THE SERGEANT'S SICKNESS AND HIS SICK-NURSE
Dr. Scott, as the reader knows, had visited Adam, and felt a great
interest in his patient. The Doctor was a man of few words, very shy,
and, as has been indicated, even abrupt and gruff, his only affectation
being his desire to appear devoid of any feeling which might seem to
interfere with severe medical treatment or a surgical operation. He
liked to be thought stern and decided. The fact was that his intense
sympathy pained him, and he tried to steel himself against it. When he
scolded his patients, it was because they made him suffer so much, and
because, moreover, he was angry with himself for being angry with them.
He therefore affected unconcern at the very time when his anxiety for a
patient made him sleepless, and compelled him often, when in bed, to
read medical journals with the aid of a long yellow candle, instead of
spending in sleep such portions of his night-life as the sick permitted
him to enjoy. He had watched Adam's whole conduct as an elder--had
heard much about his labours from his village patients--and, as the
result of his observations, had come to the conclusion that he was a man
of a rare and right stamp. When the "disturbance", as it was called,
about the starling agitated the community, few ever heard the Doctor
express his opinion on the great question; but many listened to his loud
laugh--wondering as to its meaning--when the case was mentioned, and how
oddly he stroked his chin, as if to calm his merriment. Some friends
who were more in his confidence heard him utter such phrases, in
alluding to the matter, as "only ministerial indigestion",
"ecclesiastical hysteria",--forms of evil, by the way, which are rarely
dealt with in Church courts.
His attendance on the Sergeant was, therefore, a duty which was
personally agreeable to him. He was not very hopeful of success,
however, from the time when the fever developed into typhoid of a
malignant and extremely infectious type.
The first thing which the Doctor advised, as being necessary for the
Sergeant's recovery, was the procuring of a sick-nurse. Poor Katie
protested against the proposal. What could any one do, she argued, that
she herself was not fit for? What cared she for sleep? She never
indeed at any time slept soundly--so she alleged--and could do with very
little sleep at all times; she was easily wakened up--the scratch of a
mouse would do it; and Adam would do _her_ bidding, for he was always so
good and kind: a stranger, moreover, would but irritate him, and "put
hersel' aboot". And who could be got to assist? Who would risk their
life? Had not others their own family to attend to? Would they bring
the fever into their own house? &c. "Na, na," she concluded, "lee Adam
tae me, and God will provide!"
So she reasoned, as one taught by observation and experience; for most
people in country villages--now as then--are apt to be seized with panic
in the presence of any disease pronounced to be dangerous and
contagious. Its mystery affects their imagination. It looks like a doom
that cannot be averted; very purpose of God, to oppose which is vain. To
procure, therefore, a nurse for the sick, except among near relations,
is extremely difficult; unless it be some worthless creature who will
drink the wine intended for the patient, or consume the delicacies left
for his nourishment. We have known, when cholera broke out in a county
town in Scotland, a stranger nurse refused even lodgings in any house
within it, lest she should spread the disease!
It was a chill and gusty evening, and Katie sat beside the fire in the
Sergeant's room, her mind full of "hows" and "whens", and tossed to and
fro by anxiety about her Adam, and questionings as to what she should or
could do for his comfort. The rising wind shook the bushes and tree-tops
in the little garden. The dust in clouds hurried along the street of
the village. The sky was dark with gathering signs of rain. There was
a depressing sadness in the world without, and little cheer in the room
within. The Sergeant lay in a sort of uneasy restless doze, sometimes
tossing his hands, starting up and asking where he was, and then falling
back again on his pillow with a heavy sigh. Although his wife was not
seriously alarmed, she was nevertheless very miserable at heart, and
felt utterly lonely. But for her quiet faith in God, and the demand made
upon her for active exertion, she would have yielded to passionate
grief, or fallen into sullen despair.
Her thoughts were suddenly disturbed by little Mary telling her that
someone was at the street door. Bidding Mary take her place, she
hastened to the kitchen and opened the door. Jock Hall entered in his
usual unceremonious way.
"Ye needna speak, Mrs. Mercer," he said as he sat down on a chair near
the door; "I ken a' aboot it!"
Katie was as much startled as she was the first time he entered her
house. His appearance as to dress and respectability was, however,
unquestionably improved.
"Jock Hall, as I declare!" exclaimed Katie in a whisper.
"The same, at yer service; and yet no' jist the same," replied Jock, in
as low a voice.
"Ye may say sae," said Katie. "What's come ower ye? Whaur hae ye been?
Whaur got ye thae claes? Ye're like a gentleman, Jock!"
"I houp sae," replied Hall; "I oucht to be sae; I gat a' this frae
Adam."
"The guidman?" inquired Katie; "that's impossible! He never had claes
like thae!"
"Claes or no claes," said Jock, "it's him I got them frae."
"I dinna understan' hoo that could be," said Katie.
"Nor me," said Jock, "but _sae_ it is, and never speer the noo _hoo_ it
is. I'm come, as usual, on business."
"Say awa'," said Katie, "but speak laigh. It's no' shoon ye're needin',
I houp?"
But we must here explain that Jock had previously called upon Dr. Scott,
and thrusting his head into the surgery--his body and its new dress
being concealed by the half-opened door--asked--
"Is't true that Sergeant Mercer has got a smittal fivver?"
The Doctor, who was writing some prescription, on discovering who the
person was who put this question, said no more in reply than--"Deadly!
deadly! so ye need not trouble them, Jock, by begging at their door--be
off!"
"Mrs. Mercer," replied Jock, "wull need a nurse--wull she?"
"You had better go and get your friend Mrs. Craigie for her, if that's
what you are after. She'll help Mary," replied the Doctor, in derision.
"Thank ye!" said Jock, and disappeared.
But to return to his interview with Mrs. Mercer--"I'm telt, Mrs.
Mercer," he said, "that the Sergeant is awfu' ill wi' a smittal fivver,
and that he needs some nurse--that is, as I understan', some ane that
wad watch him day and nicht, and keep their een open like a whitrat;
somebody that wadna heed haein' muckle tae do, and that could haud a
guid but freen'ly grip o' Mr. Mercer gif his nerves rise. An' I hae
been thinkin' ye'll fin't a bother tae get sic a bodie in
Drumsylie--unless, maybe, ane that wad wark for a hantle o' siller; some
decent woman like Luckie Craigie, wha micht--
"Dinna bother me the noo, Jock, wi' ony nonsense," said Katie, "I'm no
fit for't. If ye need onything yersel', tell me what it is, and, if
possible, I'll gie ye't. But I maun gang back tae the room."
"Ay," said Jock, "I want something frae ye, nae doot, and I houp I'll
get it. I want an extraordinar' favour o' ye; for, as I was sayin',
ye'll fin't ill tae get ony ane to watch Mr. Mercer. But if _I_ get ane
that doesna care for their life--that respecs and loes Adam--that wadna
take a bawbee o' siller----"
"As for that o't, I'll pay them decently," interrupted Katie.
"And ane that," continued Jock, as if not interrupted, "has strength tae
watch wi' leevin' man or woman,--what wad ye say tae sic a canny nurse
as that?"
"If there's sic a bodie in the toon," replied Katie, "I wad be blythe
tae _try_ them; no' tae fix them, maybe, but to _try_, as the Doctor
insists on't."
"Weel," said Jock, "the favour I hae to ax, altho' it's ower muckle
maybe for you tae gie, is to let _me_ try my han'--let me speak, and
dinna lauch at me! I'm no' feered for death, as I hae been mony a time
feered for life: I hae had by ordinar' experience watchin', ye ken, as a
poacher, fisher, and a' that kin' o' thing, sin' I was a bairn; sae I
can sleep wi' my een open; and I'm strong, for I hae thrashed keepers,
and teylors, and a' sorts o' folk; fac', I was tempted tae gie a blue ee
tae Smellie!--but let sleepin' dogs lie--I'll mak' a braw nurse for the
gudeman."
Katie was taken so much aback by this speech as to let Jock go on
without interruption; but she at last exclaimed--"Ye're a kind cratur,
Jock, and I'm muckle obleeged to you; but I really canna think o't.
It'll no' work; it wad pit ye aboot, an' mak' a cleish-me-claver in the
toon; an'--an'----"
"I care as little for the toon," said Jock, "as the toon cares for me!
Ye'll no be bothered wi' me, mind, gif ye let me help ye. I hae got
clean pease strae for a bed frae Geordie Miller the carrier, and a
sackfu' for a bowster; and I ken ye hae a sort o' laft, and I'll pit up
there; and it's no' aften I hae sic a bed; and cauld parritch or cauld
praties wull dae for my meat, an' I need nae mair; an' I hae braw thick
stockin's--I can pit on twa pair if necessar', tae walk as quiet as a
cat stealin' cream; sae gif ye'll let me, I'll do my best endeevour tae
help ye."
"Oh, Jock, man!" said Mrs. Mercer, "ye're unco guid. I'll think
o't--I'll think o't, and speer at the Doctor--I wull, indeed; and if sae
be he needs--Whisht! What's that?" ejaculated Katie, starting from her
chair, as little Mary entered the kitchen hurriedly, saying--
"Come ben fast, mither!"
Katie was in a moment beside her husband, who for the first time
manifested symptoms of violent excitement, declaring that he must rise
and dress for church, as he heard the eight o'clock bells ringing. In
vain she expostulated with him in the tenderest manner. He ought to
rise, he said, and would rise. Was he not an elder? and had he not to
stand at the plate? and would he, for any consideration, be late? What
did she mean? Had she lost her senses? And so on.
This was the climax of a weary and terribly anxious time for Katie. For
some nights she had, as she said, hardly "booed an ee", and every day
her lonely sorrow was becoming truly "too deep for tears". The
unexpected visit of even Jock Hall had helped for a moment to cause a
reaction and to take her out of herself; and now that she perceived
beyond doubt, what she was slow hitherto to believe, that her husband
"wasna himsel'"--nay, that even _she_ was strange to him, and was
addressed by him in accents and with expressions betokening irritation
towards her, and with words which were, for the first time, wanting in
love, she became bewildered, and felt as if God had indeed sent her a
terrible chastisement. It was fortunate that Hall had called--for
neither her arguments nor her strength could avail on the present
occasion. She immediately summoned Jock to her assistance. He was
already behind her, for he had quickly cast off his boots, and
approached the bed softly and gently, on perceiving the Sergeant's
state. With a strong hand he laid the Sergeant back on his pillow,
saying, "Ye will gang to the kirk, Sergeant, but I maun tell ye
something afore ye gang. Ye'll mind Jock Hall? him that ye gied the
boots to? An' ye'll mind Mr. Spence the keeper? I hae got an erran'
frae him for you. He said ye wad be glad tae hear aboot him."
The Sergeant stared at Jock with a half-excited, half-stupid gaze. But
the chain of his associations had for a moment been broken, and he was
quiet as a child, the bells ringing no more as he paused to hear about
his old friend Spence.
Jock's first experiment at nursing had proved successful. He was
permitted, therefore, for that night only, as Katie said, to occupy the
loft, to which he brought his straw bed and straw bolster; and his
presence proved, more than once during the night, an invaluable aid.
The Doctor called next morning. Among his other causes for anxiety,
one, and not the least, had been the impossibility of finding a
respectable nurse. He was therefore not a little astonished to discover
Jock Hall, the "ne'er-do-weel", well dressed, and attending the
Sergeant. He did not at first ask any explanations of so unexpected a
phenomenon, but at once admitted that he was better than none. But
before leaving, and after questioning Jock, and studying his whole
demeanour, and, moreover, after hearing something about him from Mrs.
Mercer, he smiled and said, "Keep him by all means--I think I can answer
for him;" and muttering to himself, "Peculiar temperament--hysterical,
but curable with diet--a character--will take fancies--seems fond of the
Sergeant--contagious fever--we shall try him by all means."
"Don't drink?" he abruptly asked Jock.
"Like a beast," Jock replied; "for a beast drinks jist when he needs it,
Doctor, and sae div I; but I dinna need it noo, and winna need it, I
think, a' my days."
"You'll do," said the Doctor; and so Jock was officially appointed to be
Adam's nurse.
Adam Mercer lay many weary days with the fever heavy upon him--like a
ship lying to in a hurricane, when the only question is, which will last
longest, the storm or the ship? Those who have watched beside a
lingering case of fever can alone comprehend the effect which intense
anxiety, during a few weeks only, caused by the hourly conflict of
"hopes and fears that kindle hope, an undistinguishable throng" produces
on the whole nervous system.
Katie was brought into deep waters. She had never taken it home to
herself that Adam might die. Their life had hitherto been quiet and
even--so like, so very like, was day to day, that no storm was
anticipated to disturb the blessed calm. And now at the prospect of
losing him, and being left alone in the wide, wide wilderness, without
her companion and guide; her earthly all--in spite of the unearthly
links of faith and love that bound them--lost to her; no one who has
thus suffered will wonder that her whole flesh shrunk as from the
approach of a terrible enemy. Then it was that old truths lying in her
heart were summoned to her aid to become practical powers in this her
hour of need. She recalled all she had learned as to God's ends in
sending affliction, with the corresponding duties of a Christian in
receiving it. She was made to realize in her experience the gulf which
separates _knowing_ from _being_ and _doing_--the right theory from the
right practice. And thus it was that during a night of watching she
fought a great battle in her soul between her own will and God's will,
in her endeavour to say, not with her lips, for that was easy, but from
her heart, "Thy will be done!" Often did she exclaim to herself, "Na,
God forgie me, but I _canna_ say't!" and as often resolved, that "say't
she wad, or dee". At early morn, when she opened the shutters, after
this long mental struggle, and saw the golden dawn spreading its
effulgence of glory along the eastern sky, steeping the clouds with
splendours of every hue from the rising sun of heaven, himself as yet
unseen; and heard the birds salute his coming--the piping thrush and
blackbird beginning their morning hymn of praise, with the lark "singing
like an angel in the clouds"--a gush of holy love and confidence filled
her heart, as if through earth and sky she heard the echo of her
Father's name. Meekly losing herself in the universal peace, she sank
down on her knees, beside the old arm-chair, and with a flood of quiet
tears, that eased her burning heart, she said, "Father! Thy will be
done!"
In a short time she rose with such a feeling of peace and freedom as she
had never hitherto experienced in her best and happiest hours. A great
weight of care seemed lifted off as if by some mighty hand; and though
she dared not affirm that she was now prepared for whatever might
happen, she had yet an assured confidence in the goodness of One who
_would_ prepare her when the time came, and whose grace would be
sufficient for her in any hour of need.
The interest felt by the parish generally, on the Sergeant's dangerous
state becoming known, was great and sincere. In the presence of his
sufferings, with which all could more or less sympathise--whether from
their personal experience of sorrow, from family bereavements, or from
the consciousness of their own liability to be at any moment visited
with dangerous sickness--his real or supposed failings were for the time
covered with a mantle of charity. It was not for them to strike a
sorely wounded man.
Alas! for one that will rejoice with those who rejoice, many will weep
with those who weep. Sympathy with another's joy is always an unselfish
feeling; but pity only for another's suffering may but express the
condescension of pride towards dependent weakness.
But it is neither gracious nor comforting to scrutinise too narrowly the
motives which influence human nature in its mixture of good and evil,
its weakness and strength. We know that we cannot stand such
microscopic examination ourselves, and ought not, therefore, to apply it
to others. Enough that much real sympathy was felt for Adam. Some of
its manifestations at an earlier stage of his illness were alluded to by
Miss Thomasina in her conversation with Mr. Smellie. It was true that
Mrs. Gordon had called in her carriage, and that repeatedly, to inquire
for him--a fact which greatly impressed those in the neighbourhood who
had treated him as a man far beneath them. Mr. Gordon, too, had been
unremitting in quiet attentions; and Mrs. Mercer was greatly softened,
and her heart delivered from its hard thoughts of many of her old
acquaintances, by the kind and constant inquiries which day by day were
made for her husband. Little Mary had to act as a sort of daily
bulletin as she opened the door to reply to those who "speered for the
Sergeant"; but no one entered the dwelling, from the natural fears
entertained by all of the fever.
Many, too, spoke well of the Sergeant when he was "despaired of", who
would have been silent respecting his merits had he been in health.
Others also, no doubt, would have waxed eloquent about him after his
burial. But would it not be well if those who act on the principle of
saying all that is good about the dead, were to spend some portion of
their charity upon the living? Their _post-mortem_ store would not be
diminished by such previous expenditure. No doubt it is "better late
than never"; but would it not be still better if never so late? Perhaps
not! So far as the good man himself is concerned, it may be as well
that the world should not learn, nor praise him for, the many premiums
he has paid day by day for the good of posterity until these are
returned, like an insurance policy, in gratitude after he is screwed
down in his coffin.