Sick-a-Bed Lady

Hallowell Abbott Eleanor

Description

Fans of charming domestic dramas in the vein of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women will love Eleanor Hallowell Abbott's short story collection The Sick-a-Bed Lady. Filled with industrious heroines, resilient families, and budding romance, these inspiring tales provide a delightful diversion for readers young and old.

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juillet 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775459149
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE SICK-A-BED LADY
AND OTHER TALES
* * *
ELEANOR HALLOWELL ABBOTT
 
*
The Sick-a-Bed Lady And Other Tales First published in 1911 ISBN 978-1-77545-914-9 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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The Sick-a-Bed Lady Hickory Dock The Very Tired Girl The Happy-Day The Runaway Road Something that Happened in October The Amateur Lover Heart of the City The Pink Sash Woman's Only Business
The Sick-a-Bed Lady
*
THE Sick-A-Bed Lady lived in a huge old-fashioned mahogany bedstead,with solid silk sheets, and three great squashy silk pillows edged withfluffy ruffles. On a table beside the Sick-A-Bed Lady was a tiny little,shiny little bell that tinkled exactly like silver raindrops on a goldenroof, and all around this Lady and this Bedstead and this Bell was abig, square, shadowy room with a smutty fireplace, four small panedwindows, and a chintzy wall-paper showered profusely with high-handledbaskets of lavender flowers over which strange green birds hoveredlanguidly.
The Sick-A-Bed Lady, herself, was as old as twenty, but she did not lookmore than fifteen with her little wistful white face against the creamypillows and her soft brown hair braided in two thick pigtails and tiedwith great pink bows behind each ear.
When the Sick-A-Bed Lady felt like sitting up high against her pillows,she could look out across the footboard through her opposite window. Nowthrough that opposite window was a marvelous vista—an old-fashionedgarden, millions of miles of ocean, and then—France! And when the windwas in just the right direction there was a perfectly wonderful smell tobe smelled—part of it was Cinnamon Pink and part of it wasSalt-Sea-Weed, but most of it, of course, was—France. There were daysand days, too, when any one with sense could feel that the waves beatperkily against the shore with a very strong French accent, and that allone's French verbs, particularly " J'aime , Tu aimes , Il aime ," werecoming home to rest. What else was there to think about in bed but funnythings like that?
It was the Old Doctor who had brought the Sick-A-Bed Lady to the bigwhite house at the edge of the Ocean, and placed her in the cool, quaintroom with its front windows quizzing dreamily out to sea, and its sidewindows cuddled close to the curving village street. It was a long,tiresome, dangerous journey, and the Sick-A-Bed Lady in feverish fancyhad moaned: "I shall die, I shall die, I shall die ," every step of theway, but, after all, it was the Old Doctor who did the dying! Just likea snap of the finger he went at the end of two weeks, and theSick-A-Bed Lady rallied to the shock with a plaintive: "Seems to me hewas in an awful hurry," and fell back on her soft bed into days ofunconsciousness that were broken only by riotous visions day and nightof an old man rushing frantically up to a great white throne yelling:"One, two, three, for Myself!"
Out of this trouble the Sick-A-Bed Lady woke one day to find herselfquite alone and quite alive. She had often felt alone before, but it wasa long time since she had felt alive. The world seemed very pleasant.The flowers on the wall-paper were still unwilted, and the green paperbirds hung airily without fatigue. The room was full of the mostenticing odor of cinnamon pinks, and by raising herself up in bed themerest trifle she could get a smell of good salt, a smell which somehowyou couldn't get unless you actually saw the Ocean, but just as shewas laboriously tugging herself up an atom higher, trying to find theteeniest, weeniest sniff of France, everything went suddenly black andsilver before her eyes, and she fell down, down, down, as much as fortymiles into Nothing At All.
When she woke up again all limp and wappsy there was a Young Man's Faceon the Footboard of the bed; just an isolated, unconnected sort of facethat might have blossomed from the footboard, or might have been merelya mirage on the horizon. Whatever it was, though, it kept staring ather fixedly, balancing itself all the while most perfectly on its chin.It was a funny sight, and while the Sick-A-Bed Lady was puckering herforehead trying to think out what it all meant the Young Man's Facesmiled at her and said " Boo! " and the Sick-A-Bed Lady tiptilted herchin weakly and said—"Boo yourself !" Then the Sick-A-Bed Lady fellinto her fearful stupor again, and the Young Man's Face ran home as fastas it could to tell its Best Friend that the Sick-A-Bed Lady had spokenher first sane word for five weeks. He thought it was a splendidvictory, but when he tried to explain it to his friend, he found that"Boo yourself !" seemed a fatuous proof of so startling a truth, andwas obliged to compromise with considerable dignity on the statement:"Well, of course, it wasn't so much what she said as the way she saidit."
For days and days that followed, the Sick-A-Bed Lady was conscious ofnothing except the Young Man's Face on the footboard of the bed. Itnever seemed to wabble, it never seemed to waver, but just stayed thereperfectly balanced on the point of its chin, watching her gravely withits blue, blue eyes. There was a cleft in its chin, too, that you couldhave stroked with your finger if—you could have. Of course, there weresome times when she went to sleep, and some times when she just seemedto go out like a candle, but whenever she came back from anything there was always the Young Man's Face for comfort.
The Sick-A-Bed Lady was so sick that she thought all over her bodyinstead of in her head, so that it was very hard to concentrate anyparticular thought in her mouth, but at last one afternoon with a mightystruggle she opened her half-closed eyes, looked right in the YoungMan's Face and said: "Got any arms?"
The Young Man's Face nodded perfectly politely, and smiled as he raisedtwo strong, lean hands to the edge of the footboard, and hunched hisshoulders obligingly across the sky line.
"How do you feel?" he asked very gently.
Then the Sick-A-Bed Lady knew at once that it was the Young Doctor, andwondered why she hadn't thought of it before.
"Am I pretty sick?" she whispered deferentially.
"Yes—I think you are very pretty —sick," said the Young Doctor, andhe towered up to a terrible, leggy height and laughed joyously, thoughthere was almost no sound to his laugh. Then he went over to the windowand began to jingle small bottles, and the Sick-A-Bed Lady lay andwatched him furtively and thought about his compliment, and wondered whywhen she wanted to smile and say "Thank you" her mouth should shuttight and her left foot wiggle, instead.
When the Young Doctor had finished jingling bottles, he came and satdown beside her and fed her something wet out of a cool spoon, which sheswallowed and swallowed and swallowed, feeling all the while like a verysick brown-eyed dog that couldn't wag anything but the far-away tip ofits tail. When she got through swallowing she wanted very much to standup and make a low bow, but instead she touched the warm little end ofher tongue to the Young Doctor's hand. After that, though, for quite afew minutes her brain felt clean and tidy, and she talked quitepleasantly to the Young Doctor: "Have you got any bones in your arms?"she asked wistfully.
"Why, yes, indeed," said the Young Doctor, "rather more than the usualnumber of bones. Why?"
"I'd give my life," said the Sick-A-Bed Lady, "if there were bones in mysilky pillows." She faltered a moment and then continued bravely: "Wouldyou mind—holding me up stiff and strong for a second? There's no bottomto my bed, there's no top to my brain, and if I can't find a hard edgeto something I shall topple right off the earth. So would you mindholding me like an edge for a moment—that is—if there's no lady tocare? I'm not a little girl," she added conscientiously—"I'm twentyyears old."
So the Young Doctor slipped over gently behind her and lifted her limpform up into the lean, solid curve of his arm and shoulder. It wasn'texactly a sumptuous corner like silken pillows, but it felt as glad asthe first rock you strike on a life-swim for shore, and the Sick-A-BedLady dropped right off to sleep sitting bolt upright, wondering vaguelyhow she happened to have two hearts, one that fluttered in the usualplace, and one that pounded rather noisily in her back somewhere betweenher shoulder-blades.
On his way home that day the Young Doctor stopped for a long while athis Best Friend's house to discuss some curious features of the Case.
"Anything new turned up?" asked the Best Friend.
"Nothing," said the Young Doctor, pulling moodily at his cigar.
"Well, it certainly beats me ," exclaimed the Best Friend, "how anylong-headed, shrewd old fellow like the Old Doctor could have brought araving fever patient here and installed her in his own house under thatclumsy Old Housekeeper without once mentioning to any one who the girlwas, or where to communicate with her people. Great Heavens, the OldDoctor knew what a poor 'risk' he was. He knew absolutely that thatheart of his would burst some day like a firecracker."
"The Old Doctor never was very communicative," mused the Young Doctor,with a slight grimace that might have suggested professional memoriesnot strictly pleasant. "But I'll surely never forget him as long asether exists," he added whimsically. "Why, you'd have thought the oldchap invented ether—you'd have thought he ate it, drank it, bathed init. I hope the smell of my profession will never be the only part ofit I'm w