Jack and Jill never cared to say much about the night which followed
the first coasting party of the season, for it was the saddest and the
hardest their short lives had ever known. Jack suffered most in body;
for the setting of the broken leg was such a painful job, that it wrung
several sharp cries from him, and made Frank, who helped, quite weak
and white with sympathy, when it was over. The wounded head ached
dreadfully, and the poor boy felt as if bruised all over, for he had the
worst of the fall. Dr. Whiting spoke cheerfully of the case, and made so
light of broken legs, that Jack innocently asked if he should not be up
in a week or so.
“Well, no; it usually takes twenty-one days for bones to knit, and young
ones make quick work of it,” answered the doctor, with a last scientific
tuck to the various bandages, which made Jack feel like a hapless
chicken trussed for the spit.
“Twenty-one days! Three whole weeks in bed! I shouldn't call that quick
work,” groaned the dismayed patient, whose experience of illness had
been limited.
“It is a forty days' job, young man, and you must make up your mind to
bear it like a hero. We will do our best; but next time, look before
you leap, and save your bones. Good-night; you'll feel better in the
morning. No jigs, remember;” and off went the busy doctor for another
look at Jill, who had been ordered to bed and left to rest till the
other case was attended to.
Any one would have thought Jack's plight much the worse, but the
doctor looked more sober over Jill's hurt back than the boy's compound
fractures; and the poor little girl had a very bad quarter of an hour
while he was trying to discover the extent of the injury.
“Keep her quiet, and time will show how much damage is done,” was all
he said in her hearing; but if she had known that he told Mrs. Pecq he
feared serious consequences, she would not have wondered why her mother
cried as she rubbed the numb limbs and placed the pillows so tenderly.
Jill suffered most in her mind; for only a sharp stab of pain now and
then reminded her of her body; but her remorseful little soul gave her
no peace for thinking of Jack, whose bruises and breakages her lively
fancy painted in the darkest colors.
“Oh, don't be good to me, Mammy; I made him go, and now he's hurt
dreadfully, and may die; and it is all my fault, and everybody ought to
hate me,” sobbed poor Jill, as a neighbor left the room after reporting
in a minute manner how Jack screamed when his leg was set, and how Frank
was found white as a sheet, with his head under the pump, while Gus
restored the tone of his friend's nerves, by pumping as if the house was
on fire.
“Whist, my lass, and go to sleep. Take a sup of the good wine Mrs. Minot
sent, for you are as cold as a clod, and it breaks my heart to see my
Janey so.”
“I can't go to sleep; I don't see how Jack's mother could send me
anything when I've half killed him. I want to be cold and ache and have
horrid things done to me. Oh, if I ever get out of this bed I'll be the
best girl in the world, to pay for this. See if I ain't!” and Jill
gave such a decided nod that her tears flew all about the pillow like a
shower.
“You'd better begin at once, for you won't get out of that bed for a
long while, I'm afraid, my lamb,” sighed her mother, unable to conceal
the anxiety that lay so heavy on her heart.
“Am I hurt badly, Mammy?”
“I fear it, lass.”
“I'm _glad_ of it; I ought to be worse than Jack, and I hope I am. I'll
bear it well, and be good right away. Sing, Mammy, and I'll try to go to
sleep to please you.”
Jill shut her eyes with sudden and unusual meekness, and before her
mother had crooned half a dozen verses of an old ballad, the little
black head lay still upon the pillow, and repentant Jill was fast asleep
with a red mitten in her hand.
Mrs. Pecq was an Englishwoman who had left Montreal at the death of her
husband, a French Canadian, and had come to live in the tiny cottage
which stood near Mrs. Minot's big house, separated only by an
arbor-vitae hedge. A sad, silent person, who had seen better days, but
said nothing about them, and earned her bread by sewing, nursing, work
in the factory, or anything that came in her way, being anxious to
educate her little girl. Now, as she sat beside the bed in the small,
poor room, that hope almost died within her, for here was the child
laid up for months, probably, and the one ambition and pleasure of the
solitary woman's life was to see Janey Pecq's name over all the high
marks in the school-reports she proudly brought home.
“She'll win through, please Heaven, and I'll see my lass a gentlewoman
yet, thanks to the good friend in yonder, who will never let her want
for care,” thought the poor soul, looking out into the gloom where a
long ray of light streamed from the great house warm and comfortable
upon the cottage, like the spirit of kindness which made the inmates
friends and neighbors.
Meantime, that other mother sat by her boy's bed as anxious but with
better hope, for Mrs. Minot made trouble sweet and helpful by the way in
which she bore it; and her boys were learning of her how to find silver
linings to the clouds that must come into the bluest skies.
Jack lay wide awake, with hot cheeks, and throbbing head, and all sorts
of queer sensations in the broken leg. The soothing potion he had
taken did not affect him yet, and he tried to beguile the weary time by
wondering who came and went below. Gentle rings at the front door, and
mysterious tappings at the back, had been going on all the evening; for
the report of the accident had grown astonishingly in its travels, and
at eight o'clock the general belief was that Jack had broken both legs,
fractured his skull, and lay at the point of death, while Jill had
dislocated one shoulder, and was bruised black and blue from top to
toe. Such being the case, it is no wonder that anxious playmates and
neighbors haunted the doorsteps of the two houses, and that offers of
help poured in.
Frank, having tied up the bell and put a notice in the lighted
side-window, saying, “Go to the back door,” sat in the parlor, supported
by his chum, Gus, while Ed played softly on the piano, hoping to lull
Jack to sleep. It did soothe him, for a very sweet friendship existed
between the tall youth and the lad of thirteen. Ed went with the
big fellows, but always had a kind word for the smaller boys; and
affectionate Jack, never ashamed to show his love, was often seen with
his arm round Ed's shoulder, as they sat together in the pleasant red
parlors, where all the young people were welcome and Frank was king.
“Is the pain any easier, my darling?” asked Mrs. Minot, leaning over the
pillow, where the golden head lay quiet for a moment.
“Not much. I forget it listening to the music. Dear old Ed is playing
all my favorite tunes, and it is very nice. I guess he feels pretty
sorry about me.”
“They all do. Frank could not talk of it. Gus wouldn't go home to tea,
he was so anxious to do something for us. Joe brought back the bits of
your poor sled, because he didn't like to leave them lying round for any
one to carry off, he said, and you might like them to remember your fall
by.”
Jack tried to laugh, but it was rather a failure, though he managed to
say, cheerfully,--
“That was good of old Joe. I wouldn't lend him 'Thunderbolt' for fear
he'd hurt it. Couldn't have smashed it up better than I did, could he?
Don't think I want any pieces to remind me of _that_ fall. I just wish
you'd seen us, mother! It must have been a splendid spill to look at,
any way.”
“No, thank you; I'd rather not even try to imagine my precious boy going
heels over head down that dreadful hill. No more pranks of that sort for
some time, Jacky;” and Mrs. Minot looked rather pleased on the whole to
have her venturesome bird safe under her maternal wing.
“No coasting till some time in January. What a fool I was to do it!
Go-bangs always are dangerous, and that's the fun of the thing. Oh
dear!”
Jack threw his arms about and frowned darkly, but never said a word of
the wilful little baggage who had led him into mischief; he was too much
of a gentleman to tell on a girl, though it cost him an effort to hold
his tongue, because Mamma's good opinion was very precious to him, and
he longed to explain. She knew all about it, however, for Jill had been
carried into the house reviling herself for the mishap, and even in the
midst of her own anxiety for her boy, Mrs. Minot understood the state of
the case without more words. So she now set his mind at rest by saying,
quietly.
“Foolish fun, as you see, dear. Another time, stand firm and help Jill
to control her headstrong will. When you learn to yield less and she
more, there will be no scrapes like this to try us all.”
“I'll remember, mother. I hate not to be obliging, but I guess it would
have saved us lots of trouble if I'd said No in the beginning. I tried
to, but she _would_ go. Poor Jill! I'll take better care of her next
time. Is she very ill, Mamma?”
“I can tell you better to-morrow. She does not suffer much, and we hope
there is no great harm done.”
“I wish she had a nice place like this to be sick in. It must be very
poky in those little rooms,” said Jack, as his eye roved round the large
chamber where he lay so cosey, warm, and pleasant, with the gay chintz
curtains draping doors and windows, the rosy carpet, comfortable chairs,
and a fire glowing in the grate.
“I shall see that she suffers for nothing, so don't trouble your kind
heart about her to-night, but try to sleep; that's what you need,”
answered his mother, wetting the bandage on his forehead, and putting a
cool hand on the flushed cheeks.
Jack obediently closed his eyes and listened while the boys sang “The
Sweet By and By,” softening their rough young voices for his sake till
the music was as soft as a lullaby. He lay so still his mother thought
he was off, but presently a tear slipped out and rolled down the red
cheek, wetting her hand as it passed.
“My blessed boy, what is it?” she whispered, with a touch and a tone
that only mothers have.
The blue eyes opened wide, and Jack's own sunshiny smile broke through
the tears that filled them as he said with a sniff,--
“Everybody is so good to me I can't help making a noodle of myself.
“You are not a noodle!” cried Mamma, resenting the epithet. “One of the
sweet things about pain and sorrow is that they show us how well we are
loved, how much kindness there is in the world, and how easily we can
make others happy in the same way when they need help and sympathy.
Don't forget that, little son.”
“Don't see how I can, with you to show me how nice it is. Kiss me
good-night, and then 'I'll be good,' as Jill says.”
Nestling his head upon his mother's arm, Jack lay quiet till, lulled by
the music of his mates, he drowsed away into the dreamless sleep which
is Nurse Nature's healthiest soothing sirup for weary souls and bodies.