Part 19 (2/2)
”Has he anything on his mind, I mean--anything except his work?”
”Nothing--that is,” she added, looking up at her inquisitor with bright, interested eyes, ”nothing except that he is very conscientious--over-conscientious I sometimes think.” To be bandying psychological a.n.a.lyses with this able man was an edifying experience despite her concern for Wilbur.
”I see,” he answered dryly, and for an instant there was a twinkle in his eyes. Yet he added, ”To make a correct diagnosis it is important to know all the facts of the case.”
”Of course,” she said solemnly, rea.s.sured in her belief that she was being consulted and was taking part in the treatment of her husband's malady.
She accompanied Dr. Page to Wilbur's bed-side. He conversed in a cheery tone with his friend while he took his temperature and made what seemed to her a comparatively brief examination. Selma jumped to the conclusion that there was nothing serious the matter. The moment they had left the room, the doctor's manner changed, and he said with alert concern:
”Your husband is very ill; he has pneumonia. I am going to send for a nurse.”
”A nurse? I will nurse him myself, Dr. Page.”
It seemed to her the obvious thing to do. She spoke proudly, for it flashed into her mind that here was the opportunity to redeem the situation with Wilbur. She would tend him devotedly and when he had been restored to health by her loving skill, perhaps he would appreciate her at her worth, and recognize that she had thwarted him only to help him.
The doctor's brow darkened, and he said with an emphasis which was almost stern: ”Mrs. Littleton, I do not wish to alarm you, but it is right that you should know that Wilbur's symptoms are grave. I hope to save his life, but it can be saved only by trained skill and attendance.
Inexperienced a.s.sistance, however devoted, would be of no use in a case like this.”
”But I only wished to nurse him.”
”I know it; I understand perfectly. You supposed that anyone could do that. At least that you could. I shall return in an hour at the latest with a nurse who was trained for three years in a hospital to fit her to battle for valuable lives.”
Selma flushed with annoyance. She felt that she was being ridiculed and treated as though she were an incapable doll. She divined that by his raillery he had been making fun of her, and forthwith her predilection was turned to resentment. Not nurse her husband? Did this brow-beating doctor realize that, as a girl, she had been the constant attendant of her invalid father, and that more than once it had occurred to her that her true mission in life might be to become a nurse? Training? She would prove to him that she needed no further training. These were her thoughts, and she felt like crying, because he had humiliated her at a time like this. Yet she had let Dr. Page go without a word. She returned to Wilbur and established herself beside his bed. He tried to smile at her coming.
”I think I shall be better to-morrow. It is only a heavy cold,” he said, but already he found difficulty in speaking.
”I have come to nurse you. The blankets and hot-water bottle have made you warmer, haven't they? Nod; you mustn't talk.”
”Yes,” he whispered huskily.
She felt his forehead, and it was burning. She took his hand and saying, ”s.h.!.+ You ought not to talk,” held it in her own. Then there was silence save for Wilbur's uneasy turning. It was plain that he was very uncomfortable. She realized that he was growing worse, and though she chose to believe that the doctor had exaggerated the seriousness of the case in order to affront her, the thought came that he might die. She had never considered such a possibility before. What should she do? She would be a widow without children and without means, for she knew that Wilbur had laid up little if anything. She would have to begin life over again--a pathetic prospect, yet interesting. Even this conjecture of such a dire result conjured up a variety of possible methods of livelihood and occupation which sped through her mind.
The return of Dr. Page with a nurse cut short these painful yet engrossing speculations. His offensive manner appeared to have exhausted itself, but he proceeded to install his companion in Wilbur's room.
Selma would have liked to turn her out of the house, but realized that she could not run the risk of taking issue with him at a time when her husband's life might be in danger. With an injured air yet in silence she beheld the deliberate yet swift preparations. Once or twice Dr. Page asked her to procure for him some article or appliance likely to be in the house, speaking with a crisp, business-like preoccupation which virtually ignored her existence, yet was free from offence. His soul evidently was absorbed by his patient, whom he observed with alert watchfulness, issuing brief directions now and then to his white-capped, methodical, and noiseless a.s.sistant. Selma sat with her hands before her in a corner of the bed-room, practically ignored. The shadows deepened and a maid announced dinner. Dr. Page looked at his watch.
”I shall pa.s.s the night here,” he said.
”Is he worse?”
”The disease is making progress and must run its course. This is only the beginning. You should eat your dinner, for you will need your strength,” he added with simple graciousness.
”But I am doing nothing,” she blurted.
”If there is anything you can do I will let you know.”
Their eyes met. His were gray and steady, but kind. She felt that he chose to treat her like a child, yet that he was trying to be considerate. She was galled, but after all, he was the doctor, and Wilbur had the utmost confidence in him, so she must submit. She ate her dinner, and when she returned preparations were being made for the night. The nurse was to use a lounge at the foot of Wilbur's bed. Dr.
Page asked permission to occupy the dressing-room adjoining, so as to be within easy call. He established himself there with a book, returning at short intervals to look at his patient. Selma had resumed her seat. It was dark save for a night lamp. In the stillness the only sounds were the ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece and Wilbur's labored breathing. It seemed as though he were struggling for his life. What should she do if he died? Why was she debarred from tending him? It was cruel. Tears fell on her hand. She stared into the darkness, twisting her fingers, until at last, as though to show her independence, she stepped to the bed on tip-toe. Wilbur's eyes were open. He put out his hand, and, taking hers, touched it to his burning lips.
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