The End of a Coil

"I am afraid I am not remembered," said the gentleman, with the smile coming out a little more. His look, too, was steady and straightforward and observant, – where had Dolly seen that mixture of quietness and resoluteness? Her eyes fell to the little cap in his hand, an officer's cap, and then light came into them.

"Oh!" she cried, – "Mr. Shubrick!"

"It is a long time since that Christmas Day at Rome," he said; a more wistful gravity coming into his face as he better scanned the face opposite to him, which the evening light revealed very fully.

"Oh, I know now," said Dolly. "I do not need to be reminded; but I could not expect to see you here. I thought you were in the Mediterranean. Will you come in, Mr. Shubrick? I am very glad to see you; but my thoughts were so far away" —

"You thought I was in the Mediterranean?" he said as he followed Dolly in. "May I ask, why?"

"Your ship was there."

"Was there; but ships are not stationary things."

"No, of course not," said Dolly, throwing open the blinds and letting the summer light and fragrance stream in. "Then, when did you see Christina?"

"Not for months. The Red Chief has been ordered to the Baltic and is there now; and I got a furlough to come to England. But – how do you do, Miss Copley?"

"I am well, thank you."

"Forgive me for asking, if that information can be depended on?"

"Yes, indeed I am well. I suppose I look tired. We have had sickness here for a good while – my father. Mother and I are tired, no doubt."

"You look very tired. I am afraid I ought not to be here. Can you make me of use? What is the matter? Please remember that I am not a stranger."

"I am very glad to remember it," said Dolly. "No, I do not feel as if you were a stranger, Mr. Shubrick, after that day we spent together. You asked what was the matter – oh, I don't know! a sort of slow, nervous fever, not infectious at all, nor very alarming; only it must be watched, and he always wants some one with him, and of course after a while one gets tired. That cannot be helped. We have managed very well."

"Not Mrs. Copley and you alone?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"It is five weeks now."

"And no improvement yet?"

"I do not know. Mother thinks a little," said Dolly, faltering. This speaking to eyes and ears of sympathy, after so long an interval, rather upset her; her lips trembled, tears came, she was upon the point of breaking down; she struggled for self-command, but her lips trembled more and more.

"I have come in good time," said her visitor.

"It is pleasant to see somebody, to be able to speak to somebody, that is so good as to care," said Dolly, brushing her hand over her eyes swiftly.

"You are worn out," said the other gently. "I am not going to be simply somebody to speak to. Miss Copley, I am a countryman, and a sort of a friend, you know. You will let me take the watch to-night."

"You!" said Dolly, starting. "Oh no!"

"I beg your pardon. You ought to say 'Oh yes.' I have had experience. I think you may trust me."

"Oh, I cannot. We have no right to let you do so."

"You have a right to make any use of me you can; for I place myself at your disposal."

"You are very kind, Mr. Shubrick!"

"Don't say anything more. That is settled," said he, taking up his cap, as if in preparation for departure. Dolly was a little bewildered by the quiet, decided manner, just like what she remembered of Mr. Shubrick; unobtrusive and undemonstrative, but if he moved, moving straight to his goal. She rose as he rose.

"But," she stammered, "I don't think you can. Father likes nobody but mother and me about him."

"He will like me to-morrow," Mr. Shubrick answered with a smile. "Don't fear; I will manage that."

"You are very kind!" said Dolly. "You are very kind!" – Already her heart was leaping towards this offered help, and Mr. Shubrick looked so resolute and strong and ready; she could hardly oppose him. "But you are too kind!" she said suddenly.

"No," said he gravely; "that is impossible. Remember, in the family we belong to, the rule is one which we can never reach. 'That ye love one another, even as I have loved you.'"

What it was, I do not know, in these words which overcame Dolly. In the words and the manner together. She was very tired and overstrung, and they found some unguarded spot and reached the strained nerves. Dolly put both hands to her face and burst into tears, and for a moment was terribly afraid that she was going to be hysterical. But that was not Dolly's way at all, and she made resolute fight against her nerves. Meanwhile, she felt herself taken hold of and placed in a chair by the window; and the sense that somebody was watching her and waiting, helped the return of self-control. With a sort of childish sob, Dolly presently took down her hands and looked up through the glistening tears at the young man standing over her.

"There!" she said, forcing a smile on the lips that quivered, – "I am all right now. I do not know how I could be so foolish."

"I know," said Mr. Shubrick. "Then I will just return to the village for half and hour, and be back here as soon as possible."

"But" – said Dolly doubtfully. "Why don't you send for what you want?"

"Difficult," said the other. "I am going to get some supper."

"Oh!" said Dolly. "If that is what you want – sit down, Mr. Shubrick. Or send off your fly first, and then sit down. If you are going to stay here to-night, I'll give you your supper. Send away the fly, Mr. Shubrick, please!"

"I do not think I can. And you cannot possibly do such a thing as you propose. I shall be back here in a very little time."

Dolly put her hand upon Mr. Shubrick's cap and softly took it from him.

"No," she said. "It's a bargain. If I let you do one thing, you must let me do the other. It would trouble me to have you go. It is too pleasant to see a friend here, to lose sight of him in this fashion. There will be supper, of some sort, and you shall have the best we can. Will you send away your fly, please, and sit down and wait for it?"

If Dolly could not withstand him, so on this point there was no resisting her. Mr. Shubrick yielded to her evident urgent wish; and Dolly went back to her preparations. The question suddenly struck her, where should she have supper? Down here in the kitchen? But to have it in order, upstairs, would involve a great deal more outlay of strength and trouble. The little maid could not set the table up there, and Dolly could not, with the stranger looking on. That would never do. She debated, and finally decided to put her pride in her pocket and bring her visitor down to the kitchen. It was not a bad place, and if he was going to be a third nurse in the house, it would be out of keeping to make any ceremony with him. Dolly's supper itself was faultless. She had some cold game, sent by Lady Brierley or by her order; she had fresh raspberries sent by Mrs. Jersey, and a salad of cresses. But Mrs. Copley would not be persuaded to make her appearance. She did not want to see strangers; she did not like to leave Mr. Copley; in short, she excused herself obstinately, to Dolly's distress. However, she made no objection to having Mr. Shubrick take her place for the night; and she promised Dolly that if she got a good night's sleep and was rested, she would appear at breakfast.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE NURSE

Dolly made her mother's excuses, which seemed to her visitor perfectly natural, and ushered him down to the supper laid in the little kitchen; Dolly explaining very simply that her mother and she had lived there since there had been sickness in the house, and had done so for want of hands to make other arrangements possible. And Mr. Shubrick seemed also to find it the most natural thing in the world to live in the kitchen, and for all that appeared, had never taken his meals anywhere else in his life. He did justice to the supper too, which was a great gratification to Dolly; and lifted the kettle for her from the hob when she wanted it, and took his place generally as if he were one of the family. As for Dolly, there came over her a most exquisite sense of relief; a glimpse of shelter and protection, the like of which she had not known since she could hardly remember when. True, it was transient; it could not abide; Mr. Shubrick was sitting there opposite her like some one that had fallen from the clouds, and whom mist and shadow would presently swallow up again; but in the meanwhile, what a gleam of light his presence brought! He would go soon again, of course; he must; but to have him there in the meantime was a momentary comfort unspeakable. More than momentary; he would stay all night. And her mother would get a night's sleep. For her own part, this feeling of rest was already as good as sleep. Yes, for once, for a little, a strong hand had come between her and her burdens. Dolly let herself rest upon it, with an intense appreciation of its strength and sufficiency.

And so resting, she observed her new helper curiously. She noticed how entirely he was the same man she had seen that Christmas Day in Rome; the same here as there, with no difference at all. There was the calm of manner that had struck her then, along with the readiness for action; the combination was peculiar, and expressed in every turn of head and hand. Here, in a strange house, he was as absolutely at ease and unconstrained as if he had been on the quarterdeck of his own ship. Is it the habit of command? thought Dolly. But that does not necessarily give a man ease of manner in his intercourse with others who are not under his command. Meanwhile, Mr. Shubrick sat and talked, keeping up a gentle run of unexciting thoughts, and apparently as much at home in the kitchen of Brierley Cottage as if he had lived there always.

"When have you seen Christina?" Dolly asked.

"Not in some months."

"Are they at Sorrento yet?"

"No; they spent the winter in Rome, and this summer they are in Switzerland. I had a letter from Miss Thayer the other day. I mean, a few weeks ago."

It occurred to Dolly that one or the other of them must be a slack correspondent.

"I almost wonder they could leave Sorrento," she remarked.

"They got tired of it."

"I never get tired of lovely things," said Dolly. "The longer I know them the better pleasure I take in them. I could have stayed in Venice, it seemed to me, for years; and Rome – I should never have got away from Rome of my own accord, if duty had not made me; and then at Naples, I enjoyed it better the last day than the first. And Sorrento" —

"What about Sorrento?"

"Oh, it was – you know what Sorrento is. It was roses and myrtles and orange blossoms, and the fire of the pomegranate flowers and the grey of the olives; and the Italian sun, and the Italian air; and, Mr. Shubrick, you know what the Mediterranean is, with all its colours under the shadow of the cliffs and the sunlight on the open sea. And Vesuvius was always a delightful wonder to me. And the people were so nice. Sorrento is perfect." A soft breath of a sigh came from Dolly's heart.

"You do not like England so well?"

"No. Oh no! But I could like England. Mr. Shubrick, my time at Sorrento was almost without care; and you know that makes a difference."

"Would you like to live without care?" said he.

Dolly looked at him, the question seemed so strange. "Without anxious care – I should," she answered.

"That you may, anywhere."

"How is it possible, sometimes?" Dolly asked wistfully.

"May I be Yankee enough to answer your question by another? Is it any relief to you to have me come in and take the watch for to-night?"

"The greatest," said Dolly. "I cannot express to you how great it is; for mother and I have had it all to do for so long. I cannot tell you, Mr. Shubrick, in what a strange lull of rest I have been sitting here since we came downstairs. I have just let my hands fall."

"How can you be sure it is safe to do that?" he said, smiling.

"Oh," said Dolly, "I know you will take care; and while you do, I need not."

Mr. Shubrick was silent. Dolly pondered.

"Do I know what you mean?" she said.

"I think you do," he replied. "Do you remember it is written, – 'Casting your care upon Him, for He careth for you'?"

"And that means, not to care myself?"

"Not anxiously, or doubtfully. You cannot trust your care to another, and at the same time keep it yourself."

"I know all that," said Dolly slowly; "or I thought I knew it. How is it, then, that it is so difficult to get the good of it?"

"Was it very difficult to trust me?" Mr. Shubrick asked.

"No," said Dolly, "because – you know you are not a stranger, Mr. Shubrick. I feel as if I knew you."

He lifted his eyes and looked at her; not regarding the compliment to himself, but with a steady, keen eye carrying Dolly's own words home to her. He did not say a word; but Dolly changed colour.

"Oh, do you mean that?" she cried, almost with tears. "Is it because I know Christ so poorly that I trust Him so slowly?"

"What else can it be? And you know, Miss Dolly, just that absolute trust is the thing the Lord wants of us. And you know it is the thing of all others that we like from one another. We need not be surprised that He likes it; for we were made in His image."

Dolly sat silent, struck and moved both with sorrow and gladness; for if it were possible so to lay down care, what more could burden her? and that she had not done it, testified to more strangeness and distance on her part towards her best Friend than she liked to think of. Her musings were interrupted by Mr. Shubrick.

"Now may I be introduced to Mr. Copley?" he said.

Dolly was rather doubtful about the success of this introduction. However, she brought her mother out of the sick-room, and took Mr. Shubrick in; and there, in obedience to his desire, left him, without an introduction; for her father was asleep.

"He will never let him stay there, Dolly," said Mrs. Copley. "He will not bear it at all." And Dolly waited and feared and hoped. But the night drew on, and came down upon the world; Mrs. Copley went to bed, at Dolly's earnest suggestion, and was soon fast asleep, fatigue carrying it over anxiety; and Dolly watched and listened in vain for sounds of unrest from her father's room. None came; the house was still; the summer night was deliciously mild; Dolly's eyelids trembled and closed, and opened, and finally closed again, not to open till the summer morning was bright and the birds making a loud concert of their morning song.

Mr. Shubrick, left alone with his patient, sat down and waited; reviewing meanwhile the room and his surroundings. It was a moderate-sized, neat, pretty room, with one window looking out upon the garden. The casement was two-leaved, and one leaf only was part open. The air consequently was close and hot. And if the room was neat, that applies only to its natural and normal condition; for if neatness includes tidiness, it could not be said at present to deserve that praise. There was an indescribable litter everywhere, such as is certain to accumulate in a sick-room if the watchers are not imbued with the spirit of order. Here were one or two spare pillows, on so many chairs; over the back of another chair hung Mr. Copley's dressing-gown; at a very unconnected distance from his slippers under a fourth chair. On still another chair lay a plate and knife with the remains of an orange; on the mantelpiece, the rest of the chairs, the tables, and even the floor, stood a miscellaneous assortment of cups, glasses, saucers, bottles, spoons, and pitchers, large and small, attached to as varied an assemblage of drinks and medicines. Only one medicine was to be given from time to time, Mr. Shubrick had been instructed; and that was marked, and he recognised it; what were all the rest of this assemblage doing here? Some books lay about also, and papers, and magazines; here a shawl, there some articles of female apparel; and a basket of feminine work. The litter was general, and somewhat disheartening to a lover of order; Mrs. Copley being one of those people who have nothing of the sort belonging to them, and indeed during the most of her life accustomed to have somebody else keep order for her; servants formerly, Dolly of late. Mr. Shubrick sat and looked at all these things, but made no movement, until by and by his patient awoke. It was long past sunset now, the room in partial twilight, yet illumination enough still reflected from a very bright sky for the two people there to see each what the other looked like. Mr. Copley used his eyes in this investigation for a few minutes in silence.

"Who are you?" he inquired abruptly.

"A friend."

"What friend? You are a friend I don't know."

"That is true; but it will not be true to-morrow," Mr. Shubrick said quietly.

"What are you here for?"

"To act the part of a friend, if you will allow me. I am here to wait upon you, Mr. Copley."

"Thank you, I prefer my own people about me," said the sick man curtly. "You may go, and send them, or some of them, to me."

"I cannot do that," said the stranger, "and you must put up with me for to-night. Mrs. Copley and your daughter are both very tired, and need rest."

"Humph!" said the invalid with a surprised grunt. "Did they send you here?"

"No. They permitted me to come. I take it as a great privilege."

"You take it before you have got it. I have not given my leave yet. What are you doing there?"

"Letting some fresh air in for you." Mr. Shubrick was setting wide open both leaves of the casement.

"You mustn't do that. The night air is not good for me. Shut the window."

"You cannot have any air at night but night air," replied Mr. Shubrick, uttering what a great authority has since spoken, and leaving the window wide open.

"But night air is very bad. I don't want it; do you hear?"

"If you will lie still a minute or two, you will begin to feel that it is very good. It is full of the breath of roses and mignonette, and a hundred other pleasant things."

"But I tell you that's poison!" cried Mr. Copley, beginning to excite himself. "I choose to have the window shut; do you hear me, sir? Confound you, I want it shut!"

The young man, without regarding this order, came to the bedside, lifted Mr. Copley's head and shook up his pillows and laid him comfortably down again.

"Lie still," he said, "and be quiet. You are under orders, and I am in command here to-night. I am going to take care of you, and you have no need to think about it. Is that right?"

"Yes," said the other, with another grunt half of astonishment and half of relief, – "that's right. But I want the window shut, I tell you."

"Now you shall have your broth. It will be ready presently."

"I don't want any broth!" said the sick man. "If you could get me a glass of wine; —that would set me up. I'm tired to death of these confounded slops. They are nothing for a man to grow strong upon. Never would make a man strong – never!"

Mr. Shubrick made no answer. He was going quietly about the room.

"What are you doing?" said the other presently, watching him.

"Making things ship-shape – clearing decks."

"What do you know about clearing decks?" said Mr. Copley.

"I will show you."

And the sick man watched with languid amusement to see how, as his new nurse went from place to place, the look of the room changed. Shawls and clothing were folded up and bestowed on a chest of drawers; slippers were put ready for use at the bedside; books were laid together neatly on the table; and a small army of cups and glasses and empty vials were fairly marched out of the room. In a little while the apartment was in perfect order, and seemed half as large again. The invalid drew a long breath.

"You're an odd one!" said he, when he caught Mr. Shubrick's eye again. "Where did you learn all that? and who are you? and how did you come here? I have a right to know."

"You have a perfect right, and shall know all about me," was the answer; "but first, here is your broth, hot and good." (Mr. Shubrick had just received it from the little maid at the door). "Take this now, and to-morrow, if you behave well, you shall have something better."

Mr. Copley suffered himself to be persuaded, took the broth, and then repeated his question.

"I am Sandie Shubrick, lieutenant in the United States navy, on board ship 'The Red Chief;' just now on furlough, and in England."

"What did you come to England for?"

"Business and pleasure."

"Which do you call this you are about now?"

"Both," said Mr. Shubrick, smiling. "Now you may lie still, and keep the rest of your questions for another time."

Mr. Copley yielded, and lay looking at his new attendant, till he dozed off into unconsciousness. Waking then after a while, hot and restless, his nurse brought water and a sponge and began sponging his face and neck and hands; gently and soothingly; and kept up the exercise until restlessness abated, breaths of satisfied content came at easy intervals; and finally Mr. Copley slumbered off peacefully, and knew no more. When he awoke the sun was shining on the oaks of Brierley Park. The window was open, as it had been all night, and by the window sat Mr. Shubrick, looking out. The sick man eyed him for a while.

"Are you asleep there?" he said at last, growing impatient of the silence. Mr. Shubrick got up and came to him.

"Good morning!" said he. "How have you rested?"

"I believe it's the best night I've had yet. What were you doing to me in the night? using a sponge to me, weren't you? It put me to sleep. I believe it would cure a man of a fever, by Jupiter."

"Not by Jupiter," said Mr. Shubrick. "And you must not say such things while I am here."

"Why not?" Mr. Copley opened his eyes somewhat.

"It is no better than counterfeit swearing."

"Would you rather have the true thing?"

"I never permit either, where I am in authority?"

"Your authority can't reach far. You've got to take the world as you find it."

"I dispute that. You've got to take the world and make it better."

"What do you do where your authority is not sufficient?"

"I go away."

"Look here," said Mr. Copley. "Do you call yourself in authority here?"

"Those are the only terms on which I could stay," said Mr. Shubrick, smiling.

"Well, see," said the other, – "I wish you would stay. You've done me more good than all the doctor and everybody else before you."

"I come after them all, remember."

"I wish you had come before them. Women don't know anything. There's my wife, – she would have let the room get to be like a Jew's old clothes shop, and never be aware of it. I didn't know what was choking me so, and now I know it was the confusion. You belong to the navy?"

"I told you so last evening," said Mr. Shubrick, who meanwhile was sponging Mr. Copley's face and hands again and putting him in order generally, so as a sick man's toilet might be made.

"By Jupiter! – I beg your pardon – I believe I am going to get over this, after all," said Mr. Copley "I am sure I shall, if you'll stay and help me."

"I will do it with pleasure. Now, what are you going to have for your breakfast?"

"But, look here. Why should you stay with me? I am nothing to you. Who's to pay you for it?"

"I do not come for pay; or rather, I get it as I go along. Make yourself easy, and tell me about your breakfast."

"How do you come here? I don't know you. Who does know you?"

"I have been a friend of your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Thayer, for many years."

"Humph. Ah! Well. About breakfast, I don't know what they have got for me downstairs; some lolypop or other."

"We'll do better for you than that," said Mr. Shubrick.

The morning meanwhile had come to the other inmates of the house. Dolly had left the sofa where she had spent the night, with a glad consciousness that the night was over and there had been no disturbance. Her mother had slept all the night through and was sleeping yet. What refreshment and comfort it was. What strength and rest, to think of that kind, calm, strong, resolute man in her father's room; somebody that could be depended upon. Dolly thought Christina ought to be a happy woman, with always such a hand to support her all her life long. "And he drinks no wine," thought Dolly; "that temptation will never overtake him; she will never have to be ashamed of him. He will hold her up, and not she him. She is happy."