The Man from Glengarry: A Tale of the Ottawa. Ralph Connor
“So you will just get the sheets ready to change, and, Kirsty, a clean night-shirt.”
“Night-shirt! and indeed, he has not such a thing to his name.” Kirsty's tone betrayed her thankfulness that her brother was free from the effeminacy of a night-shirt; but noting the dismay and confusion on Mrs. Murray's face, she suggested, hesitatingly, “He might have one of my own, but I am thinking it will be small for him across the back.”
“I am afraid so, Kirsty,” said the minister's wife, struggling hard with a smile. “We will just use one of his own white shirts.” But this scandalized Kirsty as an unnecessary and wasteful luxury.
“Indeed, there is plenty of them in the chist, but he will be keeping them for the communion season, and the funerals, and such. He will not be wearing them in his bed, for no one will be seeing him there at all.”
“But he will feel so much better,” said Mrs. Murray, and her smile was so sweet and winning that Kirsty's opposition collapsed, and without more words both sheets and shirt were produced.
As Kirsty laid them out she observed with a sigh: “Aye, aye, she was the clever woman—the wife, I mean. She was good with the needle, and indeed, at anything she tried to do.”
“I did not know her,” said Mrs. Murray, softly, “but every one tells me she was a good housekeeper and a good woman.”
“She was that,” said Kirsty, emphatically, “and she was the light of his eyes, and it was a bad day for Hugh when she went away.”
“Now, Kirsty,” said Mrs. Murray, after a pause, “before we put on these clean things, we will just give him a sponge bath.”
Kirsty gasped.
“Mercy sakes! He will not be needing that in the winter, and he will be getting a cold from it. In the summer-time he will be going to the river himself. And how will you be giving him a bath whatever?”
Mrs. Murray carefully explained the process, again fortifying her position by referring to the practices of the Montreal hospital, till, as a result of her persuasions and instructions, in an hour after Macdonald had awakened from his sleep he was lying in his Sabbath white shirt and between fresh sheets, and feeling cleaner and more comfortable than he had for many a day. The fever was much reduced, and he fell again into a deep sleep.
The two women watched beside him, for neither would leave the other to watch alone. And Ranald, who could not be persuaded to go up to his loft, lay on the bunk in the kitchen and dozed. After an hour had passed, Mrs. Murray inquired as to the nourishment Kirsty had given her brother.
“Indeed, he will not be taking anything whatever,” said Kirsty, in a vexed tone. “And it is no matter what I will be giving him.”
“And what does he like, Kirsty?”
“Indeed, he will be taking anything when he is not seek, and he is that fond of buckwheat pancakes and pork gravy with maple syrup over them, but would he look at it! And I made him new porridge to-night, but he would not touch them.”
“Did you try him with gruel, Kirsty?”
“Mercy me, and is it Macdonald Dubh and gruel? He would be flinging the 'feushionless' stuff out of the window.”
“But I am sure it would be good for him if he could be persuaded to try it. I should like to try him.”
“Indeed, and you may try. It will be easy enough, for the porridge are still in the pot.”
Kirsty took the pot from the bench, with the remains of the porridge that had been made for supper still in it, set it on the fire, and pouring some water in it, began to stir it vigorously. It was thick and slimy, and altogether a most repulsive-looking mixture, and Mrs. Murray no longer wondered at Macdonald Dubh's distaste for gruel.
“I think I will make some fresh, if you will let me, Kirsty—in the way I make it for the minister, you know.”
Kirsty, by this time, had completely surrendered to Mrs. Murray's guidance, and producing the oatmeal, allowed her to have her way; so that when Macdonald awoke he found Mrs. Murray standing beside him with a bowl of the nicest gruel and a slice of thin dry toast.
He greeted the minister's wife with grave courtesy, drank the gruel, and then lay down again to sleep.
“Will you look at that now?” said Kirsty, amazed at Macdonald Dubh's forbearance. “He would not like to be offending you.”
Then Mrs. Murray besought Kirsty to go and lie down for an hour, which Kirsty very unwillingly agreed to do.
It was not long before Macdonald began to toss and mutter in his sleep, breaking forth now and then into wild cries and curses. He was fighting once more his great fight in the Glengarry line, and beating back LeNoir.
“Back, ye devil! Would ye? Take that, then. Come back, Mack!” Then followed a cry so wild that Ranald awoke and came into the room.
“Bring in some snow, Ranald,” said the minister's wife; “we will lay some on his head.”
She bathed the hot face and hands with ice-cold water, and then laid a snow compress on the sick man's head, speaking to him in quiet, gentle tones, till he was soothed again to sleep.
When the gray light of the morning came in through the little window, Macdonald woke sane and quiet.
“You are better,” said Mrs. Murray to him.
“Yes,” he said, “I am very well, thank you, except for the pain here.” He pointed to his chest.
“You have been badly hurt, Ranald tells me. How did it happen?”
“Well,” said Macdonald, slowly, “it is very hard to say.”
“Did the tree fall on you?” asked Mrs. Murray.
Macdonald glanced at her quickly, and then answered: “It is very dangerous work with the trees. It is wonderful how quick they will fall.”
“Your face and breast seem very badly bruised and cut.”
“Aye, yes,” said Macdonald. “The breast is bad whatever.”
“I think you had better send for Doctor Grant,” Mrs. Murray said. “There may be some internal injury.”
“No, no,” said Macdonald, decidedly. “I will have no doctor at me, and I will soon be round again, if the Lord will. When will the minister be home?”
But Mrs. Murray, ignoring his attempt to escape the subject, went on: “Yes, but, Mr. Macdonald, I am anxious to have Doctor Grant see you, and I wish you would send for him to-morrow.”
“Ah, well,” said Macdonald, not committing himself, “we will be seeing about that. But the doctor has not been in this house for many a day.” Then, after a pause, he added, in a low voice, “Not since the day she was taken from me.”
“Was she ill long?”
“Indeed, no. It was just one night. There was no doctor, and the women could not help her, and she was very bad—and when it came it was a girl—and it was dead—and then the doctor arrived, but he was too late.” Macdonald Dubh finished with a great sigh, and the minister's wife said gently to him:
“That was a very sad day, and a great loss to you and Ranald.”
“Aye, you may say it; she was a bonnie woman whatever, and grand at the spinning and the butter. And, oich-hone, it was a sad day for us.”
The minister's wife sat silent, knowing that such grief cannot be comforted, and pitying from her heart the lonely man. After a time she said gently, “She is better off.”
A look of doubt and pain and fear came into Macdonald's eyes.
“She never came forward,” he said, hesitatingly. “She was afraid to come.”