KITTY SHOWS THE STRENGTH OF HER CHARACTER.
THE stroke of calamity which had fallen on her home roused Hilda Bland
to an awful sense of the realities of life. She had been living in
selfish dreams, nursing a sickly sentimentalism, with the assurance
that she was altogether an exceptional being, exceptionally high-strung
and sensitive, and wrapped in a misery which no one could understand.
Self-pity had combined with self-admiration to blind her to the fact
that there were other sorrows in the world besides her own. She had
seen herself a patient sufferer, misconceived, slighted, unpitied; one
singled out by fate for the endowment of peculiar sorrow.
And all the while she had been as one who dreams of storms in his
warmly curtained bed. But now a real blast had awakened her to a
sudden, pained perception of what human life is in a world where death
and pain and loss are God's ministers to man.
There was nothing romantic in the blow that had shattered their happy
home life. Hilda's heart sickened within her at the thought of the
terrible injury, of the faint chance that Kitty would survive it, and
the almost certain consequence that the life, if preserved, would be a
helpless, maimed existence. And to think that on Kitty, of all persons,
such a doom should fall—Kitty, always so full of life and energy, who
liked to try her strength in every form of exercise, who never seemed
to feel fatigue.
It was impossible to associate pain and helplessness with Kitty. Yet
Hilda knew that many another bright young life had been blighted by a
similar catastrophe. Such trials had been, and would be again. And it
was vain to risk the why and wherefore.
"It is God's will," her mother was able to whisper in the midst of her
anguish; but to Hilda that thought could yield no support. She had not
learned to trust the will that embraces and controls all human life.
If it were God's will so to afflict Kitty, then God was regardless of
human agony, she said to herself.
Despite her cherished desire to become a nurse, Hilda was at first of
little use in the sick-room. She lacked the nerve and self-control
demanded of one who would serve there. But she was hardly needed, for
nothing would induce Mrs. Bland to quit the bedside. Without flinching
outwardly, she stood at her post, helping the surgeons, watching,
waiting, praying, until the hour when the experienced surgeon summoned
from London for consultation assured her that the patient would
live—would live—guarding himself from using any expression that should
convey the idea of restoration to health.
But at first it seemed enough to know that Kitty would not die. There
was room for hope to flourish if life were granted. With tears in
her eyes, Hilda told the good news to Aldyth, who came every day to
see her, and was her chief comfort in this season of sorrow. Aldyth
made the most of each gleam of hope, though in the background of her
mind was the drear probability which the gossips of Woodham, finding
something not unpleasantly thrilling in the contemplation of Kitty's
crippled life, had decided must be the result of her accident.
"Mr. Russell Smith is coming down again in a few weeks' time," Hilda
said. "Meanwhile it is such a comfort to know that the worst danger is
over."
"And Kitty is conscious now?" Aldyth said.
"Yes, she knows us. We cannot tell how much she can remember. She gave
me such a faint sad little smile this morning—it made me cry—and she
said to mother, 'Cheer up, mother; I am not going to die.'"
"Does she suffer pain?"
"Terrible pain. They give her morphia to deaden it; but even so she
suffers. I see her clench her hands and bite her lips to keep from
crying out. She is so brave, poor Kitty!"
"Yes, she was always brave," said Aldyth.
"Oh, if this had happened to me, I could understand it," exclaimed
Hilda, bursting into tears. "I deserve to suffer—I have led such a
selfish, idle life. What were my troubles, after all? I was strong
and well, and could enjoy everything; but to be stricken down like
Kitty—oh, it is terrible!"
"Gladys cannot forgive herself because she led Kitty into danger," said
Aldyth. "She feels it very much."
"I dare say; I keep thinking of how easily it all might have been
prevented; and I know mother must reproach herself bitterly for
yielding her consent to the hunting. But it is of no good to dwell on
that now."
"No; it is too late," said Aldyth, sadly, as she rose to take her
departure.
"Must you go?" said Hilda, clinging to her. "Well, it is good of you
to come. Give my love to Gladys, and tell her she must not be hard on
herself."
"Thank you. She and mother are going to London on Thursday to spend a
few weeks. I trust the change will do them both good, for mother needs
it as much as Gladys. She sleeps so badly, and is losing her appetite.
I want her to consult a physician, but she declares that a doctor can
do her no good."
"No doubt the change will set her up. So you will be alone; I am
selfishly glad, for I hope to see the more of you."
"Auntie will be with me a great deal, but of course I shall often be at
Woodham. Indeed, I cannot keep away now; I am always thinking of Kitty."
Miss Lorraine was pleased to stay at Wyndham with Aldyth whilst her
mother was away. She was not a frequent visitor there at other times.
She could chat more freely with her niece in her own home. She had
never felt much affection for Mrs. Stanton, and often found her
patience and tolerance severely tried when in her company. It vexed
her to see how completely Mrs. Stanton made herself mistress of her
daughter's house. Her tastes, her wishes ruled everything. The servants
instinctively appealed to her on every matter; Aldyth's reign was
merely nominal.
"I would not stand it, if I were Aldyth," Miss Lorraine would say
to herself, perfectly aware, however, that this state of things was
exactly what Aldyth desired. She never dreamed of maintaining her
rights in opposition to her mother; the home was for her mother, and
her pleasure, her comfort should be the chief consideration; she was
ready to defer to her wishes in every possible way. But if a question
of duty were involved, Aldyth could hold her own. When her mother
denounced Aldyth's scheme for establishing a country home for factory
girls as "Quixotic in the extreme, and an absurd waste of money," her
words had surprisingly little effect.
"I am sorry you think it absurd, mamma," Aldyth said, calmly; "but
I mean to try how the plan will work. I could not feel at ease in
possessing so much if I made no effort to share my good things with
some of my less fortunate sisters."
"I think you have managed to share them pretty considerably already,"
said Gladys, who was present. "I do not believe your old uncle would
have left you Wyndham if he could have foreseen that we should all come
and live here. Certainly you inherited it by rather a fluke, for Guy
says he is sure that Mr. Lorraine meant to make another will."
"It is very bad taste of Guy to name such a thing to you. I wonder you
let him!" cried Mrs. Stanton, with sudden passion in her voice.
"Oh, there was no harm in it," said Gladys, carelessly.
Aldyth looked at her mother in surprise.
Her eyes were ablaze, a crimson spot burned in each cheek, the hands
which held her work trembled visibly. She met her daughter's wondering
glance, and quailed before it. For a moment she could almost imagine
that Aldyth read her guilty secret. She shuddered at the very thought
of such a thing. It would be dreadful if Aldyth were to discover what
she had done. Would it be better to make discovery impossible by
destroying the will? From that hour, her mother left Aldyth free to
spend her money as she would, carefully refraining from any comment
that might provoke discussion of Aldyth's inheritance or her uncle's
possible intentions.
By the end of March, the Cottage was in a habitable condition. And
whilst her mother was absent, Aldyth busied herself, with her aunt's
assistance, in fitting it up for the reception of her guests. It was
pleasant work. Aldyth loved to imagine what would be the sensations of
certain of those toil-worn working girls from the East-end, when they
found themselves amidst the green fields and copses of Wyndham.
But ever her heart was shadowed by the thought of Kitty Bland. Her
condition did not greatly improve. Again the eminent London surgeon
was summoned to give his opinion. His words fell heavily on the hearts
of Kitty's friends; yet he did not withhold all hope. The spine had
received serious, perhaps permanent injury; but it was possible that
Nature, aided by every means science could suggest, might in time
effect a cure. Just possible, that was all; and no one could say how
long the cure might be in progress. Only the faintest thread of hope to
cling to amidst the present certainty of pain and helplessness.
Aldyth was deeply grieved when Hilda told her the state of the case.
How could Kitty bear it?
"Does she know?" asked Aldyth.
"Yes; she insisted on knowing what the surgeon had said. Mother could
hardly bear to tell her, but she took it so quietly; she even tried to
smile, and said, in somewhat of her old funny way: 'You have me safe
now, mother; I can never run away from you again.'"
"What a spirit she has!" said Aldyth.
"Ah, indeed! But you know I almost wish she would give way; it must be
a terrible strain to bear up as she does, for I can see that her heart
is breaking the while. It is for the sake of mother. Kitty was always
so good to mother. She would like to see you, Aldyth; she said so this
morning."
"Then I should like to see her," said Aldyth, but not without a sense
of inward shrinking.
Hilda went away, but returned almost immediately to say that Kitty
wished to see Aldyth at once.
"I am not to come in," Hilda said, as she opened the bedroom door.
"Kitty wants to have you to herself."
A folding screen stood near the door. Aldyth had to advance to the
other side of it ere she saw Kitty. Then she received a painful thrill.
The pale, worn face, with its strained look of suffering, was so unlike
the face of her old friend; the eyes, unnaturally large and dark in
contrast to the shrunken features, met hers with a pathetic appeal for
sympathy.
Kitty's lips moved, but no sound passed them. The sight of Aldyth was
too much. Emotion could no longer be suppressed. A sudden rush of tears
made speech impossible.
"Kitty!" was all Aldyth could say.
Then she cast herself on her knees beside the bed, clasping Kitty's
hand and showering kisses on it.
Mrs. Bland's knitting lay upon a chair. It was well that she had
been called away. Kitty's overburdened heart was relieving itself by
passionate sobs; the tears rained down her cheeks as fast as Aldyth
could wipe them away. Aldyth had no words to give her, only tears and
kisses; but these were not without power to soothe. Gradually the storm
passed. Kitty made an effort to quiet her sobs.
"Forgive me, Aldyth," she said brokenly. "You cannot know what it is."
"No, I cannot know," Aldyth's words faltered too; "but I feel for you
so much."
"I know you do. Every one feels for me; I almost wish they did not. If
I could cry out, it would be easier, but I cannot give way for their
sake. It is hard enough for mother as it is."
"It is brave of you to bear it so, Kitty."
"Brave! Oh, Aldyth, you do not know; if you could read my heart, you
would not call me brave. I have no courage to face the future. Always
to be like this!"
"Not always, I trust. Remember, there is hope."
"I dare not cherish that hope," said Kitty, mournfully. "No; it is best
to say always. I do not suppose it makes much difference to a prisoner,
when the door of his prison closes on him, whether his imprisonment is
for life or a long term of years."
"It must be good to hope," said Aldyth; "there will be alleviations."
"Will there? Oh, you mean that I may perhaps be wheeled about on an
invalid couch, now to this room, and now to that, and taken into the
garden once in a while. I! Who used to go anywhere and do anything.
Aldyth, I cannot bear it!"
"Strength will be given you, dear Kitty. And you have always been so
brave."
"Ah, but this requires a different sort of courage. Aldyth, did I ever
tell you that when we were in Brittany we saw the old castle where the
'Lady of La Garraye' lived? Mrs. Lancaster bought the book, and I read
it. The sad story made such an impression on me. I remember thinking on
that bright morning, as we rambled about in the neighbourhood of the
old castle, what a terrible thing it would be to have all the happiness
swept out of one's life in that manner. Health, beauty, strength—all
gone in a day! I felt that I could not bear it; and now it has come to
me."
"If I remember rightly, the end of the story was not sad, Kitty,"
Aldyth said.
"No; she became resigned to the will of God; she found peace," Kitty
said tremulously. "Oh, Aldyth, it is easy to talk of resignation when
one is not tried."
"Yes, indeed; I have no right to speak of it," said Aldyth; "but—"
"Go on," said Kitty, as she hesitated: "say anything you like to me,
Aldyth; I know you only want to help me."
"I was thinking that resignation is often the highest courage. To bear
pain and weakness and loss of freedom with fortitude is a proof of
bravery in no degree inferior to his who wins the Victoria Cross. You
have read the 'History of a Short Life,' Kitty?"
"Yes, and I remember. I know what you mean; but I shall hardly win my
Victoria Cross."
"You will; not in your own strength. You are not left to yourself.
Kitty, I shall pray that you may be able to say: 'I can do or bear all
things through Him that strengtheneth me.'"
Kitty gently pressed the hand that still held hers, but did not speak.
Tears were gathering afresh in her eyes, but they were no longer
bitter, hopeless tears. She lay for some time without speaking, and
Aldyth, thinking her exhausted, kept silence also. Their hearts drew
very close to each other, and to the Unseen Presence in the stillness.
Then Mrs. Bland entered, bringing some lovely flowers that a friend had
sent.
Kitty roused herself to admire them. They must be brought close, that
she might enjoy their perfume. She smiled on her mother as she bent
over her. She charged Aldyth with a message for Gladys, then she
whispered in Aldyth's ear as she kissed her—
"Come again soon—come often; you must help me to win my Victoria Cross."
Aldyth readily promised; she was so thankful to see a gleam of comfort
on Kitty's face.
Mrs. Bland crone out of the room with her, and she too begged Aldyth to
come often.
"You have done her good," she said; "she has opened her heart to you,
and it has relieved her. But it is wonderful how she bears it. Such
courage, such fortitude! She makes me ashamed of myself."
And Aldyth turned away with the thought that Kitty was proving herself
a true heroine, although she had passed for a commonplace mortal.