CHAPTER XXI.

DR. WINTHROP PASSES THROUGH DEEP WATERS.

“Perhaps they will know of some one whom I can get to nurse Tillinghast,” Dr. Winthrop muttered, as he watched these two Sisters of Mercy flitting from couch to couch, intent only upon relieving the suffering around them.

He had never yet spoken with them, for on his approach they would always modestly withdraw, and stand with bowed heads and crossed hands until he had made his explanation, given his orders to the head nurse, and passed on.

Now, however, he walked directly toward one of them, who was bathing the hot face and hands of a poor fellow who had lost a leg during the insurrection.

Her back was toward him and he did not know which one she was until he stepped beside her and she turned her face to him; then he caught sight of the blue glasses and he saw it was Sister Angela.

“Can I speak with you a moment, Sister?” he inquired in a low tone.

She stepped back, crossed her hands upon her bosom, bowed her head and waited to hear what he had to say.

“My friend has been suddenly stricken down,” he began, “I must have a competent nurse at once, or he will die. Do you know of such a one?”

“No, monsieur,” she replied, “every nurse in Paris is engaged—see!”—with a sweeping gesture of the hand, though she did not raise her head or her glance—“you have not sufficient help even here, and hundreds are dying outside for the want of proper care.”

“Then, what shall I do?” cried Dr. Winthrop, and there was a note of agony in his tone. His friend had not spared himself for others, and he could not bear that he should die from lack of care.

“Has monsieur no friends who could come to him?” inquired the nun.

“No; none who would be of any service at such a time,” and he shivered as he thought of bringing any member of his family into that pest-house. Norman was the only one who occurred to him, and he was needed too much elsewhere to be thought of for a moment.

“Monsieur is very ill?” said the nun inquiringly.

“Very; I fear the worst,” he replied, with a heavy sigh.

Sister Angela seemed to be thinking deeply for a moment; then telling him briefly to wait, she went down the ward and talked earnestly with the other nun for a few minutes.

Presently she returned and said:

“I know something of sickness and if _monsieur le docteur_ will trust me, I will do the best I can.”

“Will you? Can you leave your other duties?” he eagerly cried.

“My duties are those that lie nearest at hand and are the most urgent,” she quietly answered, but the low, sweet tones were like music to him, for there was hope in them.

“Thank you,” the physician gratefully returned, “you have taken a great load from my heart. When can you come?”

“_Monsieur le docteur_ may take me to his friend at once—the need is great; I delay not for anything.”

“You are very good,” her companion returned in a tone that trembled, for he was deeply moved. Then turning abruptly, he simply bade her “Come.”

She followed him to a room at the further end of the ward, where he opened a door and then stood aside to allow her to pass in.

The apartment was very comfortable, cool, and well ventilated, and the windows had been darkened, for the glare of the sun was hot and painful.

Sister Angela passed noiselessly in, glancing toward the patient as she did so. She quietly removed her close gray bonnet, but Dr. Winthrop, though he tried to do so, could not get even a glimpse of her face, for the plaiting of black silk tissue which was fastened to her cap, still fell close about it.

She went directly to the bedside and looked more closely at the patient.

“He is very low, monsieur,” she said to Dr. Winthrop, who was gazing sadly at his friend, while he felt his pulse.

“He is, indeed,” he whispered with emotion.

“Has he hot water at his feet and warm flannel about his body?” was the next query. “Ah!” without waiting for a reply, and deftly slipping her hand under the bedclothes to the patient’s feet, “the bottle is cold, it must be renewed.”

She drew it forth, glided swiftly yet noiselessly from the room, but was back again before he could have thought it possible, and replaced the replenished bottle at the sick man’s feet.

She then heated a blanket, which she spread over his body and limbs, after which she turned her attention to his nourishment.

“Ah, this is very badly made,” she murmured, as she stirred the arrow-root gruel that stood cold upon the table, and found it full of lumps.

She set about preparing some fresh, and not long after was deftly feeding the almost dying man with a smooth, well-cooked porridge, to which she had added a little brandy.

Dr. Winthrop was greatly relieved as he noticed how efficient she was, and though he did not have much hope that his friend would live, he felt that at least he would henceforth have everything needful done for him.

All day long he was in and out of the room to watch his condition, and give him what personal attention he could. The nurse, though she seldom spoke or even looked at him, obeyed every direction implicitly and intelligently, and toward evening he could detect a slight—a very slight improvement in Tillinghast’s condition.

Sister Angela did not spare herself; she renewed the hot bottles at his feet the moment they began to cool; she kept the heated blanket constantly about his body and administered either nourishment or stimulants every few minutes.

During the night she was just as faithful; not once did she close her eyes to sleep or relax her vigilant care of her charge, and by morning he was more comfortable, if not actually better. But he was so weak, his pulse was so feeble, that Dr. Winthrop did not dare to hope much from the trifling improvement in his condition.

Mr. Tillinghast, however, appeared to have a little more consciousness of the efforts to save him, and eagerly swallowed his nourishment and stimulants, instead of lying, as hitherto, almost indifferent.

“You will be worn out—you must have rest,” Dr. Winthrop said to Sister Angela, as the second day of her attendance drew near its close and she was still as unremitting in her attentions as ever.

“Nay; I shall not leave _monsieur le docteur’s_ friend until he is out of danger, or past all help,” she returned quietly but resolutely, and no amount of persuasion could change her decision.

The young man did get better, he continued to rally slowly but steadily, and in a few days Dr. Winthrop was confident that if nothing new developed he would soon recover.

As soon as Sister Angela was assured of this she consented to take her needed rest, and left him at regular intervals for this purpose; but she always returned promptly to her post afterward, and was still the same watchful, careful nurse.

One morning, while she was giving her patient his first really solid breakfast, as he called it, Dr. Winthrop hastily entered the room, his face pale and stern, his brow wrinkled with care and an open note in his hand.

“Sister Angela,” he said turning appealingly to her, “would you be willing to go out of the city to care for the sick? I am in a sad strait.”

“What is it, dear old fellow?” Tillinghast asked sympathetically, and regarding his friend anxiously.

“My father and Evelyn are both down with the cholera; my mother fears she soon may be, as she is far from well,” was the disheartening answer.

“You will go, Sister Angela?” her patient said, turning eagerly to her. “I shall do well enough now with what attention I can get from other nurses; I will be very careful—nothing shall tempt me to be imprudent or impatient. Ah, you must go, for poor Winthrop is hard pressed.”

“Of course I do not expect that you will go alone,” Dr. Winthrop continued; “I will find other nurses to help you if they can be had, if you will but superintend the care of my friends. I can trust you fully and shall feel that nothing will be neglected under your supervision.”

The gentle nun did not reply immediately. She seemed to be gravely considering the matter; but Mr. Tillinghast, who alone could see anything of her face, was sure that he saw a vivid crimson shoot up and lose itself under her ugly bandages as if the proposition was a very distasteful one to her.

“Yes, monsieur, I will go,” she at last replied in her usual quiet tones; then she turned back to the bedside and went on feeding her charge though he thought her hand trembled slightly on its way from the plate to the mouth.

“I believe I should have died but for you, Sister Angela,” the young man said, when he had finished his breakfast. “I am very grateful. I shall bless you always. Is there not something I can do for you to prove it?”

“Nothing, monsieur; my wants are very few and I need no proof,” she answered, but her voice was not quite steady he thought.

“I am sorry,” he said gratefully, “for I should be glad to make some thankoffering. My friend tells me that you are called the ‘Angel in Gray,’ here in the hospital; you have surely proved yourself such to me; may you live long to bless others with your gentle ministrations.”

Again a flush swept over what was visible of her face, and her lips parted with a sigh that was something like a sob.

“The poor creature has known some heavy sorrow,” the young man thought; “perhaps that was what drove her to be a nun. I wonder how old she is; nobody can tell with all that cotton-cloth wound about her head and face. She may be forty for all I can tell, but she seems a refined lady. Her voice is sweet and low and cultured; her movements are graceful yet dignified, and her hands are small and beautifully formed.”

He continued to watch her curiously while she busied herself about some last cares for his comfort, and then she came to take leave of him, as Dr. Winthrop was anxious to start at once for the villa.

“Good-by,” the invalid said, with emotion; “I hope I shall see you some time again, Sister Angela, but if I do not I shall always hold you in grateful remembrance.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment of his gratitude, murmured a benediction over him, and then passed quietly out of the room with Dr. Winthrop.

The young physician felt greatly relieved because she had acceded to his request and tried to express his thanks, but she cut him short in the midst of them.

“Thanks are unnecessary, monsieur; it is my work, my duty,” she said. “I go to one, then to another, wherever I am most needed.”

“But I think you are hardly strong enough for such work; it is too hard, too wearing for your slight frame.”

“But I am well. I shall work while heaven gives me strength, then—God’s will be done,” was the low-voiced, tremulous reply, and its pathos sent a quick stab of pain through the young physician’s heart. There was a certain hopelessness in it that moved him deeply.

He found another woman to go out to the villa with them, he feared she would be hardly suited to the sick-room; still it was the best he could do; and he had to be content.

He tried to engage Sister Angela in conversation on their way thither, but she would not talk. She listened to whatever he had to say with bowed head and clasped hands, and when actually obliged to answer him, she did so in the briefest manner.

Arriving at the villa, Dr. Winthrop found his father alarmingly ill. Evelyn was considerably frightened, but in no immediate danger. Madame Winthrop was far from well, but did not as yet show any symptoms of the terrible scourge.

Norman Winthrop was doing the best that he could for them all, with the assistance of the servants; but he was greatly relieved by the appearance of his brother and his assistants.

Mrs. Rochester and her daughter had shut themselves in their own rooms as soon as Mr. Winthrop was attacked, and kept aloof as much as possible from every one. They would have been glad now to flee from France at once, if they had not feared they would be overtaken by the plague before they could reach a place of safety.

Sister Angela at once took up her position at the bedside of Mr. Winthrop; but, though she was faithful in the minutest particular and Dr. Winthrop spared no effort to save his father, he died on the next morning after their arrival, and in accordance with the prevailing law, was immediately buried.

This affliction of course made Evelyn worse. Madame Winthrop was at once prostrated, while, before the day was over, Dr. Winthrop was summoned to attend Miss Rochester, who was violently attacked with cramps.

“We must have more help,” he said, with pale lips, a little later to Sister Angela. “Where shall I turn for another nurse?”

The faithful nun, after thinking a moment, drew forth a note-book, wrote a few lines, then, tearing a couple of leaves from it, was about to pass them to the physician, when she suddenly seemed to change her mind and, crumpling them in her hand, hastily thrust them into her capacious pocket.

“Could you find No. 15 Rue de ——?” she asked, mentioning a street in an humble quarter of Paris.

“Yes, I can find any place if there is hope of getting a nurse in this terrible emergency,” he desperately returned.

“Then go—inquire for Harriet Winter; tell her Sister Angela has need of her and she will come. Hasten, monsieur, for time is precious.”

Dr. Winthrop needed no second bidding; he did not even pause to wonder that the French nun had sent him for a woman with a very American name.

With despair at his heart he flew back to Paris, sparing neither himself nor his horses. He found the street and the woman, Harriet Winter, a black-eyed red-cheeked, pleasant-mannered person, who did not hesitate to obey his summons; and before night she was installed in Miss Rochester’s room, and Dr. Winthrop felt that he was fortunate indeed in having secured another nurse second only to Sister Angela herself.

Harriet Winter not only proved very efficient in the sick-room but seemed to fit in everywhere. She assumed the management of the entire household, and the family began to experience a sense of home-like comfort such as they had not known during their residence abroad.

During the two weeks that followed, there were anxious days and nights.

Madame Winthrop went very low into the “valley of the shadow of death,” while Evelyn slowly rallied. Then when her mother began to recover, she had a relapse, and at one time her brother thought she was gone beyond recall.

But the faithful nurse would not give her up; she stood over her, even after Dr. Winthrop had said there was no pulse and that all further effort would not avail, and persisted in dropping nourishment mixed with stimulants between her pallid lips.

“It can do no harm, monsieur,” she murmured, when he had begged her to desist.

“No, nor any good,” he responded moodily; but his voice broke as it suddenly occurred to him that his sister must die without a knowledge of his forgiveness for the great wrong she had done him, and, staggering weakly to a chair, he sank into it, with a groan bowing his face upon his hands.

The overworked man was worn out mentally as well as physically.

A deep quivering sigh broke from the lips of Sister Angela, but aside from a yearning, wistful glance, she paid no heed to him, but continued her ministrations.

One—two hours passed, and still the weary man sat there half asleep, wholly exhausted, while drop by drop the patient nun pressed the stimulating gruel between the girl’s hueless lips.

At length she thought that her breathing, which had hardly been perceptible for a long time, had become a trifle stronger. All at once the invalid appeared to swallow naturally. A faint sigh broke upon Sister Angela’s ears, the girl moved her head slightly on her pillow, and then sunk into a natural slumber.

A wan little smile flitted over the nurse’s lips, as she noiselessly placed her cup and spoon on the table beside her and glanced at that other sleeping figure across the room.

She would not arouse him from the blessed rest, for she knew her good news could wait; but when at last she saw he was awake she glided softly to his side, and said in a scarcely audible tone.

“Monsieur, take courage, I think your sister will live.”

Dr. Winthrop started to his feet, a dazed look on his worn face; then he moved quickly to Evelyn’s side, and at the first glance his practiced eye told him that there had been a decided change for the better.

From that time until morning dawned, he never left her side, and when the sun arose, he felt almost as if his sister had been given back to him from the dead.

But their trials were by no means over, for during that day one of the servants died, and Miss Rochester appeared to be sinking. But what need to dwell upon those wretched experiences? upon the almost superhuman effort of Dr. Winthrop to save the precious lives in his charge; of the faithfulness of those tireless nurses, who neglected nothing, and yet exercised the utmost care over their own health for the sake of their patients.

Those were experiences that could never be forgotten, but they could not endure forever, and when those who had been so near the borders of the other world began to recover, and Dr. Winthrop pronounced them out of danger, Sister Angela and Harriet Winter were relieved by two other women, and sent away for needful rest.