IN THE HOSPITAL.
"WILL he live?"
"Impossible to say. His injuries are very complicated. The thighbone
being so crushed, there will be nothing for it but amputation, and he
will hardly stand that, I fear."
"Poor little fellow!" said Sister Kathleen, as she looked upon Phil
lying in his hospital bed. His tiny face, utterly colourless, was sad
to see, as every now and then it quivered, whilst he uttered a sharp,
agonizing cry. "He must suffer terribly."
"Not so much as you suppose. He is unconscious. Those screams result
from the shock to the brain. He will need close attention to-night."
"I will take charge of him myself," said Sister Kathleen; "he shall
have every chance of recovering, poor little fellow."
"I see the case interests you," said the surgeon; "and if you look
after him, he will have every chance. Well, I don't despair of him. We
have brought complications as bad to a successful issue. The worst of
it is, these poor little beggars have as a rule no constitution to go
upon. He looks as if he had been half-starved all his life."
"Ah, and used to hard blows too," said the hospital Sister; "I saw
that there were bruises on his poor little arms when we undressed him.
Perhaps it would be a mercy for him if he did not live, poor child."
The surgeon shrugged his shoulders as he turned away.
Sister Kathleen sighed as she followed him to the next bed.
A tender heart had Sister Kathleen, but not too tender for her calling,
since its tenderness was counterbalanced by sterner qualities, by
strong resolution, self-control, and unflinching courage. She was a
woman of middle stature, strongly built, and quick, healthful energy
characterized her words and actions. She had strongly-marked features
of the Roman type, and steady, dark eyes. She was emphatically a woman
of powerful yet pleasing presence. Her clear, full voice, never raised
high, had power not to charm only, but to overawe and subdue. No nurse
or patient in the wards of which she had the oversight ever dared to
dispute a command from Sister Kathleen. The doctors knew well the worth
of this Sister, and were glad to secure her help in any complicated and
difficult case.
Sister Kathleen kept watch beside Phil's bed that night. He was
restless and feverish, and at times uttered piercing screams, and wild,
delirious words.
"Mother, mother, don't beat me!" he cried. "I couldn't help it; they
wouldn't give me more. Oh, mother! Mother!" Then, in lower tones, "Aunt
Lizzie! If only Aunt Lizzie would come!"
Sister Kathleen laid her cool hand on the child's forehead.
A quieter look came to his face. He murmured, "Aunt Lizzie," and
presently he sank into a doze.
With the morning, Phil woke to full consciousness of his pain. The blue
eyes, looking up bewildered, met the kind gaze of Sister Kathleen. The
bewilderment seemed to deepen for a moment, then his brow cleared, and
with the air of one who has solved a difficulty, he said quietly, "Aunt
Lizzie?"
"No," said the Sister, in her clear, decided tones; "it is not Aunt
Lizzie. I am Sister Kathleen."
A perplexed, troubled look came to the child's face.
"You wonder where you are," said Sister Kathleen, "but don't be afraid.
You are in a hospital. You were run over in the street yesterday, and
they brought you here."
A sharp scream interrupted her. Phil had tried to move, and finding it
impossible, he screamed again and again.
"Yes, yes, you are in great pain, I know," said Sister Kathleen
tenderly, "but you must keep quiet. You must try to be patient."
Phil had not learned to practise patience. It was his habit to kick,
struggle, and scream, and as far as possible defend himself under any
form of suffering. He screamed more loudly than before, and tried to
tear off the bandages that restrained his movements. The Sister had to
call a nurse to her assistance, and together they strapped Phil's arms
to his sides, so as to prevent his doing himself any injury.
Sister Kathleen bent over the little sufferer, and her kind dark eyes
looked into his. Her calm gaze had a soothing influence, and he ceased
to scream.
"What is your name, my child?" she asked.
"Phil," was his reply.
"Phil," she repeated; "that is short for Philip, I suppose. What is
your other name?"
"Ain't got no other," he said; "nobody calls me nothink but Phil."
"But your father has another name? You have a father?"
"No," said Phil, "I ain't. I've got a mother, though," he added, with a
heavy sigh.
"Well, what is your mother's name?"
"Oh, they calls her Moll Dutton," said the boy, his brow contracting
with pain.
"Then your name is Philip Dutton," said the Sister. "Now can you tell
me where you live?"
"In Charles Alley," said the boy; "it's Holborn way."
"Cannot you give me any clearer direction?" she asked. "Well, never
mind; I daresay we can find your mother by that. We will send and tell
her that you are here, for I'm sure she must be very uneasy about you."
"Oh, don't!" cried Phil, looking imploringly at her. "Don't send. I
don't want mother to come here. I'd rather she did not know where I am."
"Whatever next!" said Sister Kathleen, with a smile. "Of course your
mother must be told. Are you afraid that she will be angry with you for
getting into trouble? You need not fear that. I am sure she will be
only too glad to find you living."
"But I don't want to see her. I don't want her to come!" cried Phil,
and he began to scream anew.
"Poor boy, the pain makes him fractious," said Sister Kathleen, as she
left him in the care of a nurse, and went away to take the rest she
needed.
When she saw Phil again, some hours later, he was sleeping under the
influence of an anæsthetic. She looked with tender interest at the
little white face and the golden curls which clustered so thickly over
his brows. He was a pretty boy, she thought, although his face was
marred by want and suffering.
But Sister Kathleen could not linger by his bed then, nor could she
see much of him on the following day, for it was operation day, and a
critical case claimed her attention. She came to look at him in the
evening, however.
It was the hour at which the patients' friends were permitted to visit
them, and as she approached Phil's bed, she saw a woman seated by his
side. She was a young-looking woman, and could hardly have been more
than seven-and-twenty, if so old, but her pale face had a singularly
sad expression, a look of restrained, hopeless grief, which marked her
as one to whom sorrow was no occasional visitant but a daily companion.
She was dressed in neat but homely fashion—a dark straw bonnet,
severely plain, a grey waterproof cloak, strong boots, and woollen
gloves; not at all the kind of attire Phil's mother might be expected
to wear.
But Sister Kathleen did not wait to weigh probabilities. She saw the
sorrowful tenderness of the woman's look as she bent over Phil, the
tears in her eyes, and the dawning comfort on the boy's face as he met
her loving gaze. The Sister laid her hand on the woman's arm, and said,
in a tone of conviction, "You are his mother."
The woman started up, and a low nervous cry escaped her. Her colour
fled utterly. She was white to the very lips as she gazed at Sister
Kathleen with eyes wide-opened, apparently too startled to speak. But
ere there was time to wonder at her silence, a nurse standing by spoke.
"You make a mistake, Sister," she said. "This is not Phil's mother. She
is his aunt."
"Yes," said the woman, finding words at last, but speaking in
tremulous, agitated tones; "I am his aunt—his Aunt Lizzie."
"Ah, then I have heard of you," said Sister Kathleen kindly. "Pray sit
down. The sight of him has distressed you. You are little accustomed to
illness, I daresay?"
The woman murmured an assent as she sat down. But almost immediately
she rose again, in spite of a cry of distress from Phil, and said
hurriedly, as she looked at her watch, "I must be going. I have to
catch a train."
Then, turning to the Sister, she said, with an imploring glance, "May I
speak to you for a minute before I go?"
The pathetic glance of the blue eyes, eyes so like Phil's, went to
Sister Kathleen's heart.
"Certainly," she answered; "come with me."
And she led the way to a small private room opening from the ward.
Phil's aunt stayed only to press some tender, clinging kisses on his
wan lips, then quickly followed the Sister.
"Tell me," she said breathlessly, as soon as they were alone, "is he
much hurt? Will he live?"
"He is very badly hurt," said Sister Kathleen gravely; "several ribs
are displaced, and his thigh sadly crushed. I am grieved to give you
pain, but I fear—I know, indeed, that the surgeons think it necessary
to amputate the limb."
A shiver ran through the aunt's frame. She sank on to a chair, and
turned so white that the Sister moved hastily to her side, fearing she
was about to faint. The woman looked at her with anguish in her glance,
and repeated the question, "Will he live?"
"I hope so," was all Sister Kathleen could say, "but I must not conceal
from you that it is a highly critical case. As far as I can judge, the
chances of life or death are pretty equally balanced. He is terribly
injured, and there are many things against him. Still it is wonderful
what children pull through."
Phil's aunt shivered again, and murmured something that the Sister
could not quite hear, but she fancied she caught the words, "God help
me!"
"You must try to hope for the best," she said gently. "We will do all
in our power for little Phil; you may be sure of that."
The young woman was silent for a few moments. Then she said, in low,
unsteady tones, "But if he lives, he will be a cripple."
"Yes," said Sister Kathleen; "he will be a cripple."
There was the sound of a stifled sob as Phil's aunt rose and hurried to
the door. "I must go," she said brokenly; "I dare not stay longer."
"Have you far to go?" asked the Sister.
"Yes, it is some way. I live in the country, and I came up on purpose
to see Phil. I did not know till this morning that he was here."
Sister Kathleen looked at her in wonder. It was not surprising to hear
that she was from the country. The Sister had felt sure of that, as
she observed the speech and bearing of Phil's aunt. She wondered to
think that little Phil, ragged and wretched as had been his appearance
when brought into the hospital, should have a relative so refined and
respectable as this woman seemed to be. Sister Kathleen accompanied the
stranger to the landing, and stood watching her slight, drooping figure
as she passed down the broad stone staircase.
"So that was not Phil's mother!" the Sister said, as she re-entered the
ward, addressing the nurse in charge.
"No, indeed," she replied; "his mother came last night. You should have
seen her! A ragged, dirty tramp, half-tipsy, and not fit to enter the
ward. I never saw a more dreadful-looking woman."
"And this one was so different," said the Sister.
"Yes; I don't wonder you took her for Phil's mother, for he could not
be more like her if he were her child."
"Poor little boy!" said Sister Kathleen. Then with a change of voice
she added, "I hope he will pull through. I have set my heart on his
recovery."
The nurse wondered why.