# The Frobishers/Chapter 7

JULIE
"My daughter Julie, Miss Frobisher."
A young lady entered, dressed as a hospital nurse. She had an oval face, abundant glossy dark hair, that swelled out from under her bonnet, her mother's clear brown eyes, like drops of crystal water over agates, and rather thick dark eyebrows. There was strength in her build, decision in her tread. A look was sufficient. Joan knew that she would like her—indeed, she liked her instinctively already.
"Another of my audacities," said Mrs. Beaudessart. "I made Julie come with me in the hopes of getting you to meet."
"Miss Frobisher, I see, was just about to leave you, mamma," said Julie; "if she does not object, I will stroll with her for a few minutes wherever she is going."
"I am going home—I mean," with a slight flush, "to Pendabury."
"I will accompany you part of the way—if you will allow me," said the nurse.
Joan bowed. She was not desirous of company. She had no wish to extend acquaintance with more of the Beaudessart family—but she could not refuse, and she was drawn towards this girl. Moreover, the thought traversed her brain that, other schemes failing, she herself might seek means of self-support in nursing, although her sister might be unfitted for such a career.
She said, "It will be a real pleasure to me."
As the two girls passed through the gates into the park—for park the grounds might well be designated, though containing no deer—Joan glanced with a transient, and, as she felt, unworthy suspicion at her companion, to see if she were observant of the dignity of the approach to the mansion. But Julie was not looking about her—she kept her eyes on the ground.
"Have you long been engaged in nursing?" asked Joan.
"For three years—that is the time since I entered on probation in a hospital."
"Now, I presume, you will give it up?"
"Oh no! I could not do so."
"Why not? There can now be no necessity for it."
"There has been no pecuniary necessity hitherto. Our means were sufficient without my doing any work. But—there are other necessities that make the work one I cannot abandon."
"I do not comprehend."
"May I tell you a little story of my childhood?"
The clear brown eyes were turned on Joan and met hers, eyes that were limpid wells, at the bottom of which truth must lie.
"It is not much of a story. It would be better to describe it as an incident. Yet it was one that determined the whole course of my life."
"Then it was a first chapter in a story that is slowly unfolding."
"I suppose so. It is nothing in itself—except to me, and to me everything. When I was a little girl at Montreal, my bedroom was at the back of the house, and overlooked a small yard or garden, beyond which was the back of another house, with windows looking into the same yard or garden. In a room that had a window opposite was a woman dying of cancer. All night long there was a candle in her room, and it cast a reflection through my window upon the wall, a little patch of faded yellow light, yet sufficient to tell me, as I lay in bed, that there was someone sick and suffering over against me, across the yard. I did not know at first why a light was always burning in that upper room, but after a while my mother mentioned it, yet not all the particulars. These I learned from some of the maidservants. If I had spoken about the light, they would have removed me to another room, but so soon as I knew why it was there I could not have endured to be taken elsewhere. I became accustomed to lie awake thinking of the sick woman and praying for her. And then, after a while, all night long she moaned, and I could hear her moans. I doubt if she ever slept. If I did, and woke up, I heard her moans again. Sometimes during the day I went into the yard. I heard them in the day. I believe that I became white and worn from want of sleep and fretting over that woman and her terrible pains. My mother did not know what was the matter with me, and I would not tell her, lest she should insist on my removal to another apartment. I should have suffered more elsewhere, knowing that the poor creature was in pain and moaning, and I unable to hear her, and that the light was shining from her window and that I could not see it. I had many and many a cry about that suffering woman. Can you believe it? I once did a very daring thing. I went to the house, without telling my mother, and knocked and asked to be allowed to go up into the sickroom and kiss her. They would not permit me. At last she died—and the light went out."
"And that determined your vocation?" said Joan gravely.
"It did."
"It would have mine—I think—I—I hope,' said Joan. "But I have never met with any real case of great suffering. Goody Brash once swallowed a paper of pins, and she is always fussing about them, and sending for brandy, because they hurt her. They are all over her system,"
"I was a little thing of thirteen then," said Julie, "but I never have had any other thought since at the bottom of my heart, but to do all I could to help those who suffer, and to comfort those in pain. Now do you see? It matters nothing to me if my brother be rich. I must be a nurse. Do you remember what the apostle says, 'Woe is me if I preach not the gospel'? If he had cast aside his work and lapsed into lazy ways and gone into easy quarters, would he have been happy? Woe is me if I do not minister to those in anguish. Have you seen a little skiff when the wind fills the sail, and away it goes, cutting the water? It seems inspired with a life it knew not when rocking listlessly, moored to the quay. So it is with me; a breath, a wind of love swells my heart and carries me forward. I cannot help myself I must go on."
The girls walked on side by side in silence for some way. Presently Joan said—
"My sister was speaking to me, not half an hour ago, about becoming a nurse. She wished it, but I myself do not consider that she has any real call to, or aptitude for the life."
"It is with the nurse as with the priest," said Julie. "There are many quite qualified to do the hack work of the profession; but then, the nurse and the priest with a vocation, that is something other, it is a soul-absorbing, life-consuming passion, the passion of pity. If your sister be a strong, brave girl, if she has a sunny spirit, by all means let her go into the hospital wards. But to be a real nurse she must be a sister in heart, a sister to everyone whose nerves are wrung; she must weep with those who weep, and her heart must bleed with those who bleed."
"How can you be happy in such a life?"
"Happy!"
Julie turned her face on Joan, and the sunshine seemed to be in it.
"I remember," said the nurse, "reading a story of St. Patrick. He had been a slave boy keeping swine in the oak woods of Ulster in cold and nakedness. He ran away, and managed to get to France; but always he seemed to hear the cry of the little slave boys in Ireland calling to him, 'Come over and help us.'"
They had reached that point whence the house appeared in sight. Julie turned abruptly and said—
"I must go back to my mother. I am not often with her now, and when I am, I do not like to leave her side."
"I will retrace the way with you," said Joan. Both turned.
"You have met my brother, I hear," said Julie.
"Yes. How does he approve of your being a nurse?"
"Not at all. Our dear father had some old-fashioned English prejudices which he retained in the New World. Although he himself was compelled by circumstances to be in business, yet he never took to it with zest, and he was firmly resolved that Hector should not—as he termed it—soil his hands with trade. So he sent him to Eton, provided him with money, and brought him up to be, what he is, a light-hearted, gracious young man, of blameless life, and living for his pleasures. But one is not compelled to fashion one's life to suit a brother's fancies. I chose my own line. I could not do other. I find no fault with Hector; he did not hear that woman's moans. You cannot answer a call till you have been called."
Again they proceeded in silence. Presently Julie said—
"You must be sad at heart leaving this beautiful place, where you have been so happy."
"Yes, I am sorry."
Then neither spoke for a while.
"I am sorry especially," said Joan, "that I shall not now have the chance of seeing more of you."
"But," answered Julie, "I shall not be here. My home and my work are where things are not smooth and cheerful, but in a world of woes and tears."
"If"—said Joan, and ceased.
"What would you say?"
"If," she recommenced, thus encouraged, "If at any time I should cry out to you, 'Come over and help me!' will you come?"
"I give you my word."
"I shall hold you to it!" And the girls clasped hands.