IN THE HOSPITAL.
IT was many hours before Phil regained consciousness.
He opened his eyes to find himself occupying a bed in a hospital ward.
How came he there? He wondered—and O! What a fearful pain quivered in
his right shoulder and down his back! By his bedside stood a gentleman
who met his questioning glance with a smile, and said gently:
"You are in safe hands, Phil. I think you have heard my name before. I
am Dr. Bethune, Miss Crawford's friend."
"What is the matter with me? Who brought me here?" Phil asked faintly.
"Don't you remember? Your house caught fire, and in saving your sister,
you got badly burnt."
Yes, Phil remembered now. The hot blood rushed to his face, and then
receded, leaving him deadly pale.
"Don't talk, my boy," said Dr. Bethune. "I will explain it to you,
and then you must lie still, and try to go to sleep. Millie is well
and uninjured. You saved her life. Had it not been for your heroism
and noble self-forgetfulness, she must have perished in the fire.
Unfortunately a burning piece of wood fell upon your shoulder before
you reached the bottom of the stairs. I fear you will have a good deal
of pain to bear, but we are clever people here, and mean to pull you
through if such a thing be possible."
"I don't understand," said Phil feebly and making long pauses between
each sentence, "I don't understand how Millie came to be at home. I
thought she had gone away with Miss Crawford. I took her to the station
myself."
"And they would have gone, Phil, but at the last minute it was found
impossible for one of the children, a little crippled boy, to leave
London until the following day. He could not travel alone, and Miss
Crawford thought it better to wait for him. So Millie went home again."
Phil closed his eyes. His throbbing head would not let him think, and
the pain in his back made him sick and faint. He tried to move, but
with a low moan of agony, he gave up the attempt, and lay with a white
face and knitted brow, trying to bear his suffering as best he might.
"Poor fellow!" said Dr. Bethune compassionately. Then he gave him a
draught that seemed to have the effect of deadening his pain, for
presently he fell asleep.
Days passed, and Phil grew no better. Millie came to visit him as soon
as she was allowed. He was happier after he had seen her; for she
looked no worse than usual—a little paler perhaps, that was all. The
only drop of comfort in Phil's bitter cup of sorrow was that he had
saved his sister; he had risked his life for hers. He recollected some
sweet words that he used to hear his mother read on Sunday evenings at
Chormouth:
"'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for
his friends.'"
He was still greatly perplexed as to how Millie could possibly have
been in the house on the fatal night of the fire, unknown to him, and
begged her to explain the mystery.
She told him, as Dr. Bethune had already done, that as one of their
party was not forthcoming, Miss Crawford had considered it wiser for
all to postpone the journey till the following day. She then went on
to say that she returned to Swift Street feeling utterly worn out, and
with a severe headache that increased as the evening advanced. Her
uncle came in about nine o'clock, but by that time she was so unwell
that, after putting the supper on the table, she was obliged to go to
her room and lie down.
Very soon she fell into a sound sleep—so sound a sleep, indeed, that
even the crash of the drawing-box as it tumbled to the floor did not
disturb her. Poor child! She was accustomed to noises all day and
all night. She awoke to find herself half suffocated with smoke; and
great was her horror, on opening the door, to see their sitting-room
in flames. She endeavoured to escape down the staircase, but fear
paralysed her limbs, and she sank senseless to the floor.
Phil knew what followed.
She supposed her uncle awoke on the first alarm of fire, and in the
confusion and terror of the moment completely forgot her. But, Millie
said, he had scarcely mentioned the awful occurrences of that night,
and she dared not break upon his reserve, and question him.
Phil rarely spoke to the doctors and nurses, except to thank them for
their kindness and attention. To Dr. Bethune, however, he sometimes
opened his heart.
"Will you tell me the truth, Sir?" he said one day, as Dr. Bethune
stood by his bedside. "Will you tell me if there is any hope for me?"
"I can hardly say at present, Phil," the doctor replied. "Yours is a
very bad case, and we do not see the improvement that we expected; but
there is no immediate danger. When there is, you shall know, I promise
you. All that human skill can do for you will be done, rest assured of
that."
For a few minutes Phil neither moved nor spoke. Then he said:
"I should like to see Miss Crawford, Sir. I have something to tell her
in case I should die. Do you think she will come?"
"I am sure she will. You shall see her to-morrow."
Phil smiled gratefully.
The doctor was as good as his word. He carried Phil's message that same
evening to Miss Crawford, and early on the following day she was at the
boy's bedside. To his amazement she took his scorched, blistered hand
in hers, and reverently kissed it.
Phil pulled it hastily away.
"Don't do that, Miss Crawford," he said. "You don't know what you are
doing."
"Yes, I do," she answered, with tears in her eyes, "for I know you to
be such a brave, fearless boy, that I am proud to own you as my friend."
A sob rose in Phil's throat.
"Miss Crawford, if you don't want me to die of shame, don't speak so,"
he said humbly. "It is because you don't know that you say so. I asked
to see you because I could not die with the dreadful load there is upon
my conscience. I tried to tell Dr. Bethune, but I couldn't get out the
words. O Miss Crawford, you will hate me so when you hear it."
"Hush, my boy! You must talk quietly if you wish to keep me here," she
said very soothingly. "I promised Dr. Bethune that I would not let you
get excited. You are not quite yourself, or you would not say such
things."
Phil strove to subdue his agitation.
"Lean down closer, Miss Crawford," he said, after a few minutes, "I
don't want anybody but you to hear. There, let your hand stay under
mine, so," and Phil laid his on the top of hers, "and when you begin to
hate me, draw it away; but let me keep it till you do begin to hate me,
won't you?"
In broken sentences, and with many interruptions, Phil got through his
story. He need not have feared: Miss Crawford did not withdraw her
hand; only when he arrived at the very saddest part of all, and he knew
that she could guess the end, her other hand came to keep the first one
company. With so gentle a touch did she place it upon Phil's that it
did not hurt him in the least, while in a voice of infinite pity, and
with the tears running down her cheeks, she said:
"Poor boy, poor boy! And you went through all that!"
It was over at last. Phil felt inexpressibly relieved that he had
unburdened his mind, and confessed his sin.
"Phil," said Miss Crawford presently, "I cannot help thinking how good
God has been to you. Have you thanked Him?"
"Yes, indeed, I have," he replied. "But sometimes I wish that after I
had saved Millie, He had let me die. Nobody wants me here. I am no good
to anybody."
"Don't talk so, dear boy. What, would you have Millie left alone in the
world?"
"No, that is all I care to live for," he answered sorrowfully; "for
though I have troubled her so, I know it would break her heart to lose
me. Miss Crawford," he added earnestly, "if I die, you'll never forget
Millie, will you?"
"I promise you I will not. I saw her yesterday, and she gave me such
good news of your uncle. He has been perfectly sober ever since the
night of the fire."
"I am glad of that for his own and Millie's sake," Phil replied. "I get
anxious about her at night, and wonder what she is doing." Then after a
pause he continued, "I should like them to know that I did it; you know
what I mean. Will you tell them, please?"
"I will, but you must let me choose my own time for doing so. Now,
Phil, will you make me a promise in return for mine?"
"I will do anything you ask me, Miss Crawford," he replied eagerly,
delighted at the thought of doing a service for one who had done so
much for him.
"Then read a chapter from this book every night and every morning,"
she said as she took from her bag a beautiful little Bible. "See," she
continued, opening it at the fly leaf, "I have written your name here,
and beneath, a favourite text of mine—'We love Him, because He first
loved us.' Phil, I want you to know more about those things that are
so dear to Millie and me, and this will teach you, if you will read it
prayerfully. God has been very good to you in saving your life," she
went on earnestly. "It was wonderful that you escaped, I am told. You
ought to be very grateful to Him, Phil, and not only full of gratitude,
but full of love to Him. O! If you once felt how much He loved you, you
could not help giving back your love in return."
"I will try, Miss Crawford, and you must pray for me," he said humbly.
Very willingly did she promise that she would. Then after a little
further conversation she took her leave, saying she would come again
soon.
As days and weeks rolled on, Phil became gradually stronger and better,
but still the slightest movement of his back was torture to him, and he
could not even turn in his bed without assistance. He became at length
weary and sick with hope deferred.
"Doctor, shall I never walk again?" he said one day to Dr. Bethune, in
a half-tired, half-impatient voice.
Receiving no answer, he supposed his question had not been heard, but
as Dr. Bethune at that moment turned hastily away to another patient,
he had no chance of repeating it.
When Miss Crawford came that afternoon accompanied by Millie, he made
the same inquiry of her. But she hesitated, and Millie's lips quivered
as her eyes met her brother's.
"O! Do tell me," he said anxiously. "Surely I shall walk again some
day!"
Then very gently Miss Crawford told him his spine had been so injured
by the fall of the burning wood that the doctors feared he would never
recover from the effects, though in time he might perhaps walk with the
help of crutches.
"What! Lie still all my life long?" he moaned when she had finished.
"Never walk nor run again! O! I can't bear it. I'd rather die."
A sob from Millie broke the silence that ensued.
"O my darling brother," she said, as she knelt by his bedside, "I will
be legs, and feet, and arms, and everything to you, if you'll only let
me. Uncle knows about it, and he is so sorry for you. He would have
been to see you, only he's afraid that the sight of him would distress
you. And he says, Phil, that he'll never touch that dreadful drink
again as long as he lives, and that you shall never want for a home as
long as he has health and strength to work for you. And he means it,
dear. He is so good and kind now."
All this Millie sobbed out at intervals, but Phil made no reply.
"Don't think it unkind of me," he said presently, "but I'd rather be
alone for a while. I can't talk about it yet."
So they said good-bye to him, and Miss Crawford did what she had never
done before. She put back the thick black hair from his forehead, bent
down, and as she kissed him, he heard her whisper, "'Nevertheless not
my will, but Thine, be done.'"
All through that night, a storm of conflicting emotions raged in poor
Phil's heart. He said to himself that he could not, would not live to
endure so cruel a fate. What, never walk, nor run, nor jump again?
Never draw himself up to his full height, and feel that delicious
sensation of strength and power tingling through every vein in his
body? Be a helpless cripple all his life long—a thing as useless as
a log of wood? Be compelled to lie perfectly still? Be at the entire
mercy of others, utterly dependent upon them for the gratification of
every wish, the supply of every want? No, it was too hard a punishment
for such a sin as his had been. What was it but a few passionate words,
a small act of revenge, committed under great provocation? How was he
to know that such dire results would be the consequence? They had not
been his desire. Besides, had he not acknowledged and repented of his
sin? Had he not gone almost beyond human power to make atonement? O it
was cruel! It was most unjust!
But lately Phil had learnt something of his Saviour's love, and with
the dawn of morning a wondrous calm fell upon his troubled mind. It was
no punishment after all, perhaps. It might be that God had sent this
hard and bitter trial to prove him. Then, God helping him, he would
stand the test and "suffer and be strong." Again he seemed to hear the
sweet, low words:
"'Nevertheless not my will, but Thine, be done.'"
It must have been an angel's voice, Phil thought, for there was no Miss
Crawford there to whisper lovingly to him. So, with a peaceful smile
upon his face, he fell asleep, and the first beam of the rising sun,
stealing across his pillow, made a halo of glory about his head.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]