CHAPTER 24 The Withered Heart!
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From Marseilles, most of the party, after a few clays, took the steamer for Italy, leaving Helen in the care of an English family at the hotel, during their short absence. The pure, mild air acted upon her frame like an invigorating cordial. On her arrival, she was so feeble that she could not walk without an arm to lean upon; but within a week, she had gained ground so rapidly, that she not only walked alone about her room, but through the house, and out into the garden.
One afternoon, as she sat reading by an open window, through which came fresh breezes from the sea, the chambermaid, a warm-hearted girl, to whom Helen was indebted for numberless kind offices, came in, looking pale and excited.
"Poor gentleman!" she said in tones of pity. "Oh, it was very sad!"
"What was sad, Jeanette? What about the poor gentleman?" inquired Helen.
"He looked so white, as they carried him in their arms," said the girl, as the tears came into her eyes. "They say he broke a blood-vessel while he was in the train, and was all but dead."
"Who is he?" asked Helen with an awakening interest.
"I don't know who he is. He was alone, I believe. They are going to put him in the room next to yours; and I have come up to tell you. So don't be frightened."
Helen turned pale, in spite of this warning. Just then the sound of feet, and of smothered voices, was heard on the stairs. Jeanette went into the passage, and closed the door after her, trying to shut out the noise. But it drew nearer every moment, and Helen heard, in the next room, the heavy tread of those who bore the body. A slight shudder ran through her frame. For a time there was much walking to and fro, and the low murmur of subdued voices. Then one after another retired; until a deep silence reigned in the sick man's chamber.
After a while, her door was pushed slowly open again, and Jeanette entered, with a noiseless step.
"How is the sick man?" Helen inquired, in a whisper.
"The doctor looks serious," answered the girl. "The poor man has lost so much blood, that they are afraid he will die. The doctor says that everything must be kept very quiet in all the rooms."
"Is there no friend with him?" inquired Helen.
"None. He was alone in the train."
"An entire stranger here?"
"Yes. Last spring a man was brought in, as he was brought in today — looking just as pale and death-like. But his mother was with him, and oh, how tenderly she nursed him night and day! The doctor said that nothing else saved his life — that if he had been left with one of our hired nurses, he must have died. Now, this man has neither a wife, a sister, nor a mother to care for him, and I'm afraid he will die — poor gentleman! They are going to send for old Pauline to nurse him; but she is rough-handed and deaf, and sleeps when she should be watching."
Jeanette shook her head as she closed the sentence.
"Have they sent for Pauline?" Helen asked, after sitting for some moments, with her eyes cast down.
"I am to go for her," answered the girl. Helen was silent, and looked thoughtful. Jeanette moved towards the door.
"Where are you going?" said Helen. "For Pauline."
There was a manner about Helen as if something was on her mind. The girl saw this, and stood with her hand upon the door. But, the former cast her eyes again to the ground.
"I shall he back soon," said Jeanette, more for the purpose of giving the lady an opportunity to say what was in her thoughts, if she had a wish to do so, than from the idea that any interest was taken in her movements.
"Stay!" As Helen looked up, there was an unusual flush upon her cheeks, and an unusual brightness in her eyes.
Jeanette removed her hand from the door, and advanced a few steps towards her.
"Don't go for Pauline yet," said Helen.
The girl looked at her wonderingly.
"Is the poor man very sick?" asked Helen.
"Oh, yes! There is scarcely a spark of life remaining."
"And Pauline, you say, is not a good nurse?"
"Pauline is old, and not very tender in her ways," answered Jeanette.
"And the poor sick man needs a gentle, tender, kind nurse?"
"He'll die," said the girl, in a positive way. "And he won't be the first that has died in her hands, either. I don't know why it is that they always will send for her — the hateful creature. I wish she were dead!"
"Can't we nurse him for a day or two, Jeanette? I feel a great deal stronger and better; and if you will sit up part of the night, I will watch with him."
The girl looked, in surprise, for some moments, into the face of the invalid stranger, who, only a few days before, had scarcely sufficient strength to bear the weight of her own shadowy frame — and then, shaking her head, replied —
"No, no. It will make you ill; and besides, the doctor will never consent. The doctor says that Pauline must be his nurse — and he will be very angry, if she is not sent for."
"Who is in the room with him now?" asked Helen.
"The doctor and Madame Le Brun."
Helen arose, and moved towards the door with a firm step and a resolute air.
"Come with me," she said. "I am going into the sick man's room."
Jeanette, seeing that she was really in earnest, made no attempt to dissuade her from her purpose, but moved along by her side, and accompanied her to the adjoining chamber. The doctor and Madame Le Brun (the wife of the hotel-keeper) looked wonderingly at Helen as she entered. She gave a polite, though silent salutation; then she moved noiselessly to the bed, though with a firm step, as of one walking in the way of duty — and bent over to look upon the pale face of the sick stranger. She stood thus only for an instant, and she showed no sign of feeling. But, when she turned to the physician, her face was as colourless as that of the exhausted invalid.
"It is too much for you," whispered Madame Le Brun, coming to her side quickly. "How could you bring the lady here!" she added, throwing a dark frown upon Jeanette.
Madame Le Brun attempted to lead Helen from the room, but the latter quietly waved her aside, and turning to the doctor said, in a whisper —
"You need not send for Pauline. I will be his nurse."
The doctor shook his head, and Madame Le Brun protested; but Helen silenced all their opposition by repeating her declaration, and in a way which convinced them both that she was altogether in earnest. They adjourned from the room, and held the following brief discussion:
"We will send for Pauline," said the doctor. "You can assist her if you will."
"No, no!" was the firm, decided answer. "Pauline must not be sent for. I will be his nurse."
"You cannot watch with him all the night. We must have Pauline," said the doctor.
"Pauline shall not touch him!" The flush had returned to her pale cheeks, and fire burned in her eyes. "I would not leave him alone with her for a single instant! Let Pauline stay where she is. If it is the price of nursing you wish her to receive, I will pay her all the same as if she were in attendance. And now, Doctor," she said, speaking like one who had rights in the case, "I will receive any directions you have to give; and I promise you to observe them faithfully." In a lower voice, and for his ears alone, she added — "Save his life, Doctor, if within the power of human skill, and your reward will be great!"
It was now plain to the doctor in which direction his interests lay; and so, giving up all opposition, he accepted the services of the self-constituted nurse, who took immediate charge of the sick man — issuing her directions with the firmness of one in authority. To Madame Le Brun, she said —
"I wish Jeanette as my attendant. Charge what you will for her services, but let them be exclusively mine."
Madame Le Brun, surprised, and almost overawed, by the calm, dignified, resolute manner of her guest — so different from what it had been since the day of her arrival, as a feeble, drooping invalid — yielded, without a sign of opposition, everything that was demanded.
When all this came to the ears of the English lady, in whose care Helen had been left by her friends, during their brief absence in Italy, she attempted remonstrance. But the sentences she tried to utter died on her lips before half spoken; and she gazed in wonder upon the changed countenance and erect form of one who, when seen but an hour before, looked frail and drooping, like a weary pilgrim, whose steps were going hastily down into the Valley of Shadows. It was to her, a marvel and a mystery.
When the dimness of twilight came, and evening drew her shadowy curtains closer and closer, Helen took her place by the side of the sick stranger, and never left him for a moment until the day dawned. Twice during the night he coughed slightly, each time with an effusion of blood, which was checked by medicine which had been left for the purpose — and which was given instantly. Helen shuddered, as she thought how entirely his life was in her hands, and remembered what Jeanette had said of the old nurse, Pauline. When Jeanette came to relieve her in the morning, Helen manifested no signs of weariness or exhaustion; indeed, it required some persuasion to induce her to relinquish her post, and seek the refreshment of a few hours' sleep. Not once during the night had the sick man I evinced any distinct consciousness; not once had he opened his eyes, or spoken. Even during the two fits of coughing, and the attendant flow of blood from his lungs, he only moaned feebly.
At ten o'clock, Helen awoke from profound slumber. The lady, in whose care her friends had left her, was sitting by her bedside, and as she attempted to rise, placed her hand upon her, and bore her gently, but firmly back, until her head rested on the pillow from which it had just been lifted.
"You have not had sufficient rest, Miss Hardy, after a night of watching. Lie still, and sleep again."
Helen looked at her for some moments, not fully comprehending the meaning of her words.
"Where is Jeanette?" she asked.
"She is with the sick man, who is sleeping."
This reply made all clear in an instant. Her heart struck a quicker measure, and the blood came warmly into her cheeks.
"How is he?" she asked, with an interest in her tones that could not be repressed.
"There is no change in him. He has scarcely moved, Jeanette says, since you left him."
"Has the doctor been here?"
"Not yet."
"He should have been here long ago." Helen looked disappointed, and her voice betrayed anxious feeling. "Hark!" she added, after a moment or two, and partly raised herself to listen. "Isn't that the doctor's step?" The sound of a man's feet was heard along the passage. "Yes," she added, starting up, as the sound ceased, and the door of the adjoining room was heard to open. "And I must see him!"
Remonstrance was in vain. The lady might as well have talked to the wind. Helen arose, and throwing on a morning-wrapper, went hastily from her own chamber to that of the sick man. She found the doctor at the bedside, looking with a sober face upon his patient. "How did he pass the night?" he inquired, in a low whisper.
Helen stated, in a few sentences, what had occurred. The doctor shook his head. "Did he lose much blood?"
"No."
"You gave the medicine?"
"Yes."
"Right. And the bleeding ceased?"
"Almost instantly."
"He has had no nourishment?"
"None. What shall we give him, Doctor?"
"Fresh cream. I should have ordered it last night. Let a spoonful or two of fresh cream be given every hour."
Helen looked at Jeanette, who went noiselessly from the room. In a few minutes she returned with the cream. In the mean time, the doctor had felt the sick man's pulse, and pronounced its beat encouraging.
"He must be kept very, very quiet," was his injunction. "Much — everything, I may say — depends on that. I will leave more medicine, to be given if the haemorrhage returns. And don't fail to give a spoonful or two of cream as often, at least, as once in an hour. I will call in again before night."
After the doctor retired, an effort was made to get Helen back again into her own room; but it was a fruitless one.
"It is useless to urge me," she answered the distressed lady-friend, who feared the most serious consequences, "my duty is here, and here I must remain. Do not feel any anxiety on my account. God never assigns to anyone a duty, without giving strength for its performance. The life of this sick man, He has placed in my hands, and I will be true to my trust — true, even if assured that my own life were at stake."
The lady gazed upon her with mingled fear, wonder, and admiration.
For several hours, Helen remained a watcher by the sick man's bed, never failing to give the nourishment ordered by the physician. When the doctor came in the afternoon, he pronounced all the symptoms more favourable.
"If he recovers, Mademoiselle," he said to Helen, impressively, "he will owe his life to you." A little while afterwards he asked, "Who is to sit up with him tonight?"
"That will be my task," answered Helen. But the doctor said, "No; you are too feeble, Mademoiselle. You will get ill. You will die. Jeanette must sit up."
Helen smiled courageously, as she replied, "I will not leave him in the care of anyone. I will watch through the night."
"But you were up all last night."
"I have been sleeping today, and I will rest again this afternoon." She could not be turned from her purpose; and so all opposition was withdrawn. Late in the afternoon, she was persuaded to lie down, when she obtained more than two hours' refreshing sleep. She then relieved Jeanette, and watched through all the silent night in the sick man's room.
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