THE LITTLE AUTHOR LADY
"Well, Peace, my dear little Peace, I am afraid the time has come for me
to leave you."
Miss Wayne had entered the sick room noiselessly, and, pausing beside
the wheel-chair, stood looking with tenderly wistful eyes down at the
face of her small charge, who, propped up among her pillows, was
animatedly watching the traffic in the street below.
"O, Miss Wayne," Peace, so engrossed with what she had seen that she did
not catch the significance of the nurse's remark, lifted her bright
shining eyes to the face above her and giggled, "why didn't you come
sooner? You missed the biggest sight of your life. It was _so_ funny!
There was a runaway, and the horse chased across our lawn just as Dr.
Canfield came up the walk. He had his med'cine case in one hand and an
umbrella in the other, and he let out a big yell and began to wave them
both around his head while he danced up and down in front of the horse.
I guess he was trying to keep it out of a garden in the middle of the
yard, but the old beast didn't shoo worth a cent, and the doctor had to
do some lively dodging to get out of its way. He is so short and fat and
pudgy that he did look too funny for anything, hopping around like a
rubber ball and squealing like a pig. He kept a-hollering, 'O, my
cannons, oh, my cannons!' But the horse went straight through the garden
just the same, and now the doctor's down on his knees in the mud digging
up some onions and looking 'em all over carefully."
Miss Wayne's merry laugh joined in with that of her patient, and
following Peace's example, she pressed her face against the window pane
and looked down at the panting, puffing figure on the muddy, trampled
turf below. "It's his cannas," she explained. "He always has an immense
bed of red canna lilies in the center of the lawn every summer. They are
the pride of his heart, and I can imagine what he felt like to have a
team plough through his precious garden. Fortunately, it is so early in
the Spring that the bulbs have not yet sprouted, so I guess there is not
much damage done. 'Canfield's Cannas' is a hospital joke. I wish I could
have seen his encounter with that runaway."
Wiping the mirthful tears from her eyes, she turned to the tiny closet
in the corner of the room, dragged forth a suitcase, and began to take
down some garments from the hooks, preparatory to packing.
"Why, Miss Wayne," cried Peace, her attention attracted by the sound of
the valise on the floor. "Whatever are you doing?"
"Gathering up my scattered belongings ready for departure--"
"Departure!" echoed the child in great dismay. "Why, where are you
going?"
"I have another case, my dear, which needs my attention."
"But you can't go now! You've got me to look after."
"My dear child!" cried the woman in shocked surprise. "Do you mean to
say that no one has told you that I must go?"
"I hain't heard a word about it before," declared the distressed Peace.
"_Why_ do you have to go?"
"You don't need me any longer--"
"But I _want_ you. _Please_ don't go!"
"I must, childie. It is no longer necessary for you to have a special
nurse. Your sister is here almost all the daytime, and you are getting
around splendidly in your wheel-chair."
"But can't folks have special nurses when they don't _need_ them, but
just _want_ them?"
"O, yes, if they have plenty of money so they can afford it, but it is a
needless expense, and as you will have to stay here for many weeks yet,
you surely don't want to make your grandfather pay extra for a special
nurse whose work is done, do you?"
"N--o," Peace reluctantly replied. "But I like you. I--I don't want you
to go--yet."
"I am very glad you feel that way, girlie, but you see how it is, don't
you? Of course, Dr. Campbell won't listen to my going if you insist upon
my staying, but you don't mean to be selfish, I know."
"I don't b'lieve you care," pouted Peace.
"Ah, my child, you can never know how much!" answered the woman with
unexpected warmth; and Peace, convinced, cried contritely, "I didn't
mean that, Miss Wayne, truly. But, oh, how I hate to have you go! It'll
be so lonesome!"
"O, no. You are progressing famously in the handling of your chair, and
now you can carry a little sunshine into the other sick rooms. Lots of
patients will be delighted to see our little canary,--you know that is
what the little lady down the hall has called you ever since she heard
you whistling so merrily the other day."
The thin face brightened. "Yes, it will be lovely to get acquainted with
all these sick folks," she acknowledged, "but that won't make up for
losing you."
Miss Wayne smiled her appreciation of the compliment, as she replied,
"You won't lose me entirely yet. My new case is to be here in the
hospital, too. The ambulance will bring him in this afternoon; so
perhaps you will see quite a little of me for some weeks--days to come."
"O, goody! That will be nice, if I _must_ give you up, to have you still
in the hospital. Who is your new patient?"
"An old, old gentleman who fell on the pavement yesterday and fractured
his hip."
"Does Dr. Dick take care of him?"
"No, he is Dr. Race's patient."
"O, dear! S'posing Dr. Race won't let you come and see me sometimes?"
"Then you come and see me."
"That's so. I can go in my chair, can't I? How nice it is to be able to
get about by yourself again, when it's been so you couldn't for such a
long time!" And Peace rolled the light chair across the floor to watch
the brief process of packing, while she laid eager plans for seeing her
beloved nurse each day.
But she did miss the dear woman very much at first. Being cared for by
general nurses, who must be summoned by bell every time they are needed,
is vastly different from having one special nurse constantly within
call; and Peace felt this difference keenly in spite of Gail's daily
presence. But as Miss Wayne had predicted, she found her wheel-chair a
great diversion and a source of much amusement. It was such fun to be
able to propel one's self along the wide corridors and Peace's natural
curiosity and investigative habit were never so well satisfied as when
she was poking about to see for herself what was happening around her.
Her reputation had preceded her all over the great building, and as soon
as the other invalids learned that she had graduated to a wheel-chair,
they were one and all eager to make her acquaintance; so Peace spent
many happy hours forming friendships among the inmates of Danbury
Hospital. Her sunny disposition seemed contagious, and the nurses
welcomed the sight of her bright face, knowing that she would bring
cheer into their domains if anyone could; for, in spite of her amazing
frankness, there was something quaintly attractive in her speech and
manner that was irresistible, and every heart felt better for having
known her.
One day, as she was gliding noiselessly down the deserted corridor, the
elevator stopped at that floor and another wheel-chair patient rolled
out into view.
"Now why didn't I think of that before," exclaimed Peace to herself.
"The wards are on the third floor and I've never seen them yet. I'm
going up."
To think was to act, and when next the lift stood still at the second
floor, Peace rolled her chair into the iron cage and said in
matter-of-fact tones, "Three."
The operator glared at her suspiciously, but she seemed so cheerfully
unconcerned that he decided she must have permission to visit the wards;
so he closed the iron gate with a clang, and the elevator rose slowly to
the floor above.
As the wheel-chair glided out into the upper corridor, Peace glanced
curiously about her, marvelling to see so many doors closed. Then, as
her sharp eyes spied one door standing open far down the hall, she
started in that direction, but halted at the sound of a stifled sob,
seemingly almost beside her.
Peering into a dim recess by the elevator shaft, which had at one time
evidently been used for a store-room, Peace discovered a figure huddled
forlornly in the corner, weeping disconsolately.
"Why, what's the matter?" cried the brown-eyed girl, her mind flying
back to school days and punishments. "Have you been bad and got stood in
a corner?"
The weeper started violently, dropped her bandaged hands and stared in
frightened wonder at the child before her, but she made no reply, and
again Peace demanded, "What seems to be the trouble?"
"Sh!" hissed the stranger. "Don't yell like that. Come inside if you are
bound to stop. I've run away from my nurse."
"Can _you_ run?"
"Well, walked, then. She left me in the sun-parlor, b--but I can't
s--stay there with everyone staring and asking q--questions." And again
the tears began to fall.
"Shall I call your nurse?" Peace inquired, uneasy and alarmed at the
vehemence of the older girl's grief.
"No! No! For goodness' sake, no! She won't let me cry, and I've _got_
to, or--or--"
"Bu'st," suggested Peace, nodding her head sympathetically. "Yes, I know
how 'tis. The nurse I had the first time after I was hurt wouldn't let
me cry, either. But this time Miss Wayne never said 'boo,' when I
couldn't hold in any longer. She'd let me have it all out by myself and
then she'd come and tell me a funny story. _She_ had sense."
"I wish Miss Pierson had some. She's always preaching sunshine and
smiles. It's no wonder that girl downstairs can whistle and laugh.
_She's_ got folks to look after her all her life, and money to buy
anything she wants."
"What girl?" asked Peace, with a curious sinking of heart.
"They call her Peace--"
"That's me, I thought 'twas. The d'scription seemed to fit so well."
The stranger drew back aghast, then said bitterly, "I might have known
it."
"Don't you like me?" pleaded the child, feeling that her companion had
grown suddenly antagonistic.
"I--I hate you!"
"But--but--why?" stammered Peace, thunder-struck by this uncompromising
declaration.
"Because you have everything I need, and I can't have anything."
"You have good legs," Peace wistfully whispered.
"And you have good hands," her companion shot forth.
"Hands!" Peace all at once became aware of the bandages which hid that
other pair of hands from sight. "Wh--hat's the matter with yours? Did
you hurt them? Have you got _any_?"
"Apologies!" Her voice was harsh with intense bitterness, her eyes were
dull with despair.
"Apologies?" Peace failed to understand.
"They are useless. I burned them," explained the other hopelessly.
"But won't they _ever_ be any good?" Peace persisted, her eyes wide with
horror.
"No, I can never write again."
"Write?"
"I write stories for a living. It's all I can do when I have to stay at
home with Mother and Benny. And now--God! what is there left for me to
do?"
"You swore."
"I did not."
"Then maybe you prayed. Was it a prayer?"
"I can't pray. It's useless to pray. Those two hands brought in my bread
and butter,--the bread and butter for us three. And now they are
hopelessly crippled. What can I pray for?"
"Your bread and butter."
"Pshaw!" The girl laughed derisively, then broke off abruptly. "You
don't understand," she said in lifeless tones.
"No," Peace agreed, "p'r'aps I don't. 'Twas _my_ feet. How did you come
to burn your hands?"
"Benny upset a lamp, and--I had to put out the fire. He can't run,
either. He is a cripple."
"Oh!" the voice was sharp with distress, and in spite of herself, the
older girl's face softened. "You--you care?" she whispered.
"Of course I care," cried Peace warmly. "Poor little Benny! He is
little, ain't he? He sounds little. Can't you have him cured?"
"Perhaps, if there was any money to pay the bills. But so far, it has
taken every cent I could earn to keep us in food and clothes. I had
hoped my book would be successful and that the royalties would be enough
to take care of us, so the short story money could pay for an
operation. But now I can never finish the book."
"Can't you get a typewriter? You could use one of those, couldn't you?
Grandpa has one for his work at home, and he thumps it with only one
finger on each hand."
"Do you know how much a typewriter costs?" she asked.
"No. Very much?"
"More than I could ever spend for one."
"And there's no one else to help?"
"No one. My father is dead. Benny's mother,--my sister,--is dead. Her
husband is a drunken sot. We turned him out long ago. It was he who
crippled Benny. Poor little Benny! He's only three, and he will never
have a chance with the other boys and girls."
"I've got five dollars," Peace shyly confided. "It's all my own to do as
I please with. I want you to take it. Will it buy a typewriter?"
"O, my, no! They cost heaps of money,--a hundred dollars for a brand new
one of the kind I want. But--but it's real dear of you to offer me your
money. I can't take it, child. I'm not a beggar."
"We weren't beggars in Parker, either; but it came in mighty handy
sometimes to have folks give us things. Course we always tried to _earn_
them if we could, and if you want to _earn_ this money, you might write
me five dollars' worth of stories. Oh, I forgot!" She glanced hastily at
the crippled hands, then averted her eyes. "Truly I did. But you
needn't be snippy about my money. I know what 'tis to be poor."
"You! Why, your grandfather is President of the State University, Miss
Pierson says."
"That's my make-believe grandfather. My truly real one has been dead for
ages. Then papa died, and fin'ly mother, which left us to dig for
ourselves. We were worse off than you, 'cause there were six of us and
not one knew how to write stories for money. I guess we'd all have
starved to death or gone to the poor farm if Grandpa hadn't come along
just about that time." Before Peace was aware of it, she had poured out
the whole history of the little brown house in Parker, while the other
crippled girl listened spellbound.
"What a plot for a book!" she sighed ecstatically when the narrator had
finished. "And what a picture for one of the characters!" She fell to
studying Peace with a new interest in her heart.
"O, do you mean to write us up in a book?" cried Peace, fascinated with
the idea. "That's what Gail has always threatened to do, but I don't
expect she ever really will. Wouldn't it be splendid to have a story
written all about ourselves? What shall you call it? Will you let me
know when it is done so I can read it and see what kind of stuff you
write?"
But a shadow had fallen across her companion's face, so bright and
animated a moment before, and again she glanced involuntarily at the
bandaged hands which both in their eagerness had forgotten. But before
either could speak, there was a rustling sound of stiffly starched
skirts behind them, and Miss Keith, from the floor below, stepped around
the corner.
"Why, Peace Greenfield!" she exclaimed at sight of them. "What a start
you gave us! Don't you know you must never leave your own floor without
permission? If the elevator boy hadn't put us wise, we probably would be
phoning to the police by this time. Come downstairs now. Your sister is
waiting for you in your room."
So Peace departed, but not until she trundled through the doorway of her
room did she remember that the stranger had not told her name.
"O, dear," she greeted Gail. "I do show the least sense of anyone I
know."
"What seems to be the matter?" asked the big sister, amused at the look
of disgust on the small, thin face.
"I've just been gabbing with a real author lady, who has burned her
hands 'most off, so she can't write any more, and I forgot to ask her
name."
"Why, what are you talking about?" inquired Gail, amazed at the
unexpected answer.
"The author lady I just found crying in a corner upstairs because she
can't write stories any more. That's the way she's been earning the
bread and butter for her family, and she don't know what will happen to
them now. I thought maybe a typewriter would do the work, but she says
it costs a hundred dollars to buy the kind she wants, and she wouldn't
take my five. There's a baby boy, too, who can never walk unless there
is an operation and of course it takes slathers of money for that."
"Whose baby boy are you interested in now?" asked a deep bass voice from
the doorway, and Peace whirled about to confront young Dr. Shumway just
entering the room.
"His name is Benny, and he b'longs to the little author lady upstairs
who got burned 'most to death trying to put out the lamp which he tipped
over. His mother is dead, and the little author lady has to take care of
him and her own mother. I plumb forgot to ask what her name is, but I
'member now that she called her nurse Miss Piercing."
"Oh!" Dr. Shumway seemed more enlightened with that scrap of information
than with all the rest of the story, and he stood stroking his chin
thoughtfully, as he gazed absently at Gail seated by the window.
"Do you know her?" asked the small patient when he made no further
comment.
"I know whom you mean," he answered slowly. "But she is not my patient.
Dr. Rosencrans has that case. Where did _you_ find out about her?"
Peace again recounted the history of her recent adventure, and the story
lost nothing in its telling, for the child was profoundly impressed, and
she had the knack of making her listeners feel with her.
"I recall now," he said, turning to Gail when the tale was ended, "there
was some talk of amputating the hands at first,--they were so
dreadfully burned,--but the little lady would not permit it. She has
suffered tortures with them, but I understand that they are healing
nicely now, though they will probably always be crippled, and many
months must elapse before she can use them again. She is a game little
woman, but very close-mouthed,--almost morose. She seemed simply
overwhelmed by her catastrophe and none of the staff could get anything
out of her." He glanced significantly down at Peace, but she was
apparently unconscious of what she had accomplished, and the
conversation turned to other channels.
There was a very homesick little girl in one of the rooms across the
hallway, who had done nothing but cry since the ambulance had brought
her to the hospital, and the doctor wanted Peace to make her a little
visit. So for the next few days the brown-haired elf was so absorbed in
this new task of cheering unhappy Gertrude that she had little time to
think of the author lady on the floor above; and Gail was not prepared
for the tragic face that greeted her when she made her usual call at
Peace's room one day about a week later.
"Why, what has happened?" demanded the older sister, glancing about her
in alarm.
"Miss Wayne's gone away without ever saying good-bye to me," gulped the
child in grieved accents. "Her patient with the _fractious_ hip died and
she had a case somewhere in the country which she had to go to, but she
never told me a word about it. I didn't think she was that kind. I liked
her so much, and now--"
"But, Peace," interrupted Gail tenderly, "she came to say good-bye last
evening and you were asleep. I had gone home and there was no time to
write a note as she had planned to do, so she told Dick--er, I mean Dr.
Shumway. But he forgot to deliver the message this morning when he came
in to see you, and just now met me with the request that I tell you,
with his apologies. Miss Wayne will be back here at the hospital before
you go home undoubtedly, for she is a very popular nurse, not only with
her patients, but with the doctors who send their cases here for
treatment. So you mustn't fret. She did not forget,--she never can,--for
I am sure she loves you dearly, and if you had been awake she would have
said good-bye in person."
"Well, I'm glad of that," said Peace, much mollified at the explanation.
"But anyway, my author lady is gone, and I don't even know her name."
"Yes," answered Gail brightly, "the little author lady has gone home,
but Benny is here."
"Benny?"
"The crippled baby she told you about. Surely you remember."
"Course I remember. But how did he get here when there wasn't any
money?"
"Dic--Dr. Shumway investigated the case, and found it was even more
pitiful than the little author lady had pictured it; so he persuaded
them to let him operate on the baby for nothing, and he _thinks_ Benny's
little crooked back can be made entirely well. He left some medicine
for the poor, patient invalid mother, and she is going to get better,
too. Isn't it all lovely?"
Peace's brown eyes were shining like stars, but all she said was, "What
did he do with the author lady?"
"O, that came out beautifully, too. Dick--er, Dr. Shumway told Dr.
Rosencrans her story in the office downstairs, and it happened there was
a real rich author lady there waiting for her automobile to come and
take her home. Her name is Mrs. Selwyn, and she has been very sick, too,
and must not try to write any more for a long time yet. But she became
so interested in this poor little Miss Garland, that she insisted upon
having her taken to her big, beautiful house for a few weeks. Mrs.
Selwyn employs a secretary to do much of her typewriting, and this
secretary is now to help Miss Garland get her book finished, so it can
go to the publishers as soon as possible."
"Is Miss Garland _my_ author lady?"
"Yes, dear."
"Then she won't need a typewriter herself now."
"O, yes, for this arrangement is only for a little while,--until Mrs.
Selwyn is well again. So some of us,--Dr. Rosencrans, Dr. Race, Dr.
Shumway, Dr. Crandall, Miss Pierson, Miss Wayne, and oh, a whole bunch
of nurses and friends, got up a collection and bought her a splendid new
machine like she wanted, and when she goes home she will find it waiting
for her."
"Doesn't she know?"
"Not a whisper. It's always to be a secret who gave it to her. We feared
that she might feel as if we thought she had been begging, if she knew
the names of the senders,--she is so extremely sensitive. So we just
tied a card to the case, and wrote on it, 'From your loving friends.'"
"That's reg'lar splendid, and I want my five dollars to help pay for it,
too."
"But, Peace,--" Gail began.
"There ain't any 'but' to it," declared the small sister with
determination. "I was the one who found her, and I mean to help."
"Very well," sighed Gail, studying the stubborn little chin and knowing
that Peace would gain her point in some way, even if denied the
privilege of contributing her one gold piece. "You surely did set the
ball rolling, for Mrs. Selwyn says your little author lady will make her
mark in the world before many years."
"Yes, I guess she will make a mark on the world, too," Peace agreed
complacently, "for now Benny's going to be like other children, and the
mother won't be so sick any more. Doesn't _everything_ end just
splendid?"
"Yes, my darling," whispered Gail to herself, "when you are around."