The care of the sick was a still greater difficulty. Though Aubrey was never in danger, and Dr. Spencer’s promise of the effects of ‘intelligent nursing’ was fully realized, Ethel and Mary were so occupied by him, that it was a fearful thing to guess how it must fare with those households where the greater number were laid low, and in want of all the comforts that could do little.
The clergy worked to the utmost; and a letter of Mr. Wilmot’s obtained the assistance of two ladies from a nursing sisterhood, who not only worked incredible wonders with their own hands among the poor, but made efficient nurses of rough girls and stupid old women. Dr. May, who had at first, in his distrust of innovation, been averse to the importation—as likely to have no effect but putting nonsense into girls’ heads, and worrying the sick poor—was so entirely conquered, that he took off his hat to them across the street, importuned them to drink tea with his daughters, and never came home without dilating on their merits for the few minutes that intervened between his satisfying himself about Aubrey and dropping asleep in his chair. The only counter demonstration he reserved to himself was that he always called them ‘Miss What-d’ye-call-her,’ and ‘Those gems of women,’ instead of Sister Katherine and Sister Frances.
CHAPTER II
Good words are silver, but good deeds are gold.—Cecil and Mary
‘It has been a very good day, papa; he has enjoyed all his meals, indeed was quite ravenous. He is asleep now, and looks as comfortable as possible,’ said Ethel, five weeks after Aubrey’s illness had begun.
‘Thank God for that, and all His mercy to us, Ethel;’ and the long sigh, the kiss, and dewy eyes, would have told her that there had been more to exhaust him than his twelve hours’ toil, even had she not partly known what weighed him down.
‘Poor things!’ she said.
‘Both gone, Ethel, both! both!’ and as he entered the drawing-room, he threw himself back in his chair, and gasped with the long-restrained feeling.
‘Both!’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t mean that Leonard—’
‘No, Ethel, his mother! Poor children, poor children!’
‘Mrs. Ward! I thought she had only been taken ill yesterday evening.’
‘She only then gave way—but she never had any constitution—she was done up with nursing—nothing to fall back on—sudden collapse and prostration—and that poor girl, called every way at once, fancied her asleep, and took no alarm till I came in this morning and found her pulse all but gone. We have been pouring down stimulants all day, but there was no rousing her, and she was gone the first.’
‘And Mr. Ward—did he know it?’
‘I thought so from the way he looked at me; but speech had long been lost, and that throat was dreadful suffering. Well, “In their death they were not divided.”’
He shaded his eyes with his hand; and Ethel, leaning against his chair, could not hinder herself from a shudder at the longing those words seemed to convey. He felt her movement, and put his arm round her, saying, ‘No, Ethel, do not think I envy them. I might have done so once—I had not then learnt the meaning of the discipline of being without her—no, nor what you could do for me, my child, my children.’
Ethel’s thrill of bliss was so intense, that it gave her a sense of selfishness in indulging personal joy at such a moment; and indeed it was true that her father had overlived the first pangs of change and separation, had formed new and congenial habits, saw the future hope before him; and since poor Margaret had been at rest, had been without present anxiety, or the sight of decay and disappointment. Her only answer was a mute smoothing of his bowed shoulders, as she said, ‘If I could be of any use or comfort to poor Averil Ward, I could go to-night. Mary is enough for Aubrey.’
‘Not now, my dear. She can’t stir from the boy, they are giving him champagne every ten minutes; she has the nurse, and Spencer is backwards and forwards; I think they will pull him through, but it is a near, a very near touch. Good, patient, unselfish boy he is too.’
‘He always was a very nice boy,’ said Ethel; ‘I do hope he will get well. It would be a terrible grief to Aubrey.’
‘Yes, I got Leonard to open his lips to-day by telling him that Aubrey had sent him the grapes. I think he will get through. I hope he will. He is a good friend for Aubrey. So touching it was this morning to hear him trying to ask pardon for all his faults, poor fellow—fits of temper, and the like.’
‘That is his fault, I believe,’ said Ethel, ‘and I always think it a wholesome one, because it is so visible and unjustifiable, that people strive against it. And the rest? Was Henry able to see his father or mother?’
‘No, he can scarcely sit up in bed. It was piteous to see him lying with his door open, listening. He is full of warm sound feeling, poor fellow. You would like to have heard the fervour with which he begged me to tell his father to have no fears for the younger ones, for it should be the most precious task of his life to do a parent’s part by them.’
‘Let me see, he is just of Harry’s age,’ said Ethel, thoughtfully, as if she had not the strongest faith in Harry’s power of supplying a parent’s place.
‘Well,’ said her father, ‘remember, a medical student is an older man than a lieutenant in the navy. One sees as much of the interior as the other does of the surface. We must take this young Ward by the hand, and mind he does not lose his father’s practice. Burdon, that young prig that Spencer got down from London, met me at Gavin’s, when I looked in there on my way home, and came the length of Minster Street with me, asking what I thought of an opening for a medical man—partnership with young Ward, &c. I snubbed him so short, that I fancy I left him thinking whether his nose was on or off his face.’
‘He was rather premature.’
‘I’ve settled him any way. I shall do my best to keep the town clear for that lad; there’s not much more for him, as things are now, and it will be only looking close after him for a few years, which Spencer and I can very well manage.’
‘If he will let you.’
‘There! that’s the spitefulness of women! Must you be casting up that little natural spirit of independence against him after the lesson he has had? I tell you, he has been promising me to look on me as a father! Poor old Ward! he was a good friend and fellow-worker. I owe a great deal to him.’
Ethel wondered if he forgot how much of the unserviceableness of his maimed arm had once been attributed to Mr. Ward’s dulness, or how many times he had come home boiling with annoyance at having been called in too late to remedy the respectable apothecary’s half measures. She believed that the son had been much better educated than the father, and after the fearful lesson he had received, thought he might realize Dr. May’s hopes, and appreciate his kindness. They discussed the relations.
‘Ward came as assistant to old Axworthy, and married his daughter; he had no relations that his son knows of, except the old aunt who left Averil her L2000.’
‘There are some Axworthys still,’ said Ethel, ‘but not very creditable people.’
‘You may say that,’ said Dr. May emphatically. ‘There was a scapegrace brother that ran away, and was heard of no more till he turned up, a wealthy man, ten or fifteen years ago, and bought what they call the Vintry Mill, some way on this side of Whitford. He has a business on a large scale; but Ward had as little intercourse with him as possible. A terrible old heathen.’