AT JOHNS HOPKINS HOSPITAL
The door of No. 77 Brown Street stood wide open. Any of the burglars for
whom its mistress was always on the watch might have raided the tiny
parlor or made off with father John's Sunday overcoat, hanging upon the
hat-rack. Now also, while Dorothy hurried from room to room of the six
which were all the house contained, the wind of a rising thunderstorm
whistled through them and their open windows. Nor was there any reply to
her anxious calls:
"Mother! Father! Anybody--somebody! Oh! where are you? What has
happened? Mother--dearest mother Martha! Won't you answer?"
Certainly, this was a strange, a terrifying state of things. It was
amazing that so careful a housewife as Martha Chester should leave her
home in this unprotected condition, but it was quite natural for the
well-trained girl, even in the midst of her alarm, to close the sashes
against the rain that now came dashing in.
Then she hurried below and out into the little yard, or garden, that was
her own special delight. Nobody there; but the pail and brush which Mrs.
Chester had been using to clean her back kitchen were still upon its
floor, the pail overturned and the water puddling its bricks, and the
sight made Dorothy's heart sink lower yet.
Hurrying back to the street, a neighbor shielded her own head from the
downpour and called from a next-door window:
"Something has happened to your father. A boy saw him picked up on the
street and a policeman called a Johns Hopkins ambulance, that took him
to the hospital. The boy knew him, told your mother, and she's hurried
there. Don't worry. Probably it's nothing serious."
"Not serious! Oh! you don't know what you're saying! And to think I left
him only such a little while! If that hateful old woman--I must go to
him, too, I must, I must!"
With that Dorothy was retreating indoors, but again the neighbor's voice
detained her:
"'Tisn't likely you'd be admitted, even if you did go. You'd better stay
here and be ready for your poor mother when she comes. It's worse
trouble for her than for you."
This might be so and the advice excellent, but the excited girl was in
no mood to profit by it. Once, in her early childhood, she had answered
to an inquiry: "I love my mother a _little_ the best, but I love my
father the _biggest_ the best!" and it was so still. Her father, her
cheery, indulgent, ever-tender father, would always be "the biggest the
best" of her earthly friends, and to be absent from him now, not knowing
what had befallen, was impossible.
Glancing upward she observed that the neighbor had already withdrawn her
head from the dashing rain and was glad of it. It left her free to bang
the front door shut, to rush backward through the house and out at the
alley gate, which she also shut, snapping its lock behind her. But she
had caught up the key that opened it and, hanging this in a crevice of
the fence known for a safe hiding place to each of the family, she
started eastward for the great hospital.
Though she had never entered the famous place, she had seen it once from
a street-car, and love guided her flying feet. But it was a long, long
way from Brown Street, and the present storm was one of those deluging
"gusts" familiar to the locality. Within the first five minutes the
gutters were filled, the muddy streams pushing outward toward the very
middle of the narrower alleys and quite covering her shoe-tops as she
splashed through. At one or two of the older thoroughfares she came to
the old-time "stepping stones," provided for just such emergencies, and
still left standing because of the city's pride in their antiquity. Over
these she leaped and was glad of them, but alas! the storm was having
its will of her. Her gingham frock was soaked and clung about her with a
hindering obstinacy that vexed her, and her wet shoes grew intolerable.
She did not remember that she had ever gone barefoot, as some of her
mates had done, but at last she sat down on a doorstep and took off her
shoes and stockings. After a moment's contemplation of their ruined
state, she threw them far aside and stepped upon the brick pavement,
just as a policeman in oilskins came up and laid his hand on her
shoulder, asking:
"Little girl, what are you doing?"
Dorothy sprang aside, frightened, and wriggled herself free. She forgot
that she had never been afraid of such officers; that, indeed, the one
upon her own home beat was the friend of all the youngsters on the
block, and that this one could give her the shortest direction to the
place she sought. She had long ago been taught that, if she were ever
lost or in any perplexity upon the street, she should call upon the
nearest policeman for aid and that it was his sworn duty to assist her.
She remembered only that it was a policeman who had summoned the
ambulance that had carried her father to that horrible place--a
hospital! Well, she, too, was bound for it, but only to snatch him
thence; and stretching out her small, drenched arms, she wondered if
they and mother Martha's together would have strength to lift and seize
him.
Then on and on and on! Could one city be so big as this? Did ever brick
pavements hurt anybody else as they were hurting her? How many more
blocks must she traverse before she came in sight of that wide Broadway
with its pretty parks, on which the hospital stood?
Everybody had retreated indoors. Nobody who could escape the fury of the
storm endured it, and she had left the officer who could have guided her
far behind. But, at last, a slackening of the downpour; and as if by
magic, people reappeared upon the street; though of the first few whom
she addressed none paused to listen. Yet, finally, a colored boy came
hurrying by, his basket of groceries upon his arm, and another empty
basket inverted over his head, by way of an umbrella. Him she clutched,
demanding with what little of breath she had left:
"The--way--to--Johns Hopkins'--hospital, please!"
"Hey? Horspittle? Wha' for?"
"To find my father, who's been taken there. Oh! tell me the shortest
way, please--please--please! I am so tired! and I must be--I must be
quick--quick!"
A look of pity and consternation stole into the negro's face, and he
drew in his breath with a sort of gasp as he answered:
"Laws, honey, I reckon yo' _mus'_ be 'quick'! But de quickes' yo' is
ain' half quick enough. Know wha' dem horspittles is for? Jus' to cut up
folkses in. Fac'. Dey goes in alibe, dey comes out deaders. Yo' jus'
done cal'late yo' ain' got no paw no mo'. He's had his haid, or his
laig, or both his arms sawed off 'fore you-all more'n got started
a-chasin' of him. Po' li'l gal! Pity yo' got so wet in de rain jus' fo'
nottin'! Wheah yo' live at? Yo' bettah go right home an' tell yo' folks
take dem cloes off, 'fore you-all done get de pneumony."
Dorothy was shivering, partly from nervousness, partly from the chill of
wet garments in the strong breeze. Though she had often heard the
postman comment upon the superstitions of the negroes, who formed so
large a part of the city's population, and knew that such ideas as this
lad expressed were but superstition only, she could not help being
impressed by his words. It was his honest belief that to enter a
hospital meant giving himself up to death; and in this ignorance he
reasoned that this forlorn child should be prevented from such
self-destruction by any means whatever. So when she still pleaded to be
directed, despite the fear he had raised in her, he whirled abruptly
about and pointed his hand in a direction wholly different from that she
had followed. Then he added with a most dramatic air:
"Well, honey, if you-all done daid-set to go get yo' laigs sawed off,
travel jus' dat-a-way till yo' come to de place. Mebbe, if dey gibs yo'
dat stuff what makes yo' go asleep, you-all won't know nottin' erbout de
job."
With this cheerful assurance the grocer's boy went his way, musically
whistling a popular tune, and Dorothy gazed after him in deep
perplexity. Fortunately, the rain had almost ceased and the brief halt
had restored her breath. Then came the reflection:
"He wasn't telling the truth! I know that isn't the way at all, for
Johns Hopkins is on the east of the city, and that's toward the north.
I'll ask somebody else. There are plenty of people and wagons coming out
now; and--Oh! my!"
As if in answer to her thought, there came the clang of an electric
bell, the hurrying delivery wagons drew out of the way, and past her,
over the clear space thus given, dashed another ambulance, hastening to
the relief of some poor sufferer within. On its side she saw the name of
the hospital she sought and with frantic speed dashed after this
trustworthy guide.
Though she could by no means keep up with its speed she did keep it well
in sight, to the very entrance of the wide grounds themselves, and there
she lost it. But it didn't matter now. Her journey was almost done, and
the building loomed before her, behind whose walls was hidden her
beloved father John.
From the gateway up the incline to the broad hospital steps she now
dragged her strangely reluctant feet. How, after all, could she enter
and learn some dreadful truth? But she must, she must! and with a final
burst of courage she rushed into the great entrance hall, which was so
silent, so beautiful after the storm outside; and there appeared before
her half-blinded eyes a figure as of one coming to meet her.
All alone the figure stood, with nothing near to detract from its
majestic tenderness; so large and powerful looking; as if able to bear
all the burdens of a troubled world and still smile peace upon it.
Slowly, Dorothy crept now to the very feet of the statue and read that
this was: "Christ the Healer."
Ah! then! No hospital could be a wicked, murderous place in which He
dwelt! and with a sigh of infinite relief, the exhausted child sank down
and laid her head upon Him. And then all seemed to fade from view.
The next Dorothy knew she was lying on a white cot; a blue-gowned,
white-capped nurse was bending over her, and a pleasant voice was
saying:
"Well, now that's good! You've had a splendid rest and must be quite
ready for your supper. Here's a fine bowl of broth, and some nice toast.
Shall I help you to sit up?"
"Why--why--what's the matter with me? Where am I? Have----" began the
astonished child; then, suddenly remembering the colored boy's
assertions concerning this dreadful place, she instinctively thrust her
hands below the light bed covering and felt of her legs. They were still
both there! So were her arms; and, for a matter of fact, she was
delightfully rested and comfortable. Again lying back upon her pillow,
she smiled into the nurse's face and asked:
"What am I doing here, in a bed? Is this the hospital?"
"Yes, dear, it is; and you are in bed because you fainted in the
entrance hall, exhausted by exposure to the terrible storm. That is
all--we trust. Now, drink your broth and take another nap if you can."
There was authority, as well as gentleness, in the tone and the patient
tried to obey; but this time there was a sharp pain at the back of her
head and her neck seemed strangely stiff. With a little exclamation of
distress, she put her hand on the painful spot, and the attendant
quickly asked:
"Does that hurt you? Can you remember to have had a blow, or a fall,
lately?"
"Why, yes. The big dogs knocked me down over at Bellevieu. It made me
blind for a few minutes, but I was too mad to stay blind! If it hadn't
been for that--Oh! please, where _is_ my father?" answered Dorothy.
"Your father? I don't know. Have you lost, or missed, him, dear?"
returned the other, understanding now why such a healthy child should
have collapsed as she had, there at the feet of the beautiful statue.
Excitement, exposure, and the blow; these accounted for the condition in
which a house doctor had found her. Also, there was nothing to hinder
prompt recovery if the excitement could be allayed; and to this end the
nurse went on:
"Tell me about him, little girl. Maybe I can help you, and don't worry
about being here. It is the very loveliest place in the world for ailing
people and nothing shall hurt you."
So Dorothy told all she knew; of the long weeks past when the postman's
active feet had become more and more troublesome; of his sudden
disappearance; and of her now terrible fear that, since the poor feet
were of so little use, these hospital surgeons would promptly "saw" them
off and so be rid of them.
Ripples of amusement chased themselves across the nurse's fair face as
she listened, yet beneath them lay a sympathetic seriousness which kept
down Dorothy's anger, half-roused by the fleeting smiles.
"Well, my dear, neither he nor you could have come to a better place to
get help. The very wisest doctors in the country are here, I believe.
It's a disease with a long name, I fancy----"
"Yes, yes! I know it! He told me. It's 'locomort'--'loco' something,
'at'--'at' something else. It's perfectly horrible just to hear it, and
what must it be to suffer it? But he never complains. My father John is
the bravest, dearest, best man in the world!"
"Indeed? Then you should be the 'bravest, dearest, best' little daughter
as well. And we'll hope some help, some cure, can be found for him. Now,
will you go to sleep?"
"No. If you please I will go home. But I don't see my clothes anywhere.
Funny they should take away a little girl's clothes just 'cause she
forgot and went to sleep in the wrong place!"
"In the very right-est place in all the world, dear child! At the
Saviour's feet. Be sure nothing but goodness and kindness rule over the
hospital whose entrance He guards. Your clothes are drying in the
laundry. You will, doubtless, have them in the morning, and, so far as I
can judge now, there'll be nothing to prevent your going home then,"
comforted the nurse, gently stroking Dorothy's brow and by her touch
soothing the pain in it. Oddly enough, though her head had ached
intensely, ever since that tumble on Mrs. Cecil's piazza, she had not
paid any attention to it while her anxious search continued. She was
fast drowsing off again, but roused for an instant to ask:
"Have you seen my father? Did he hurt himself when he fell? Did he fall?
What did happen to him, anyway? Mayn't I see him just a minute, just one
little minute, 'fore this--this queer sleepiness gets me?"
"My dear, you can ask as many questions as a Yankee! I'll tell you what
I think: Your father was probably taken to the emergency ward. I have
nothing to do with that. My place is here, in the children's ward; and
the first thing nurses--or children--learn in this pleasant room
is--obedience. I have my orders to obey and one of them is to prevent
talking after certain hours."
"You--you a big, grown-up woman, have to 'obey'? How funny!" cried
Dorothy, thinking that the face beneath the little white cap was almost
the very sweetest she had ever seen. But to this the other merely
nodded, then went softly away.
Dorothy lay in a little room off from the general ward, into which the
nurse had disappeared, and where there was the sound of low-toned
conversation, with an occasional fretful cry from some unseen baby. The
doctor, or interne as he was called, making his night rounds, seeing
that all his little charges were comfortable for their long rest, and
discussing with the blue-gowned assistant their needs and conditions. It
was he who had found Dorothy, unconscious on the tiles, and had ordered
her to bed; and it was of herself, had she known it, that he and the
nurse had just been talking. As a result of this he merely looked in at
the door of the little room, blinked a good-night from behind his
spectacles, which, like two balls of fire, reflected the electric light
above the door, and passed on.
Dorothy intended to keep awake. For a long time her head had been full
of various schemes by which she should rise to the support of her
family, whenever that day foreseen by the postman should arrive when his
own support should fail. The day had come! Very suddenly, after all, as
even the best-prepared-for catastrophes have a way of doing; and now,
despite her earnest desires--Dorothy was going to sleep! She was
ashamed of herself. She must stay awake and think--think--think! She
simply _must_--she----
"Well, Dorothy C., good morning! A nice, dutiful daughter, you, to run
away and leave mother Martha alone all night!"
That was the next she knew! That was Mrs. Chester's voice, speaking in
that familiar tone a reproof which was no reproof at all, but only a
loving satisfaction. And there she sat, the tidy little woman, in her
second-best hat and gown, smiling, smiling, as if there were no such
thing as trouble in the world! as if both husband and child were not, at
that very moment, lying in hospital beds!