“Ah, yes, I'm glad of that. Just hearken!” Doors slamming--footsteps on the stairs--Mrs. Treherne calling out to her husband not to smoke in the hall.--“That is how it is all day, when you are away. What can I do? Help me, please, help me!”
An entreaty, almost childish in its earnestness; now and then, through all this time, she has seemed in her behaviour towards me, less like a woman than a trusting dependant child.
I sent for Treherne and his wife, and told them that the present was a matter of life and death, in which there could be no standing upon ceremony; that in this house, where no legitimate rule existed, and all were young and inexperienced, I, as the physician, must have authority, which authority must be obeyed. If they wished, I would resign the case altogether--but I soon saw that was not desired. They promised obedience; and I repeated the medical orders, adding, that during my absence, only one person, the person I chose, should be left in charge of my patient.
“Very well, Doctor,” said Mrs. Treherne, “and that is--”
“Theodora--oh, nonsense! She never nursed anybody. She never was fit for anything.”
“She is fit for all I require, and her father wishes for her also; therefore, if you please, will you at once go up to him, Miss Theodora?”
She had stood patient and impassive till I spoke, then the colour rushed into her face and the tears into her eyes. She left the room immediately.
But, as I went, she was lying in wait for me at the door. “Thank you--thank you so much! But do you really think I shall make a good careful nurse for dear papa?”
I told her “Certainly--better than any one else here--better indeed than anyone I knew.”
It was good to see her look of happy surprise.
“Do you really think that? Nobody ever thought so well of me before. I will try--ah! won't I try, to deserve your good opinion.”
Most people have some other person, real or imaginary, who is more “comfortable” to them than anyone else--to whom in trouble the thoughts always first fly, who in sickness would be chosen to smooth the weary pillow, and holding whose hand they would like to die. Now, it would be quite easy, quite happy to die in a certain chamber I know, shadowy and still, with a carpet of a green leafy pattern, and bunches of fuchsias papering the walls. And about the room, a little figure moving; slender, noiseless, busy and sweet--in a brown dress, soft to touch, and making no sound, with a white collar fastened by a little coloured bow above it; the delicate throat and small head like a deer's; and the eyes something like a deer's eyes also, which turn round large and quiet, to look you right in the face--as they did then.