Part 24 (1/2)
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?” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 G.o.d had indeed sent her a terrible chastis.e.m.e.nt. 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 a.s.sistance. 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 a.s.sociations 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 s.h.i.+p lying to in a hurricane, when the only question is, which will last longest, the storm or the s.h.i.+p? 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d'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, G.o.d 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 a.s.sured 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.