Читать книгу The Preacher's Bride - Laurie Kingery - Страница 10

Chapter Two

“Summon me if there’s any change, Miss Faith,” Dr. Walker instructed her, his hand on the doorknob. “If the quality of his breathing changes, or he seems feverish, or becomes restless...”

“Or if he wakes?” Faith asked, determined to be hopeful.

“I admire your positive attitude, Miss Faith,” Walker said. “Yes, call me if he wakes.” It was clear he didn’t expect that to happen, however. “Our bedroom is just beyond that wall,” he said, pointing. “Just knock on it and I’ll hear you. I’m a light sleeper, and I’m often wakeful anyway if I have a seriously ill patient here, so I’ll probably come and check on him once or twice.”

Faith nodded, and he closed the door behind him. For a while she busied herself with straightening the crisp sheets and light blanket over the preacher’s slight form, checking the slow, steady pulse at his wrist and watching his chest rise, but at last she settled herself in the cane-bottom rocker. The wind sighed around the building, and the old house creaked back in reply.

She’d brought a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets to keep her company through the long hours of the night, for she’d known there would be little else to do to help her stay awake. Caroline Wallace had praised it and lent it to her, but she found the antique language of the poetry slow going and the flickering lamp light soporific. Her schoolteacher friend must certainly have an elevated intellect to penetrate the irregular spellings and obsolete words, Faith thought. If she persisted in trying to read it, though, she’d fall asleep, despite the still-warm cup of black coffee she sipped.

After a while she laid the slender leather-bound volume aside and walked quietly to the window that faced Fannin Street. A full moon hung low behind the church, bathing it and the parsonage in its ethereal glow.

The windows were dark at the parsonage. Was Gil sleeping or was he keeping a prayer vigil on his knees, beseeching his God to spare his father? She hoped the former—he would need his strength, regardless of the outcome of his father’s illness. It would do little good to wear himself out pleading with a deity who either wasn’t there, or if he was, had never given Faith much evidence that he cared.

She looked back at the unconscious man on the bed. What kind of reward was this for a lifetime of faithful service, being stricken at his pulpit, in front of his son and the entire congregation? Now, if nothing changed and his heart continued to beat, he would die a lingering death from dehydration and pneumonia, his body withering slowly. What had happened to the brilliant mind that had memorized practically the entire New Testament and psalms and could recite them, chapter and verse? Why hadn’t he been granted the mercy of a peaceful passing in his sleep? If that was how God rewarded His faithful servants, she was wise to want no part of it!

She turned back to check on the preacher, and was astonished to see that his eyes were open and he was gazing at her.

She gasped, hardly able to believe what she saw. “Reverend Chadwick?”

He made no attempt to speak, but the faded old eyes were full of intelligence. He knew her.

“Can you...can you squeeze my hands?” she said, reaching under the covers and grasping his cool, gnarled hands. The right one lay limp and unresponsive in her grasp. She could not be sure she felt an answering pressure from the left, so slight was his effort. He continued to regard her, blinking occasionally, and she could feel appreciation radiating from his eyes.

“I’ll get Dr. Walker,” she said, feeling a rising excitement. “He’ll be so encouraged!” She turned, about to rap on the wall behind her, but looked back one more time.

The old man’s eyelids were once again closed.

“Reverend Chadwick?” she called softly, but there was no response. Gently, she shook the old man’s shoulder. “Reverend Chadwick? Please open your eyes again. Squeeze my hand, sir, please?”

He lay immobile, as if he had never opened his eyes. She sagged back down on the chair, unsure now that she had really seen what she thought she had. Had she forgotten that she had sat down again and perhaps fallen asleep? Had the sight of his opening eyes been but a fleeting dream born of wishful thinking?

Faith was still thoroughly discouraged when Dr. Walker came in to check his patient near dawn. She told him what she thought she’d observed, then watched as he bent to listen with his stethoscope to the old preacher’s heartbeat and his breathing, and check his reflexes.

“Come to the kitchen,” he said, beckoning. “I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

“But...” She glanced back at Reverend Chadwick.

“It will be all right to leave him alone for a little while,” he assured her.

Once they’d reached the kitchen, he spoke again. “It’s best not to speak frankly in front of a patient, even when the patient seems completely comatose,” he explained. “Hearing seems to be the last sense to go. A soldier in my care once came out of a coma and reported everything that was said in his presence while he was supposedly insensible—much to my embarrassment, for I had told another army doctor right at the bedside that I didn’t think the fellow would make it.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Then you believe the reverend’s brief waking was a good sign?” she asked, hopeful again. “You don’t believe I fell asleep and dreamed the whole thing?”

He studied her. “You seem too responsible a lady to let yourself doze,” he said. “It’s quite possible he awoke and knew you. But does it mean that he will recover?” He shrugged. “I couldn’t say as yet. It’s not a bad sign, certainly, but I’ve seen unconscious men have moments of apparent lucidity, then die anyway. We’ll have to see if he wakes again, and I’ll be more hopeful if it lasts this time. We must continue to pray,” he added.

Faith winced inside, but kept silent. If only she believed prayer would do some good.

“I’ll heat water and help you give him a bath,” Dr. Walker said. “Perhaps the stimulation of that will help bring him back to consciousness. And then you’ll go home and get some well-earned rest yourself.”

Faith glanced out the south-facing window, and saw the faint light of dawn.

“The sun’s coming up,” she murmured. “I expect Gil will arrive before long. I imagine it’s been hard for him waiting through the night for news. It would be wonderful if he found his father awake, wouldn’t it?” She wanted to give him that gift—the sight of his father conscious and in his right mind, no matter what other damage the apoplexy had left.

“It would,” he agreed, as he pumped water from the kitchen pump into a deep iron pot. “And I’d have a better idea of his prognosis.” The doctor’s blue eyes held a Yankee shrewdness as he set the pot on the stovetop. “You’re fond of Gil, aren’t you?”

The question had come out of nowhere, and she could not stifle a gasp nor summon a quick denial.

“H-how did you know?” she asked, feeling a telltale flush spreading up her neck.

The corners of the doctor’s mouth quirked upward. “We doctors are trained observers of signs and symptoms, and human behavior,” he said gently. “This is probably not the appropriate time to tease you. But there’s nothing wrong with being fond of a man of such sterling character, and I know my wife wouldn’t mind if I pointed out you’re a kind and generous young lady as well as a pretty one. You might make a very good wife for the young preacher.”

He couldn’t know how wrong he was about that. She bit her lip, not knowing what to say, wondering if Dr. Walker would hint of her feelings to Gil. She cleared her throat, trying to find the right words.

He’d seen her dismay, though, and waved a hand. “I’m sorry, Miss Faith, forgive my frankness. My wife is always telling me I’m so used to dealing in life and death matters that I think I can say anything that pops into my head. It’s none of my business, and I won’t mention it again.”

“No apology is necessary, Doctor,” she said.

Before either of them could say anything else, they heard footsteps, and Sarah appeared in the kitchen, dressed in her wrapper, yawning, her golden hair still confined in its nighttime braid.

“Good morning, dear,” Dr. Walker said, kissing her before he updated her on the events of the night. Faith looked on, wistfully envying the obvious tenderness between husband and wife.

* * *

Gil had slept the sleep of exhaustion despite his anxiety over his father. Now he hesitated on the front step of the parsonage. He stared across at the doctor’s office. What would he find when he crossed the street and entered the doctor’s office? No one had come during the night to tell him matters had worsened, and yet he dreaded seeing his father in the same helpless, insentient condition he’d been in when Gil had reluctantly left him yesterday.

Lord, please give me strength to accept Your will.

“Good morning, Gil,” Sarah said when she opened the door. “Go on in and see your father. My husband and Faith are in there with him.”

Her smile gave Gil the courage to do as she suggested. A surge of hope lightened his steps as he walked forward. The doctor’s wife wouldn’t have smiled if things were still the same, would she?

Faith was just tucking in a fresh sheet at the foot of the bed. His father was propped up on pillows, but Gil couldn’t see his face because Dr. Walker was bent over him, listening to his chest with his stethoscope.

Dr. Walker straightened and turned to greet him, as did Faith. Now Gil could see his father’s face, and saw the gleam of recognition as he saw his son at the door.

“Papa!” Gil cried, and rushed to the bedside, trembling with joy. He sank down by the bed, taking his father’s gnarled, blue-veined hand in one of his, while reaching up to touch his father’s whiskery cheek.

“Good morning, Gil,” Dr. Walker said. “Your father decided to wake up when we were giving him a bath a few minutes ago.”

Tears stung Gil’s eyes as he stared into his father’s face. The hand he held gripped his weakly, and the old man’s attempt at a smile was still droopy on one side, but his eyes radiated the same joyfulness that threatened to overwhelm Gil.

“Can he—” Gil began to ask, then turned back to the old man on the bed. “Can you...talk, Papa?”

“Mmmhh,” his father said, then he shook his head in a clear expression of frustration.

“Give him time, Gil, he only just woke up,” the doctor said with a gentle smile. “We should be very encouraged by that alone.”

“I...I am,” Gil said, smiling back at his father. “I love you, Papa,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m just so glad I’m able to tell you that again.”

His father stared back at him, his eyes also full of love.

“Here, sit down,” Dr. Walker said, indicating the chair at the bedside. “Faith tells me your father woke up briefly during the night, then drifted off into sleep again.”

Gil looked across the bed. There were violet shadows under Faith’s eyes, and she looked weary, but her gaze reflected the same relief and joy he felt.

“Yes, it was so quick I thought I might have imagined it,” she said. “But then when he felt the warm water on his face, his eyes popped open and he’s been awake ever since.”

The old man’s eyes were drifting shut again. Walker beckoned Gil and Faith to the door.

“I’ll see you later, Papa,” Gil whispered, and kissed the top of the old man’s head.

Once in the hallway, Gil asked, “What...what do we do now?”

“He’s been able to drink sips of water,” Dr. Walker said. “Later, I’ll see if he can swallow a little chicken broth. Assuming he can, I’ll want to keep him here another night, then you can take him home.”

“I’ll take good care of him, Doctor,” Gil promised, still hardly believing he was going to get the chance to do so.

“I’m sure you will,” Walker said. “And Faith will help you. She’s agreed to organize the Spinsters’ Club to nurse him. I told you what an excellent job they did during the influenza epidemic.”

“Yes, but he’s my responsibility,” he said, reluctant to obligate Faith and the other young ladies to the care of a sick old man.

“You’ll certainly get plenty of time to fulfill your responsibility to your father,” Walker said. “But it’s going to be too much for just one person. You’ll need help. Until he regains full movement—and there’s no guarantee he will—someone will have to feed him, do his laundry, exercise his limbs, help him learn to speak again—if he can, and that’s by no means certain—help him get out of bed when he’s stronger... And don’t forget, the needs of the congregation will continue. I’m sure the church board will be asking you formally, of course, but unless you’re unwilling, I expect you’ve just become the acting pastor of Simpson Creek Church.”

Gil blinked, raking a hand through his hair distractedly. “I’ve been so worried Papa would die, I hadn’t given it a thought. I suppose you’re right.” He hoped he was equal to the task.

“I’ll get started arranging his nursing care right now, Doctor,” Faith said, heading for the door that led out of the office.

“You’ll do no such thing, Miss Faith,” Walker ordered. “You’ve been up all night, and you’re to go straight to bed, understood? Your organizing can wait till after you’ve slept at least.”

“Yes, sir,” Faith shot back, her grin so sassy that it made both men grin, too. “I’ll see you both later.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Miss Faith,” Gil told her.

Her smile was all the reward he needed. It warmed his soul.

“That’s a good woman,” Dr. Walker said, after the door had closed behind Faith. His gaze locked meaningfully with Gil’s.

The doctor’s message was clear enough. “I believe you’re right, Doctor,” Gil said.

* * *

Before going to bed as Dr. Walker had directed, Faith took a few minutes to update her mother on the reverend’s condition and the need to revive the Spinsters’ Club Nursing Corps. Louisa, her cousin who lived with them now, was not present because she helped Caroline teach, and it was the last day of school.

“Is there anything I can do to help, dear?” Lydia Bennett asked. “Your father and I are so proud of you, the way you’re taking the initiative to help the preacher. At least this time there’s no risk of contagion.”

Faith wished she had her mother’s belief in her father’s pride in her. Unfortunately, she knew differently. But she’d never distress her mother with that truth.

“Mama, you wouldn’t mind if the Spinsters’ Club met here after supper tonight to sign up for their nursing shifts, would you?” she asked, smothering a weary yawn. They would have to teach the new spinsters about their nursing duties, too, she supposed, by pairing those who had never nursed with the ones who’d been in Simpson Creek during the flu.

“Of course you may, Faith. It’s the least we can do to help. I’ll call on the ladies while you’re sleeping and notify them of the meeting. Let’s see, there’s Louisa, Maude, Polly, Ella, Kate, Jane and Hannah. Have I forgotten anyone? There’s fewer of them available than when the epidemic struck...”

“Yes, Sarah, Emily, Bess and Milly are all married now,” Faith mused aloud. “But we should have enough willing helpers among the others, I think. Gil will be able to help his father at night, and if all goes well, Reverend Chadwick will need us less and less...”

If all goes well. There was so much that could happen, even now. In his weakened condition, the old preacher would still be easy prey to pneumonia and other infections. Not for the first time, she wished she believed in prayer. But she might as well aim her thoughts to the dirt, she thought, as believe there was Someone beyond the sky who would hear her.

No one in the Heavens had listened when she had pled for her brother Eddy’s life when he was bitten by a snake. If there was a God, wouldn’t He have listened and spared a small boy? And when she had begged to feel her father’s love again?

She had always wished for the courage to ask the question of Reverend Chadwick. But now he, too, had been struck down, and only time would tell if he survived.