A Girl in Ten Thousand by L. T. Meade (books for 8th graders txt) 📗
- Author: L. T. Meade
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"Oh, I cannot give the child up to anyone. You must not keep me from her another moment. I am not a bit hungry, but I'll have something to eat in her room if you'll bring it to me. How awfully my darling must have missed me!—she is such a child for her mother. Let me go to her at once—my dear little treasure!"
"Dr. Staunton is very anxious that you should not go to her to-night."
"How can he dare to keep a mother from her child? Here, give me my dress, will you? I tell you that nothing will keep me from the room. I am sure you are deceiving me."
"Do you really think I would deceive you?" said Dorothy. "Before you went to sleep you promised to trust me. Look at me now—look into my eyes. I have nursed a great many sick children—I have seen many mothers in agony—I have never deceived one. When the truth was good I have told it; when it was bad I have also told it. I am not deceiving you, Mrs. Harvey."
Poor Mrs. Harvey's dazed and frightened eyes gazed into Dorothy's strong face. Its repose, its calm, impressed her. She was in an overstrung and highly hysterical state. She burst into tears.
"I do trust you, nurse," she said, with a great sob.41 "I trust you, and I bless you. I know my dear little one is better. Oh, thank God; thank the great and good God! But, dear nurse, I must go to her. You are tired, and I am quite rested and refreshed. I'll spend the night with the child, and you can go to bed."
"No, dear madam; I cannot resign the care of the child to anyone. I am using a certain remedy in the form of a spray which no one in this house understands but me. If that remedy—which has made the child better—is not continued unceasingly during the whole of this night, her throat will get as bad as ever, and there will be no hope of her recovery. I want you, Mrs. Harvey, to sleep to-night, and leave the child in my care, I wish this, and the doctor wishes it, and I am sure, if you asked your husband, he would tell you that he wished the same. You are not required to do anything for little Freda, and it is your duty to take care of yourself. If she gets worse, I promise to come for you—I promise this, Mrs. Harvey. Now, will you go to your room and dress, and then go downstairs and have some dinner? In the morning I expect to have splendid news for you."
Mrs. Harvey clasped her hands in perplexity and uncertainty.
"It is dreadful to keep a mother from her child," she said; "and yet—and yet——"
"And yet in this case it is right," said Dorothy. "You must remember that you have not only Freda to think of. There is your husband, and——"
"Oh, yes, I know; there is my poor little unhappy baby, but I cannot love it as I love Freda."
"Still you owe it a duty. It is not right of you to do anything to risk its life or your own. When it42 comes to you, you will see how dearly you love it. Now, please, let me take you to your room."
"But may I not take one peep at my little treasure?"
"She is asleep just now, and you may wake her. Please let me take you to your room."
Mrs. Harvey staggered to her feet.
"I trust you, nurse," she said, with a wistful sort of look. "You will remember your promise?"
"I will; nothing in the world will make me go back from my word. Now, come with me."
Dorothy led Mrs. Harvey away. They walked down the corridor together. The nurse opened a baize door, which shut away the nurseries from the rest of the house, and a moment later found herself standing in Mrs. Harvey's luxurious bedroom. Her maid was there, and Dorothy asked her to help her mistress to dress.
"What dress will you wear, madam?" asked the girl.
"Anything—it doesn't matter what," replied Mrs. Harvey.
"Yes, it matters a great deal," said Dorothy. "You ought to wear a pretty dress; I think it is your duty to do so. You have got to think of the Squire. Nothing will please him and reassure him more than to see you coming down to dinner looking bright and pretty in one of your nice dresses."
"Really, nurse, you amaze me"—began Mrs. Harvey, but then the shadow of a smile crept into her eyes. "I don't think you would talk like that if you did not really think Freda would get well," she exclaimed suddenly.
"My impression is that she will get well," replied Dorothy, "Now, please put on one of your pretty dresses."43
"That pink dress with the lace ruffles, Martin," said Mrs. Harvey, turning to the maid. She got up as she spoke, walked across the room, and put her arms round Dorothy's white neck.
"You are a very brave woman," she said. "You are someone to lean on. It rests me to lean on you—I love you already."
"And I love you," said Dorothy in her simple, direct fashion. "God has given you to me to take care of just now, and I fully believe that your sweet little girl will be spared to you. Now, I see you are going to be very brave and good yourself, and I'll go back to the child. I ought not to be too long away from her."
All through the night that followed, the nurse persevered in the remedies which were slowly but surely undermining the awful blood poisoning. Slowly but surely, as the hours advanced, the fell disease lost its power, the choking sensation grew less and less in the throat, the horrible fungus-like membrane became absorbed, and the child, exhausted, worn to a little shadow, dropped toward morning into a peaceful and natural sleep.
"From my heart, I believe I have conquered," thought Dorothy. She sank on her knees by the bedside. She felt worn-out herself. Never before had she nursed a case like this. Never before had she gone through such a hand-to-hand fight with death. The child was far gone when she arrived. The diphtheria was particularly acute, and the poor little frame was already terribly weakened by the sharp attack of scarlet fever.
"Another twelve hours, and nothing would have saved her," murmured Dorothy. "Oh, I thank Thee, my God!—I thank Thee for this mercy! Oh,44 what a joy it is to feel that I can give this child back to her mother!"
Dorothy remained by the bedside. Her head was bowed on her hands. Someone touched her on her shoulder—she looked up, and met the keen eyes of Dr. Staunton. He was looking dreadfully pale and tired himself.
"See," said Dorothy, rising and pointing to the child, "she is not feverish now, she sleeps sweetly."
"She will recover," said the doctor. "Thank the Almighty!"
"I believe she will certainly recover," replied Dorothy.
"It is your doing, nurse."
"With God's blessing," she answered, bowing her head.
The doctor asked her one or two more questions.
"Now, the thing is, to keep up her strength," said Dorothy in conclusion. "She must have every imaginable form of nourishment. But that can be done, for I mean to undertake the management of her food myself. Please, Dr. Staunton, will you tell Mrs. Harvey the good news that her child is out of danger?"
"Yes," said the doctor; "but ought not that to be your own reward?"
"No, no; I don't want to go near her. I wish you to do all in your power to keep her from the room. I believe that when she knows that her child is really on the mend she will be guided by your wishes and those of her husband. I have a kind of feeling,—I may be wrong, of course,—but I have a kind of feeling that God will stay His hand in this matter, and that the plague will not spread. Now, the thing is to think of the mother. I suppose you will attend to her when her baby is born?"
"She has asked me to do so."
"Then, don't you think," said Dorothy, after a pause for reflection,—"don't you think you might leave little Freda to me? I am willing to be shut up in this part of the house with the child and one of the maids, a girl called Rhoda, who has been most helpful to me during the last twenty-four hours. If you are wanted, doctor, you are on the spot; but, unless there is occasion, don't you think it would be best for you not to come into this room?"
"It would be certainly the safest course as regards the mother," pursued the doctor in a thoughtful tone. "You are a wonderful woman, nurse. I'll go and consult the Squire."
One day, a week after the events related in the last chapter, Dr. Staunton suddenly walked into the little parlor where Effie and her mother were sitting together.
Effie sprang up at sight of him. Some needlework over which she had been busy fell to the floor. A rush of color came into her cheeks.
"Oh, father, father!" she exclaimed, "how delightful it is to see you again! Oh, how glad we are! Is little Freda really better? How is Mrs. Harvey? And—have you come back to stay, father?"
"I can't answer such a lot of questions all together, child," said the doctor, with a smile. "Yes, I have come home to stay. The fact is, I am tired46 out, and simply with doing nothing. Ever since that blessed angel of a woman, Dorothy Fraser, came to The Grange, there has been little or nothing for me to do. Yes, that's a fact; I am worn-out with doing nothing. I should like a cup of tea beyond anything. Make it strong for me, my dear—strong and fragrant."
"The kettle is boiling," said Effie. "I won't be a minute. Oh, it is delightful to have you back!" She ran out of the room, shutting the door softly behind her.
Dr. Staunton went over and sat on the sofa by his wife.
"At last, my darling," he said, putting his arms round her, "I am safe back again. You see that for yourself, thank God."
"Thank God, John," replied Mrs. Staunton. "I have missed you," she repeated.
She held out both her thin hands. The doctor put his own strong, sinewy hands round them. He clasped them tightly.
"Oh, how hot you are!" she said, starting back and looking anxiously at him. "Your fingers almost burn me."
"I am simply tired, that's all," he replied,—"tired out with doing nothing. I don't believe The Grange is a wholesome place; it is big and grand and richly furnished, but the air does not suit me. I suspect there is something wrong with the drains. The drains are probably at the root of all this mischief to poor little Freda, but let us forget all that now. Let me look at you, wife. How are you? Why, you look bonnie, bonnie!"
He stretched out his hand and passed it gently over his wife's faded cheek. "I have been thinking of you morning, noon, and night," he said.47 "You have never been out of my thoughts for a moment, you and the children—that dear little Effie in particular, but the other children too. I had time to pause and consider during those days of waiting at The Grange, and I could not help remembering that, if anything happened to me, there were five children unprovided for—five children, and you, Mary, with the strength of a mouse in you."
"That's all you know," replied Mrs. Staunton, with a little show of spirit. "I am better; I have made wonderful progress during the last few days. You can't think what a good nurse Effie has been—the most considerate, the most thoughtful, the most kind and clever darling you can possibly imagine. She manages the whole house; our servants would do anything for her, and the children love her so much that it is a pleasure to them to obey her. She has that wonderful and invaluable knack in a woman, she never teases or worries; she just contrives to turn people round her little finger, without their knowing anything about it themselves. But now don't let us
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