carefully examined his patient and found the exact locality of
the bullet, Sergeant Monaghan, with the assistance of the corporal,
made an incision in the back and was enabled at once to extract the
bullet from the spot where it had lodged, just opposite to the point
of entry in the breast. The injured man, a member of the corps of
Commissionaires, expressed himself much gratified with the prompt
attention he had received, as well as with the skilful operation by
which, without a moment’s loss of time, the important act of removing
the bullet had been accomplished. Too much praise cannot be given to
the two soldiers, who by their ready and intelligent action, saved
their patient not only from prolonged suffering, but perhaps even from
death itself.
The well-known saying of ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,’
is here singularly confuted, for it was just the ‘little knowledge’
applied with sagacity and intelligence that probably saved the life of
a fellow-creature.
Many of our readers will doubtless remember a melancholy occurrence
which took place last year on one of the Swiss mountains, when a
valuable young life was lost for the want of a ‘little knowledge,’ and
in itself, very simple knowledge too. A German engineer and two guides
were ascending one of the famous Swiss mountains, when the younger
of the guides appears to have had a very bad fall, by which either a
bottle or a lamp-glass was broken, the fractured part entering the
young man’s thigh and dividing the femoral artery. It would not, we
should suppose, have required very profound surgical knowledge to know
that the man would inevitably bleed to death unless this great artery
could be immediately compressed; but incredible as it may appear,
neither the German nor the other Swiss guide knew anything about the
matter. They tried to stop the spouting blood with their handkerchiefs,
which of course was of no avail. Neither thought of tying the
handkerchief or other ligature round the upper part of the limb, and
then twisting it tight by the application of a stick; and so the poor
young fellow quickly bled to death. Now, if the bleeding could have
been arrested by ligature until surgical assistance was procured, the
young guide would doubtless have recovered, for the injury, as a mere
flesh-wound, was in itself by no means serious. Here, then, a ‘little
knowledge’ would have done a vast amount of good.
One of the best, most useful, and practical associations of the present
day is the St John’s Ambulance Society, which teaches all who care
to learn how to act in such emergencies as that related, and to take
instant action _on the spot_, until surgical aid can be obtained—a
ticklish and anxious time, often fraught with serious danger, when
there is not a minute to spare, and where loss of time means loss of
life.
Let every one, therefore, who has any real love for his fellows, and
who feels that he or she has the nerve requisite for the work—for
this is a _sine quâ non_—at once learn how to act in cases of sudden
accident, illness, faintness, drowning, or any other of the many
unlooked-for ills and mishaps that ‘flesh is heir to’—a species of
knowledge that will improve the mind of the possessor, and may be
productive of infinite good.
THE LAST OF THE STUARTS.
A MODERN ROMANCE.
III.—KING CHARLES III.