SLOW CONVALESCENCE
The new nurse would not permit even Tom to enter the sick man's room, so
he waylaid the doctor at every visit, and, stern as he was, that
professional gentleman was compelled through sheer sympathy to speak as
encouragingly as possible to the lad.
Every morning Tom brought from the garden a handful of flowers and,
tapping gently at the sick man's door, handed them to the nurse, who,
giving him a more hopeful word concerning the patient, would send him
with light heart downstairs to his mother to report the good news. One
morning the boy brought a bunch of roses and violets, and gave them to
Enoch, the nurse, who received them with greater cordiality than usual,
remarking as he accepted the flowers: "Mr. Carl is much better. You shall
see him tomorrow."
The joyous-hearted boy bounded downstairs and, throwing his arms around
his mother's neck, repeated the words of the nurse. Enoch met Tom in the
hall next day. The lad was dressed in his best clothes and was nervously
impatient. "Now Tom," said Enoch, "promise me that you will not talk,
and you must not cry, and, remember, you can only stay ten minutes."
"All right! I'll promise anything, only let me see my Carl."
But Enoch's patience was tried at the very start. Tom tiptoed into the
room, and as he saw the pale smiling face of Carl and heard his welcome
he threw his arms around the sick man's neck, and sobbed through his
tears: "Carl, my Carl, you're nearly well, aren't you?"
Enoch, standing near the bed, placed his finger upon his lips, but Tom
did not recognize his admonition, and kept on giving expression to his
happiness. "Carl," said he, "God has given you back to us. I told mother
that he would, and he has."
The pleasure of Bishop McLaren's visit was plainly lessened by the
illness of the young secretary. The family of his host were all anxious,
and the members of the faculty were visibly affected. Even the servants
about the place felt concern for the young secretary and whispered many
exaggerated stories concerning the case. But the crisis had been passed,
and Carl began to improve. After a slow recovery he took up his
accustomed duties, and church and school work fell back into its old
routine. But six weeks of typhoid fever had greatly emaciated the young
secretary. The buoyancy and brightness seemed to have left him. He had
been fond of athletic sports, but now he apparently cared nothing for
them. With Tom he would walk over to the exercise grounds and, seated in
a chair, would watch the students in their games, seldom speaking and
never elated.
The kindly bishop watched the young man closely and, after much serious
thought, wrote to his personal friend, Dr. Marmion, of New York, inviting
him to the Monastery to take a day or two of rest. Nancy exhausted her
ingenuity to tempt and increase his appetite, but nothing served to help
him, and what made matters worse, he seemed to have no desire to improve.
True, he was just as exact and faithful in the discharge of his official
duties, and in the correspondence, which was without dictation, there was
quite as much courtesy, but it all lacked that freshness that had marked
the past. The organ gave forth notes just as harmonious and perfect, but
the music lacked the brilliancy and uplifting power that had hitherto
characterized it. Indeed, his youthfulness seemed to have departed, and
maturity, if not old age, taken its place. Previously Carl's full and
joyous laugh had attracted scores toward him; now, however, a quiet smile
was frequently the only indication that he was pleased, and even a
sprinkling of gray hair was here and there seen among the curly brown
locks. Once it had been a trick of his to leap from the ground to the
back of Allick, Sparrow's tallest horse, but he now declined mounting a
horse at all. The strong and springy step was gone and his feet shuffled
like those of a very old man.
One day the bishop entered the office where Carl was at work, accompanied
by a plain-looking man, possibly forty years of age. He was of medium
stature, with broad and prominent brow, great brown eyes, and prominent
nose. But the most significant and impressive feature of the man's face
was his eyes--large, brown, and possessed of that peculiar quality which
made them grow luminous when he was much interested and almost frightful
when excited. He was introduced to Carl as Mr. Marmion, from New York. As
Carl had no particular interest in the New York gentleman, after a few
words of commonplaces he turned away and resumed his work; but the bishop
having slipped out, the stranger seemed to call for the courtesy of the
secretary.
"Take that easy chair, Mr. Marmion," said Carl. "Bishop Albertson will no
doubt return presently."
"Bishop Albertson tells me that you are just recovering from a severe
illness, Mr. Edwards," said Mr. Marmion, as he sat down in the
comfortable chair.
"Yes, I have been quite ill with typhoid fever," was the reply.
"Are you sleeping and eating well?"
"No, not by any means. If I am gaining at all, it is a very slow gain. I
have almost an aversion to food, and every exertion is a task."
"Ah, that ought not to be," said the gentleman. "You are surely not
gaining if you can neither eat nor sleep. Perhaps your liver is not
right. What is the doctor giving you?" Carl handed him the bottle
containing the medicine, which he uncorked and after touching the liquid
to his tongue remarked: "It seems to be the right stuff. I'm something of
a doctor, myself, and I must help to shake up that liver. Who is
your doctor?"
"Dr. King."
"Ah, yes--Hiram King. I know him."
The seemingly mere friendly interest of the doctor aroused in Carl no
suspicion that he was the direct object of his visit, and that the
conversation really constituted a diagnosis of his case.
After a short silence, Dr. Marmion incidentally, seemingly, asked: "You
have no financial difficulties have you?"
"No, doctor," was the prompt reply. "Bishop Albertson allows me a very
generous salary, and I have few demands."
"You have never been in the habit of dissipating, I am sure?"
"No, indeed; this is no place for dissipation, and before coming here, I
was in school, where such a practice would have been impossible. I am as
regular in my habits as when a boy in my father's house in England."
"Oh! Ah! You are an Englishman. From what part of England are you?"
"The north of England," was the short reply.
"Mr. Edwards, excuse me, but have you any great trouble upon your
heart? _That_ sometimes causes trouble, an actual physical disturbance,
you know."
The young man, who up to this time had evinced no particular interest in
the conversation, now hesitated, so much so, in fact, that the doctor
repeated his question, adding: "There is but little prospect of helping
the body, if there is a secret enemy affecting the heart and mind. This
will always create trouble in the digestive organs."
To these words Carl replied somewhat nervously: "I suppose that, like
most young men, I have regrets concerning my earlier life. There are some
things that I am sorry for having done, and other duties that I have
neglected, for which delinquencies I am sorry."
So entirely informal had been the discussion that Carl still did not
suspect that he had been under examination. And the sagacious doctor
having gained some information, quite as much, indeed, as he had expected
in the first interview, abstained from pushing the matter for the
present, and adroitly changed the subject; but while he continued to
converse easily with the young man, he felt assured that he was on the
right track. And when, later, he was telling the bishop about it, he
declared that he felt sure it was a disturbed mind and uneasy conscience,
more than any particular functional disorder, that was robbing the young
man of his vitality. But after two days had passed, and he had taken
advantage of every opportunity, he concluded that he would take the
midnight boat for New York, his mission having been fruitless.