Mildred Keith
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"Yes," she whispered, "and though it should be by death, what is that but going, home? To those of us who love the Lord and trust in His imputed righteousness," she added, looking earnestly, questioningly into his face.
"Mother, I believe I do," he said, "though I have never told you so before."
"Now I can bear it," she whispered, closing her eyes again, while a sweet smile played about her lips.
Her head dropped heavily on her son's shoulder.
"Oh," shrieked Ada, "she's dying! mother's dying!"
"Hush!" cried Rupert sternly, thinking of the mischief her cry might work should it reach the ears of the sick ones, "she has only fainted. A tumbler of water; quick, quick, Ada!"
As the terrified child hastened to do his bidding, Mildred came flying from the inner room, her face pale, her whole frame trembling with affright.
"Mother!" the word came in tones of agony from her pale, quivering lips.
"It's only a faint," said Rupert hoarsely. "Help me to lay her down and loosen her clothes. And haven't you hartshorn or something! whatever there is.
"Yes, Ada, quick, quick! the bottle of smelling salts! it's on the stand by father's bedside. O, mother, mother! you too! what's to become of us? O, Rupert, she's just killed with nursing! and I couldn't help it."
"Of course you couldn't; you are nearly killed yourself," he said, his tears falling almost as fast as hers, while between them they half carried, half dragged the insensible form into the adjoining room and laid it tenderly down upon a lounge.
Poor children! so utterly overwhelmed were they by their mother's helpless condition, superadded to all the other causes for anxiety, perplexity and distress, so taken up with efforts for her restoration to consciousness, that they scarcely heard the cries of the sick little ones, who could not understand why they were thus left alone, or the calls of their father who had roused from sleep and missed his gentle nurse; nor did they notice who it was that came in through the open kitchen door and silently assisted them, raising the window blind and sprinkling water on the still white face.
At last Mrs. Keith's eyes unclosed and she started up asking faintly "What is it? have I been ill?" then fell back again completely exhausted.
"You were faint, mother dear," said Mildred, vainly striving to steady her voice, "but lie still for a while and I hope you will get over it. You have been doing too much and must rest now."
"Rest, child! how can I? There is your father calling me. And the children are crying."
She started up again but with the same result as before.
"My poor sick husband! my little ailing children! what is to become of you?" she sighed, tears stealing from beneath the closed eyelids and trickling down the pale cheeks.
"Mother, I will do my best," sobbed Mildred; "only lie and rest yourself."
"And I am here to assist, and able to do it," said a somewhat harsh, discordant voice, though there was in it a tone of kindness too.
Then they looked up and saw standing near, the stiff, angular figure of Damaris Drybread.
"You?" Mildred exclaimed in utter surprise.
"Yes, I, Miss Keith. Did you think there was none of the milk of human kindness in me? My school's broke up by this pestilence, and only one of our family has took the fever yet; so when I heard that you were nearly all down sick here, and your girl had gone off and left you, I said to myself, 'There's a duty for you there, Damaris Drybread; go right away and do it,' And I came."
"And it was very, very kind in you," Mildred said, extending her hand. "I have hardly deserved it from you, for I've judged you, harshly."
"Well, I shouldn't wonder if I'd done the same to you," Damaris answered coldly, taking the offered hand only to drop it again instantly. "But that's neither here nor there; and I don't ask no thanks. I'm only tryin' to be a good Samaritan to you, because we're told, 'Go, and do thou likewise.'"
The cries of the children had become so piteous and importunate that Mildred rushed away to attend to them.
Her father's calls had ceased and as the little ones quieted down she could hear a manly voice speaking to him in gentle soothing tones.
"It is the doctor," she thought, with an emotion somewhat akin to pleasure; he was so sorely needed and had not called since the previous night; but on going in she found Mr. Lord by the bedside.
He turned, showing a face full of sympathy and concern, and held out his hand.
"This is kind," she said, putting hers into it.
"My poor child!" he responded feelingly, raising the hand to his lips in his absent way, "my heart aches for you. And there are many others in like affliction; many others! all round the country people are sick, dying; many of them simply for lack of suitable nourishment."
The tears rolled down his manly cheeks as he spoke, and the sight of them did not lower him in the girl's esteem.
"And what can I do?" he went on. "I know nothing of cooking; I can only carry them crackers to sustain their poor bodies, and try to feed their souls with the bread of life. I feel for them all; but for you – O, Mildred, dear girl, what can I do to help and comfort you in this extremity?"
"We have need of nurses. Mother – "
But with that word she broke into uncontrollable weeping; suppressed, for fear of disturbing her father, who had fallen into a doze – but shaking her whole frame with its violence.
It distressed her listener. He made a step toward her, a gesture as if he would fold her in his arms, but drew hastily back, blushing and confused as the door opened and Dr. Grange came in.
Chapter Twenty-Fifth
"All love is sweet,Given or returned. Common as light is love,And its familiar voice wearies not ever."– Shelley."Ah, good morning, my dear child! Good morning, sir," the doctor said in an undertone, giving his hand to Mildred and the minister in turn. Then with an anxious glance at the bed "How is he? sleeping now, I see. How did he rest through the night?"
"Not very well, and – "
"Your mother? where is she? not down too?" with almost a groan, as he read the truth in the young girl's face.
Mildred led him to her. She lay on the lounge still, with closed eyes and face of deathly pallor, her cheek resting against the dark curls of Rupert, who had thrown himself on the floor by her side, and laid his head on the same pillow, while he held one of her hands, caressing it tenderly.
His cheeks were burning, his eyes sparkling with fever.
The doctor glanced from one to the other. "Ought to be in bed; both of you. Go my boy, at once; you are not fit to be here."
"I can't, sir, indeed; I'm needed to take care of the others."
"You will help most by giving up at once," said the doctor; "otherwise you will make yourself so sick as to need a great deal of attention."
"Yes, go, my dear boy," whispered Mrs. Keith.
"I will, since you bid me, darling mother," he answered, pressing his hot lips to her cheek, then tottering from the room.
She looked after him with sad, pitying eyes, "So sick, and your mother not able to nurse you! Mildred, my poor dear child, how are you to stand it?" she sighed, turning them upon her daughter's face as she bent over her.
"Try not to be troubled and anxious, my dear madam," said the doctor, "the more quiet and free from care you can keep your mind, the better for you. Trust the Lord that all will come out right."
"I will; he is all my hope and trust for myself and for my dear ones," she answered, with almost her accustomed cheerfulness. "Things look very dark but 'behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy that it cannot hear.'"
"And he has sent us some help already," observed Mildred; "from a most unexpected quarter."
Damaris came in at that moment from the kitchen, saluted the doctor in her usual formal way, and turning to Mrs. Keith, remarked,
"I hope you're not going to be very sick; but you'd ought to go to bed for to-day, anyhow. Don't you say so, doctor?"
"I do most emphatically," answered the physician, who had seated himself at the table and was busied in measuring out medicines; "and I'm very glad, Miss Damaris, to see you here."
"It appeared to be my duty to come," she said, looking not ill-pleased; "I'm no great nurse, but I can do housework and cook for sick or well; and them things is as necessary as the nursing."
"Certainly," said Dr. Grange, and went on to give directions to her concerning the proper food for his patients, and to Mildred in regard to the administering of medicines and other remedies.
He made his round among them, pronounced Zillah much better, Mr. Keith slightly so. He was silent as to the little boys, and Mildred's heart was full of anguish as she perceived from his countenance, or thought she did, that their recovery was still very doubtful.
Mr. Lord had remained at Mr. Keith's bedside while the doctor and Mildred were absent from the room, and was still there when they returned. He looked perplexed and ill at ease.
"I have no skill in nursing," he said; "never have had any experience; am in fact a very unsuitable person for the task; being very absent minded, as you both know. But if I can be of any service, I – Miss Mildred, I can sit here and hand anything he asks for, call you if he needs your assistance, and give the medicines, if you will be good enough to remind me when it is time to do so."
The offer was gladly accepted and the new nurse entered upon his duties immediately.
Yet even with these new and unexpected helps it was clearly impossible for the weary girl to give proper attention to five very sick persons, and two who were barely convalescent. Her heart was overwhelmed; the burden heavier than she could bear.
But blessed be God, the God of Israel, his people need not bear their griefs and anxieties alone; he bids them not.
"Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee." "Call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me."
These and other like great and precious promises were brought home with power and sweetness to Mildred's mind in this time of deep distress and anguish, and kept her from sinking beneath the load.
"O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee." "For thou, Lord, wilt bless the righteous; with favor wilt thou compass him as with a shield."
There seemed no earthly friend left to come to Mildred's aid; she could think of none. Claudina Chetwood and Lucilla Grange were both themselves lying upon sick beds; so were all her lady acquaintances in Pleasant Plains except such as, like herself, had their hands more than full with the care of the sick in their own families; and Aunt Wealthy was so far, far away that before a message could reach her, they might all be in their graves.
How long it seemed since she went away! how long since the beginning of this dreadful sickly season that had, as it were, shut her (Mildred) away from all pleasant social intercourse with her young companions into her own little world of trial and trouble!
It was a comfort that some one was attending to domestic affairs, some one sitting with her sick father and Rupert, who now shared his bed; but ah, she could not more than half attend to the pressing needs of the others.
The day was intensely hot, scarce a breath of air stirring though every door and window stood wide open. The little boys feverish and restless, wanted to be fanned every moment, and called almost incessantly for "cold fresh water."
The others craved it, too; and it could be had only from the spring at the foot of the steep river bank. And ice being an unknown luxury in Pleasant Plains at that period, it could not be kept cool for any length of time.
She did not feel at liberty to call upon either Miss Drybread or Mr. Lord for this service, and as the one judged it unnecessary that the water should be brought frequently and the other was too absent-minded to think of offering to bring it, and she could not leave her charges to go herself, even if her strength had been equal to the effort in addition to all the other demands upon it, she could but endure the pain of seeing the loved ones suffer from thirst.
"Water, water, cold water, Milly," sobbed little Don.
"This is cold water, dear," she said holding a cup to his lips.
"No, 'tisn't right cold," he fretted, pushing it away; "it doesn't taste good. Oh, send somebody to bring cold, cold water!"
She set down the cup and burst into tears.
Absorbed in her grief and distress, she did not hear the gate gently opened and shut again, or a step coming up the path, across the porch, through the hall and into the room where she sat weeping such bitter tears as she had never wept before.
But it was a cautious tread; as of one who feared to disturb the sick, as was the fact. With that fear before his eyes Wallace Ormsby had taken thought even to come in slippered feet.
He should have paused at the room door till invited to enter, but forgot everything else at sight of Mildred's distress, and never stopped till he was close at her side.
"O, Mildred, dear Mildred, what is it? what can I do to help and comfort you?" he said in tones tremulous with love and pity, as he bent over her and took her hand in his.
She started with surprise, but the hand was not withdrawn, and the lips and eyes smiled faintly through the rain of tears as she looked up into his noble face and read there ardent affection and deep sympathy in her sorrow.
"Surely you will let me help you in this dreadful time when there's no more proper person to do it?" he said with earnest entreaty. "Why should we care for conventionalities now? You are weak and worn out, in sore need of assistance; I am well and strong, able and more than willing to give it. Say, may I not stay here by your side and help with this nursing?"
"Water, cold water!" sobbed Don, "oh, go get cold water for me and Cyril."
"Yes, Wallace, Mr. Ormsby," Mildred said, the tears coursing down her cheeks, "I cannot sacrifice them to conventionalities, and so gladly accept your kind offer of help."
"Oh, don't talk! go get water, quick!" fretted Don, "I can't wait, Milly, what makes you so naughty to me?"
Wallace seized a pitcher standing near, and hastened to the spring. He was no stranger to the premises and knew the way.
For the next fortnight he had what he considered the blessed privilege of sharing Mildred's burdens, griefs and cares; watching with her over each of those dear ones as they passed through the crisis of the disease, and the first stages of the after convalescence; for they all recovered; a fact which the parents and older children recognized with deep heart-felt gratitude to Him to whom "belong the issues from death."
Nor did they forget the thanks due their earthly helpers and friends. The minister held a warmer place than before in the hearts of these parishioners, and Damaris Drybread received a substantial reward for her services; which, as she was dependent upon her own exertions for a livelihood, was not declined.
That fearful sickly season passed away; but not soon to be forgotten by the survivors, and comparative health and prosperity again dawned upon the town and surrounding country.
The Keiths returned to their old busy cheerful life, and Wallace Ormsby, beloved by the whole family, seemed as one of them. Years of ordinary social intercourse could not have brought him into so close an intimacy with them, and especially with Mildred, as those two weeks in which they two shared the toils, the cares and anxieties of those who watch by beds of sickness that may end in death.
They had learned to know each other's faults and weaknesses, strong points and virtues, and with the knowledge their mutual esteem and admiration had but increased; they had been warm friends before, now they were – not plighted lovers, Ormsby had not spoken yet – but
"To his eyeThere was but one beloved face on earth,And that was shining on him."