Only an Irish Boy Andy Burke's Fortunes

CHAPTER XXI A MODEL WIFE

Colonel Pre­ston, re­turn­ing from a trip to Boston, in which, prob­ably, he had been un­con­scious­ly ex­posed to the ter­ri­ble dis­ease re­ferred to, was tak­en sick, and his wife, whol­ly un­sus­pi­cious of her hus­band's mal­ady, sent for the doc­tor.

The lat­ter ex­am­ined his pa­tient and, on leav­ing the sick-​cham­ber, beck­oned Mrs. Pre­ston to fol­low him.

“What is the mat­ter with him, doc­tor?” asked Mrs. Pre­ston. The physi­cian looked grave.

“I re­gret to say, Mrs. Pre­ston, that he has the small­pox.”

“The small­pox!” al­most shrieked Mrs. Pre­ston. “Oh! what will be­come of me?”

Dr. Town­ley was rather dis­gust­ed to find her first thought was about her­self, not about her strick­en hus­band.

“It's catch­ing, isn't it, doc­tor?” she asked, in great ag­ita­tion.

“I am sor­ry to say that it is, madam.”

“Do you think I will take it?”

“I can­not take it up­on my­self to say.”

“And I was in the same room with him,” wailed Mrs. Pre­ston, “and nev­er knew the aw­ful dan­ger! Oh, I wouldn't have the small­pox for this world! If I didn't die, I should be all marked up for life.”

“You haven't much beau­ty to spoil,” thought the doc­tor; but this thought he pru­dent­ly kept to him­self.

“I must leave the house at once. I will go to my broth­er's house till he has re­cov­ered,” said Mrs. Pre­ston, in ag­ita­tion.

“What!” ex­claimed the doc­tor, in sur­prise, “and leave your hus­band alone!”

“I can't take care of him--you must see that I can't,” said Mrs. Pre­ston, fret­ful­ly. “I can't ex­pose my life with­out do­ing him any good.”

“I ex­pose my­self ev­ery time I vis­it him,” said the doc­tor. “I nev­er had the small­pox. Have you been vac­ci­nat­ed?”

“Yes, I be­lieve so--I'm sure I don't know. But peo­ple some­times take the small­pox even af­ter they have been vac­ci­nat­ed. I should be so fright­ened that I could do no good.”

“Then,” said the doc­tor, grave­ly, “you have de­cid­ed to leave your hus­band?”

“Yes, doc­tor, I must. It is my du­ty--to my boy,” an­swered Mrs. Pre­ston, catch­ing at this ex­cuse with ea­ger­ness. “I must live for him, you know. Of course, if I could do any good, it would be dif­fer­ent. But what would God­frey do if both his fa­ther and moth­er should die?”

She looked up in­to his face, hop­ing that he would ex­press ap­proval of her in­ten­tions; but the doc­tor was too hon­est for this. In truth, he was dis­gust­ed with the wom­an's self­ish­ness, and would like to have said so; but this po­lite­ness for­bade. At any rate, he was not go­ing to be trapped in­to any ap­proval of her self­ish and cow­ard­ly de­ter­mi­na­tion.

“What do you wish to be done, Mrs. Pre­ston?” he asked. “Of course, your hus­band must be tak­en care of.”

“Hire a nurse, doc­tor. A nurse will do much more good than I could. She will know just what to do. Most of them have had the small­pox. It is re­al­ly much bet­ter for my hus­band that it should be so. Of course, you can pay high wages--any­thing she asks,” added Mrs. Pre­ston, whose great fear made her, for once in her life, lib­er­al.

“I sup­pose that will be the best thing to do. You wish me, then, to en­gage a nurse?”

“Yes, doc­tor, if you will be so kind.”

“When do you go away?”

“At once. I shall pack up my clothes im­me­di­ate­ly. On the whole, I think I will go to the town where God­frey is at school, and board there for the present. I must see him, and pre­vent him from com­ing home.”

“You will go in­to your hus­band's cham­ber and bid him good-​by?”

“No; I can­not think of it. It would on­ly be use­less ex­po­sure.”

“What will he think?”

“Ex­plain it to him, doc­tor. Tell him that I hope he will get well very soon, and that I feel it my du­ty to go away now on God­frey's ac­count. I am sure he will see that it is my du­ty.”

“I won­der what ex­cuse she would have if she had no son for a pre­text?” thought the doc­tor.

“Well,” he said, “I will do as you re­quest.”

“See that he has the best of care. Get him two nurs­es, if you think best. Don't spare ex­pense.”

“What ex­traor­di­nary lib­er­al­ity in Mrs. Pre­ston,” thought the physi­cian.

He went back in­to the cham­ber of his pa­tient.

“Doc­tor,” said Colonel Pre­ston, “you didn't tell me what was the mat­ter with me. Am I se­ri­ous­ly sick?”

“I am sor­ry to say that you are.”

“Dan­ger­ous­ly?”

“Not nec­es­sar­ily. You have the small­pox.”

“Have I?” said the pa­tient, thought­ful­ly.

“It's an awk­ward thing to tell him that his wife is go­ing to leave him,” the doc­tor said to him­self. “How­ev­er, it must be done.”

“Have you told my wife, doc­tor?”

“I just told her.”

“What does she say?”

“She is very much star­tled, and (now for it), thinks, un­der the cir­cum­stances, she ought not to run the risk of tak­ing care of you on ac­count of God­frey.”

“Per­haps she is right,” said Colonel Pre­ston, slow­ly.

He was not sur­prised to hear it, but it gave him a pang, nev­er­the­less.

“She wants me to en­gage a nurse for you.”

“Yes, that will be nec­es­sary.”

There was a pause.

“When is she go­ing?” he asked, a lit­tle lat­er.

“As soon as pos­si­ble. She is go­ing to board near the school where God­frey is placed.”

“Shall I see her?”

“She thinks it best not to risk com­ing in­to the cham­ber, lest she should car­ry the in­fec­tion to God­frey.”

“I sup­pose that is on­ly pru­dent,” re­turned the sick man, but in his heart he wished that his wife had shown less pru­dence, and a lit­tle more feel­ing for him.

“Have you thought of any nurse?” he asked.

“I have thought of the wid­ow Burke.”

“She might not dare to come.”

“She has had the dis­ease. I know this from a few slight marks still left on her face. Of course, you would be will­ing to pay a lib­er­al price?”

“Any price,” said Colonel Pre­ston, en­er­get­ical­ly. “It is a ser­vice which, I as­sure you, I shall not soon for­get.”

“I must see her at once, for your wife will leave di­rect­ly.”

“Pray, do so,” said Colonel Pre­ston. “Tell my wife,” he said, af­ter a pause, “that I hope soon to have re­cov­ered, so that it may be safe for her to come back.”

There was a sub­dued bit­ter­ness in his voice, which the doc­tor de­tect­ed, and did not won­der at. He gave the mes­sage, as re­quest­ed.

“I am sure I hope so, Dr. Town­ley,” said Mrs. Pre­ston. “I shall be tor­tured with anx­iety. I hope you will write me dai­ly how my poor hus­band is get­ting along?”

“Per­haps the pa­per might car­ry the in­fec­tion,” said the doc­tor, test­ing the re­al ex­tent of her so­lic­itude.

“I didn't think of that,” an­swered Mrs. Pre­ston, hasti­ly. “On the whole, you needn't write, then. It might com­mu­ni­cate the dis­ease to God­frey.”

“She finds God­frey very use­ful,” the doc­tor thought.

“I will bear my anx­iety as I can,” she con­tin­ued. “Have you thought of any­one for a nurse?”

“I have thought of Mrs. Burke.”

“She is poor, and will come if you of­fer her a good price. Try to get her.”

“I think she will come. I must go at once, for your hus­band needs im­me­di­ate at­ten­tion.”

“Get her to come at once, Dr. Town­ley! Oh, do! My hus­band may want some­thing, and I can't go in­to the room. My du­ty to my dear, on­ly son will not per­mit me. I hope Mr. Pre­ston un­der­stands my mo­tives in go­ing away?”

“I pre­sume he does,” said the doc­tor, rather equiv­ocal­ly.

“Tell him how great a sac­ri­fice it is for me to leave his bed­side. It is a ter­ri­ble tri­al for me, but my du­ty to my son makes it im­per­ative.”

The doc­tor bowed.

He drove at once to the hum­ble dwelling of Mrs. Burke.

His er­rand was briefly ex­plained.

“Can you come?” he asked. “I am au­tho­rized to of­fer you ten dol­lars a week for the time you spend there.”

“I would come in a minute, doc­tor, but what shall I do with Mary?”

“She shall stay at my house. I will glad­ly take charge of her.”

“You are very kind, doc­tor. I wouldn't want to ex­pose her, but I don't mind my­self. I don't think I am in dan­ger, for I've had the small­pox al­ready.”

“Can you be ready in five min­utes? Tell Mary to pack up her things, and go to my house at once. We'll take good care of her.”

In less than an hour Mrs. Burke was in­stalled at the bed­side of the sick man as his nurse. As she en­tered the house, Mrs. Pre­ston left it, bound for the rail­way de­pot.

“I'm so glad you're here,” she said, greet­ing the wid­ow Burke with un­wont­ed cor­dial­ity. “I am sure you will take the best care of my hus­band. I have told the doc­tor to pay you what­ev­er you ask.”

“I'll do my best, Mrs. Pre­ston, but not for the mon­ey,” an­swered Mrs. Burke. “Your hus­band shall get well, if good care can cure him.”

“I've no doubt of it; but the car­riage is here, and I must go. Tell my hus­band how sor­ry I am to leave him.”

So Mrs. Pre­ston went away, leav­ing a stranger to ful­fill her own du­ties at the bed­side of her hus­band.

Thus it hap­pened that, when Andy came home, he found his moth­er al­ready gone, and his sis­ter on the point of start­ing for the doc­tor's house. His idea had al­ready been car­ried out.