Beulah - Page 135/348

"Don't be alarmed, Clara! Your excessive terror is your greatest

danger. If you would escape you must keep as quiet as possible."

She poured out a glass of water and made her drink it; then asked: "Can Mrs. Hoyt get medical aid?"

"No; she has sent for every doctor in town, and not one has come."

"Then I will go down and assist her." Beulah turned toward the door,

but Clara caught her dress, and said hoarsely: "Are you mad, thus continually to put your life in jeopardy? Are you

shod with immortality, that you thrust yourself into the very path

of destruction?"

"I am not afraid of the fever, and therefore think I shall not take

it. As long as I am able to be up I shall do all that I can to

relieve the sick. Remember, Clara, nurses are not to be had now for

any sum." She glided down the steps, and found the terrified mother

wringing her hands helplessly over the stricken ones. The children

were crying on the bed, and, with the energy which the danger

demanded, Beulah speedily ordered the mustard baths, and

administered the remedies she had seen prescribed on previous

occasions. The fever rose rapidly, and, undaunted by thoughts of

personal danger, she took her place beside the bed. It was past

midnight when Dr. Asbury came; exhausted and haggard from

unremitting toil and vigils, he looked several years older than when

she had last seen him. He started on perceiving her perilous post,

and said anxiously: "Oh, you are rash! very rash! What would Hartwell say? What will he

think when he comes?"

"Comes! Surely you have not urged him to come back now!" said she,

grasping his arm convulsively.

"Certainly. I telegraphed to him to come home by express. You need

not look so troubled; he has had this Egyptian plague, will run no

risk, and, even if he should, will return as soon as possible."

"Are you sure that he has had the fever?"

"Yes, sure. I nursed him myself, the summer after he came from

Europe, and thought he would die. That was the last sickly season we

have had for years, but this caps the climax of all I ever saw or

heard of in America. Thank God, my wife and children are far away;

and, free from apprehension on their account, I can do my duty."

All this was said in an undertone, and, after advising everything

that could possibly be done, he left the room, beckoning Beulah

after him. She followed, and he said earnestly: "Child, I tremble for you. Why did you leave Hartwell's house and

incur all this peril? Beulah, though it is nobly unselfish in you to

devote yourself to the sick, as you are doing, it may cost you your

life--nay, most probably it will."