The doctor from Englewood came very soon, and I went up to see the sick
girl with him. Halsey had gone to supervise the fitting of the car
with blankets and pillows, and Gertrude was opening and airing Louise's
own rooms at the house. Her private sitting-room, bedroom and
dressing-room were as they had been when we came. They occupied the
end of the east wing, beyond the circular staircase, and we had not
even opened them.
The girl herself was too ill to notice what was being done. When, with
the help of the doctor, who was a fatherly man with a family of girls
at home, we got her to the house and up the stairs into bed, she
dropped into a feverish sleep, which lasted until morning. Doctor
Stewart--that was the Englewood doctor--stayed almost all night, giving
the medicine himself, and watching her closely. Afterward he told me
that she had had a narrow escape from pneumonia, and that the cerebral
symptoms had been rather alarming. I said I was glad it wasn't an
"itis" of some kind, anyhow, and he smiled solemnly.
He left after breakfast, saying that he thought the worst of the danger
was over, and that she must be kept very quiet.
"The shock of two deaths, I suppose, has done this," he remarked,
picking up his case. "It has been very deplorable."
I hastened to set him right.
"She does not know of either, Doctor," I said. "Please do not mention
them to her."
He looked as surprised as a medical man ever does.
"I do not know the family," he said, preparing to get into his top
buggy. "Young Walker, down in Casanova, has been attending them. I
understand he is going to marry this young lady."
"You have been misinformed," I said stiffly. "Miss Armstrong is going
to marry my nephew."
The doctor smiled as he picked up the reins.
"Young ladies are changeable these days," he said. "We thought the
wedding was to occur soon. Well, I will stop in this afternoon to see
how my patient is getting along."
He drove away then, and I stood looking after him. He was a doctor of
the old school, of the class of family practitioner that is fast dying
out; a loyal and honorable gentleman who was at once physician and
confidential adviser to his patients. When I was a girl we called in
the doctor alike when we had measles, or when mother's sister died in
the far West. He cut out redundant tonsils and brought the babies with
the same air of inspiring self-confidence. Nowadays it requires a
different specialist for each of these occurrences. When the babies
cried, old Doctor Wainwright gave them peppermint and dropped warm
sweet oil in their ears with sublime faith that if it was not colic it
was earache. When, at the end of a year, father met him driving in his
high side-bar buggy with the white mare ambling along, and asked for a
bill, the doctor used to go home, estimate what his services were worth
for that period, divide it in half--I don't think he kept any
books--and send father a statement, in a cramped hand, on a sheet of
ruled white paper. He was an honored guest at all the weddings,
christenings, and funerals--yes, funerals--for every one knew he had
done his best, and there was no gainsaying the ways of Providence.