University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

`The doctor's come, Miss Rosalie,' said a woman, opening
the door of that very third story room. `Been spry, aint
he? I shouldn't wonder if his horse was somethin' more
than common. But he's come, anyway. What's to be done
with him?'

`Show him up here, Martha.'

And as the door closed the young lady's eyes came
back to the bed by which she sat.

A child lay there, in that drowsiness which is of fever,
not of sleep; to which the hot cheek and uneasy posture
alike bore witness. She was not undressed, for the arm
that lay above her head displayed a short merino sleeve at
the shoulder; and at a very small distance down the bed
one little shoe of childish cut moved restlessly from under
the shawl fringe that half covered it. With what quick and
fluttering action the fringe about her throat was stirred, the
watcher noticed painfully; and softly drew it away, and was
rewarded by the half unclosed eyes, and the lips that met to
thank her.

`You have been asleep,' Rosalie said, resting her own
upon them.

`I don't know,' said the child dreamily. `Who's that
coming up-stairs?'

`Doctor Buffem.' And even as she spoke, a long-continued
and portentous creaking of boots came to a sudden
stop at the door,—Doctor Buffem having paused for breath
and admittance. The last was the easiest obtained.

`What the mischief! Miss Rosalie,' he said with some
impatience. `Why don't you emigrate to the stars at
once? Venus would suit you well enough, or you might
get a situation in Mars, you're of such a warlike disposition.
You haven't got sense enough for Pallas, or you'd never be
caught in the third story of a house while there were two
below it.'

`I thought it would be quieter up here,' Rosalie said,
with a face that was grave only because she had no heart to
smile.

`Nonsense!' said the doctor, `I should like to hear
anybody make a noise in this house for once. Quieter! At
this scale of elevation `the music of the spheres' is overpowering.'
And putting his hands behind him the doctor
marched off to the window, and with a very panting enunciation
gave,—

Very particularly comfortable he looked, with his gold
spectacles and gold-headed cane; and a head of his own
which if not all of the same precious metal, had at least
`golden opinions.'—A singular contrast to the figure standing
by the bedside, and wishing very intently that his gesticulations
might have an end.

`Well, what's the matter with the child?' he said, wheeling
suddenly round as if her existence had but just occurred
to him. `Out of breath with running up stairs, eh?'

And throwing down the shawl Dr. Buffem took the little
hand in his, and scientifically applied his three fingers to the
wrist.

`All dressed,—ready to go to Albany,' he remarked.
`Let's see your tongue. S, c, a, r,' said the doctor, looking
round at Rosalie.

She gave no answer—that he could see, and none for him
to hear. One quick bound of the heart—a bright spot that
came and as quickly left her cheek, and she stood there as
before, the hands perhaps holding each other in a somewhat
firmer clasp.

The doctor replaced the shawl, straightened himself up,
and began to talk.

`Here's a fine case,' he said; `but I guess you and I can
manage it. What sort of a nurse will you be, hey?'

`The best that I can, sir.'

`Hum—ah'—said the doctor, with a recollective glance
at Rosalie's black dress which sent a thrill to her finger-ends,—the
wound would not bear even that slight touch.
`Yes, I guess you'll do. Got a thermometer about the
house?'

She bowed assentingly.

`Have it up here, then,—hang it anywhere except over
the fire and outside the window, and keep it just at 70°,—
no hotter, no colder. And don't let in more than half the
sunlight at once,—keep the rest till afternoon,' said Doctor
Buffem, walking off to the windows and closing the shutters.
`You're so close to the sun up here, Miss Rosalie, that
he'll put out the eyes of well people if you give him a chance.
There—I'll leave you one crack to put your face straight
by,—important duty that in a sick-room. I'll come in
again by-and-by, and bring you some powders,—came off
without 'em this morning. And get her undressed and put

to bed,' he added, with a nod at the sick child. `She won't
want to take much exercise to-day nor to-morrow. Ever
had it yourself?'

`No sir.'

`Well—no, it's not well; but it can't be helped. Take
care of you famously if you do get it.'

`What is the matter with me?' said the little patient,
now speaking for the first time.

`Only scarlet fever,' said the doctor,—`that's not much.
Worst thing is, it makes one look like a lobster.'

`Shall I be sick a great while?' said the child again.

`Hum—' said the doctor,—`depends entirely. Not if
you make haste and get well. I'll cure you up in no time.'

The words seemed satisfactory enough, but they failed to
give satisfaction. Hulda looked away from him to her
sister, finding comfort in her look and smile, grave as they
both were.

The doctor fidgetted about the room, kicked the fire,
came back to ask questions, then stamped off to the door.

`Hark you, Miss Rosalie,' he said, `don't forget why I
left that crack in the window-shutter. Good-bye—I'll see
you again this evening. And keep your spirits up,—there's
nothing in life to put 'em down.'

But Rosalie thought that there was many a thing in life
to do that office for her spirits had they needed it. In life!
—With that thought came one of life's great antagonist, and
sitting down once more by the bed she took her little sister
on her lap, and began very tenderly that work of undressing
which the doctor had recommended. Was there anything
in death to depress her?

There had been,—the tokens of his power were not less
plain upon her face than in her dress; and now—human
nature lived still! Before those two sisters could be separated

many a band must give way that passed about them,
unseen in this world, but forming to the eyes of angels a
golden tissue of love and confidence. Rosalie felt as if some
hand were trying its strength even now. There was something
in these quiet preparations for suffering that tried her
extremely; and to brace her mind for possibilities, without
that sudden strength which an emergency gives, was very
hard. And more than once was her hand passed across her
face with that feeling of which Rutherford wrote,—`O how
sweet it is for a sinner to put his weakness in Christ's
strengthening hand!—Weakness can speak and cry, when
we have not a tongue.'

`Do you think I shall get well, Alie?' said little Hulda,
looking up at her.

`I trust so, my darling.'

Steady and sweet the voice was as ever.

`Then what makes you look sorrowful?'

`Because you look sick. Is not that enough to make
me sorrowful?'

`No,—not if I'm going to get well soon.' And as if
but half satisfied with her sister's face, Hulda repeated,—
`Isn't he a good doctor? Won't he cure me?'

`I believe he is a very good docter; but dear Hulda I
trust you in better hands than his.'

The child smiled with a perfect understanding of her
words,—a look so quick and bright, that Rosalie was silent
until her little charge was laid in the bed. Then Hulda
spoke.

`Say that to me again.'

`I have done as the people did when Jesus was in the
world,' Rosalie answered,—`when they brought their sick
and laid them down at Jesus' feet, and besought him that
he would heal them.'

`I wish you would ask him again,' said the child wearily
closing her eyes, `for my head aches very much.'

And kneeling down with the little hand fast in hers,
Rosalie spoke once more the words of submission and entreaty,—that
strange mingling of feeling which none but a
Christian can either know or rest in. When she arose
Hulda was asleep.

Carefully drawing the drapery around the bed corner, so
as to shield the child's eyes yet more from the light, Rosalie
began to busy herself in arranging the room for its new use.
Unnecessary articles were put out, and the needful brought
in; and the closet was so filled and arranged that the rest of
the house should be but little called upon. At first Rosalie
had half determined that none of the servants should be
allowed to enter the sick-room; but Martha Jumps, light of
heart as of foot, having declared that nothing short of a dismissal
from the house should keep her from going where she
pleased in it, she was made an exception,—and forthwith
moved about with a great access of dignity.

`There aint the least bit of squeak leather in my shoes,
I can tell you,' said Martha in a whisper, which low as it
was penetrated to the remotest corner of the room. `I could
walk over hatching eggs and not scare the chickens. Tom
Skiddy says—What next, Miss Rosalie?'

`That little thermometer that hangs in the front room
down-stairs, Martha—and my desk, and the trivet.'

`Theometers, hey,' said Martha,—`that aint just the
sort of doctor's stuff I took when I was a child, and yet I
growed up as fast as most folks, too. What's the good of
theometers?'

But she brought it.

`Has Mr. Thornton come home?' was Rosalie's last
question.

`Not he!' said Martha emphatically. `The idea! And
what use, after all?'

`Ask him to come up here as soon as he does, Martha.'
And then she sat down quietly to wait—that hardest of all
things to do.

The sun was not long in finding his way to the horizon,
and the darkness which had lain hid until his departure
came forth,—at first slowly and tarrying in corners, then
marching with swift steps over the whole city. The crowd
gave way before her; foosteps were few and distinct; the
hum and the roar were past; and every carriage now had
credit for just its own noise and no other. The doctor had
come on his promised visit, and had left medicine `to be
taken when she wakes up;' and still Rosalie sat there alone
in the dim light from the fire, and the far off and shielded
candle. The winds were whispering at the corners of the
house, and anon sighing around it,—now raising and now
depressing their voices, but never entirely silent. Footsteps
now had a character and meaning, coming out as they did
from the deep stillness and passing into other stillness as
deep; and as an oyster-man went slowly through the street
with his cart, his deep monotonous cry of `Oys—ters!'
chimed wildly and yet soothingly with the universal tone of
all things else.

And so passed the evening until a loud ring sounded
through the house, and the new comer had sprung up stairs
and entered the sick-room, almost before the startled bell
clapper had regained its equanimity.

`Hush!' was Rosalie's first greeting.

`I thought you wanted to see me,' said the young man,
with a but half-checked step.

`Yes, but softly—you will wake Hulda.'

`No disparagement to your eyes, my dear—which are

as fine as can be no doubt—but I also must lay claim to
some powers of vision. Hulda has been watching me ever
since I came into the room. Now what is your pleasure?
Martha having screamed `scarlet fever!' after me as I came
up-stairs, I am prepared for any disclosures. Is that really
the state of the case?'

`So Dr. Buffem says.'

`Well I suppose he is at least on a par with his brethren
in sagacity,' said Thornton, sitting down on the edge of the
bed. `How do you feel, young one? Hey-day!—don't
you want to be kissed?'

`No,' said Hulda, who had turned her face very decidedly
away. `You've been smoking.'

`What a little goose you are!' said her brother, laughing
and standing up again. `And I suppose I may not
even shake hands with you, my Lady Squeamish?'

But the lips that were hastily offered him showed no fear
of his, and the hand that rested on his shoulder had no
touch but of sisterly affection—unless a little want of comfort
mingled therewith. Thornton returned the embrace
very heartily.

`You are a dear girl,' he said, `with all your prejudices.
Now don't trouble yourself about this child—I daresay she
will do well enough. Would it be any comfort to you if I
sat up with her to-night?'

`No,' said Rosalie, with a smile which she could not repress
at the very idea; `for then I should have two people
to take care of instead of one.'

`What are you going to give her?'

`Something I have here—I don't know what;—at twelve
o'clock, Dr. Buffem said.'

`Well I will come in then and see how you get on, and
give her the medicine.'

A very needless offer, but it was not refused; and when
little Hulda awoke at midnight from uneasy dreams to the
dazzling candle, it was to see the medicine spoon in the
hands of Thornton, and that plan of arrangements sanctioned
by her sister's quiet presence and smile. But it was
Rosalie's arm that raised her up, and it was on Rosalie's
bosom that her head lay; and if Hulda dreamed of angels
that night, they all wore Rosalie's face.