THE HOSPITAL ON THE HEIGHTS
Christmas has a way of jumping out at the world as if it had crouched
down low behind Thanksgiving Day and hidden. Then, suddenly, out
it pops crying: “Ah, ha! You didn’t know I was so near, did you?”
Whereupon everybody gets quite flustered and is set rushing and
hurrying upon shopping and working to make up for being caught unawares.
Christmas played this favorite trick upon the Cortlandt family this
year. He popped out upon Mrs. Cortlandt one morning at breakfast in the
sunny, rosy breakfast room which had so entranced Beth on the night of
her arrival.
“Mercy, Jim!” Mrs. Cortlandt cried as her husband opened his newspaper.
“I suppose I knew in a vague way that this was the tenth day of
December, but I haven’t taken in the fact in connection with Christmas!
Children, we must make out our lists to-day; there are but two little
weeks left! How has it happened?”
“I’ve made mine,” said Natalie, “and Alys has nearly finished hers. We
found out last night that it was dreadfully late.”
“Bethie, you never did real Christmas shopping, did you?” Mrs.
Cortlandt said. “It’s fun, no matter what the papers and magazines say
about it--though of course one does go to bed each night of the final
days feeling that she can’t possibly resume shopping in the morning!
But one always can! Have you made out your list of friends you will
remember?”
Beth shook her head. “No, Aunt Alida,” she said. “There’s the beautiful
miniature of me you’ve had made for Aunt Rebecca. I thought maybe I’d
make Aunt Rebecca a pincushion for her spare room; it’s shabby--I
mean the one she has now is--and I’d like to make something for Janie
and four other girls, only I don’t know what to make.” Beth’s brow
wrinkled; her eyes looked troubled. She, for one, had fully realized
that ten days of December had fled and that she did not know how to
prepare for Christmas in her new surroundings. What, for instance,
could she make for this, her recently discovered family? They all
had more than she could possibly have imagined. Beth’s fingers were
not skilful at fancy work, but buying gifts, and gifts for people so
endowed--she would never be rich enough to do this, even if she could
think of anything to buy.
“Are you old-fashioned about Christmas, too, Bethie? Do you feel that
you must put part of your own strength and time into your gifts, not
buy them?” asked Aunt Alida. “I have a suspicion that Janie and the
four others would rather have a pretty bit of jewelry to wear than
anything you could make. Girls all love rings and bangles and chains
and dangles.”
Uncle Jim had been listening behind the outspread page of his morning
_Sun_. Uncle Jim had a habit of hearing when one thought him otherwise
occupied, and of being interested in problems that one would not have
expected a grown man to understand. That was the main reason why Uncle
Jim was so lovable.
Now he emerged from his paper and looked around its edge at Aunt Alida.
“I believe I forgot to say that Beth has a Christmas account to draw
upon,” he said carelessly, as if Beth were not within hearing. “Santa
Claus deposited a hundred dollars in my hands for her. She will find
it in your care, Alida; I might not be near by when she wanted to draw
upon it. Santa said he did not approve of our buying gifts to be given
in Beth’s name; he said he wanted her to do her own deciding and buying
so he handed over to me for her use the sum I mention. I forgot to
speak of this before.”
“Oh, Uncle Jim!” cried Beth, as she always did at each new instance of
her uncle’s generous thought of her.
Words failed her, but the thrill in her voice, the quick flush and
dilated eyes took their place. There is no telling what Beth might
have done as the magnitude of her personal wealth sank into her
consciousness. A hundred dollars! That would be almost enough to paint
the old house at home, Beth thought; they had been wishing to have it
painted.
Just then Riggs emerged from behind the swinging door and offered Beth
the muffins with his unbending gravity. It prevented any outburst of
gratitude to her uncle on Beth’s part, for Riggs’ solemn dignity froze
Beth’s blood.
Mr. Cortlandt was satisfied with the look in Beth’s eyes as she mutely
thanked him. More and more he saw his little sister, Beth’s mother,
whose life had been so short, in the sweet face of the child she
had not lived to kiss a second time, and more and more he delighted
in giving Beth pleasure, as if he were reaching backward over the
years to make that lost Nannie happy. He nodded at Beth with entire
understanding and affection.
“Don’t forget that you are due at the hospital to-day,” he reminded
her. “Santa Claus mustn’t crowd out your crippled Liebchen, you know.”
“I am going to take Beth there at half-past ten,” said Aunt Alida.
“Send these letters to my room, Riggs, and have these destroyed.” She
indicated the two piles into which she had divided her morning mail as
she spoke. “Beth, dear, tell Frieda that after she has made you ready
she may make herself ready to go to the hospital. I will take her with
us on this first visit to her little sister.”
“She’ll be glad, Aunt Alida--I hope she will be glad after she gets
there!” added Beth. “They are going to tell us whether Liebchen can be
cured, aren’t they?”
“Yes. They operated yesterday afternoon. I am sure I hope the poor
child may walk again,” said Aunt Alida, rising from breakfast.
“Natalie, Alys, Dirk, I want a good report from the schoolroom to-day.
Beth is playing at education this winter, as she is playing at being a
visitor to Wonderland, but it must be real work for you, my dears.”
“Yes, mother,” said Alys dutifully. Alys was the one who was most
inclined to slip as easily as possible through lessons. But there was
a quality in this marvelous Aunt Alida’s gentleness that made her
children obey her when she issued one of her rare commands.
Beth ran up to her room, not waiting for the elevator and the others.
She opened the door of her room; its delicate beauty seemed to come
forward to meet her, as if she saw it for the first time. There was a
bunch of violets and ferns on a small teakwood table; their sweetness
filled the air, spring seemed to be flooding in at the windows through
the delicate net, past the folds of the blue velour curtains, on the
brilliant light of the cloudless sunshine of a New York early winter
morning.
“Oh, Frieda, what a lovely, lovely young room this is, all white and
blue!” cried Beth. “Where did the violets come from?”
“Miss Alys left them. She said you’d know why,” said Frieda.
Beth flushed with pleasure; she did know why. Alys had been a little
bit cross the night before and she and Beth came near having a small
quarrel. These violets were to say Alys was sorry.
“She’s dear, too!” cried Beth, in high satisfaction, meaning that
Natalie and Dirk were not her only lovable cousins, though so far she
had to try not to like them a great deal better than Alys.
“Aunt Alida said that you were to go with us to the hospital, Frieda.
You are to get ready after you have helped me dress. But I will dress
myself, so you can get ready now,” said Beth indistinctly, her face
buried in the violets.
“Mrs. Cortlandt is too kind!” cried Frieda tremulously. “I was
wondering how I ever could wait till you got home to hear about
Liebchen.”
“Especially as we may not come straight home,” added Beth. “Aunt Alida
is going to get ready for Christmas as fast as she can; she didn’t
know how near it was till she happened to see the newspaper date this
morning. If you will do my hair, Frieda, I can go on dressing alone. I
do wonder what Aunt Rebecca would have said if I had had to have help
getting dressed at home!” Frieda threw Beth’s dressing scarf over her
shoulders as the little girl seated herself before the dressing table.
Beth adjusted the pale blue ribbons that tied the neck and sleeves with
the satisfaction this dainty garment always inspired.
Frieda shook out the fly-away masses of Beth’s pretty hair with much
the same satisfaction that Beth felt in the filmy scarf. Beth’s hair
was growing beautiful under her maid’s skilful treatment and Frieda
liked nothing so much as adorning Beth. She had lost her heart to her
little lady at their first meeting and, since Beth had tried to help
Liebchen, Frieda’s love for her was with difficulty kept within the
bounds of a maid’s relation to her charge--not that Beth would have
minded if it overstepped those bounds!
“When I was in Germany, Miss Beth, the young countess I served had
hair much like your own, but I truly believe by spring yours will be
handsomer than hers was,” said Frieda, holding the golden strands
toward the light.
“A countess! Frieda, honest?” cried Beth deeply impressed. “I thought
you were only a little girl when you left Germany.”
“I went back to an aunt to be taught a lady’s maid’s work, Miss Beth,”
said Frieda. “And my aunt got me into the service of the Herr Graf von
Witzleben, to attend the young Grafin Elise. I was glad to come back to
New York, Miss Beth. But she had beautiful hair, Grafin Elise. I mean
to make yours handsomer.”
Beth sighed, a long breath of emotion. “I’ve read about earls and
countesses all my life and I’ve seen pictures of them going around with
coronets and long velvet gowns, in ballads and English history, but I
never, never in all this world expected to have some one do my hair and
brush it till it was better than the beautiful hair of a real, live
countess, whose hair she had brushed before mine! Frieda, there isn’t
a single thing, not one single thing, I honestly believe, that is in a
story-book that doesn’t come out of it and get into my true story this
winter! Nor in fairy stories, either. When I go back home again I’m
pretty near sure I won’t know whether I was a real girl this winter, or
one I read about.”
For once Frieda permitted herself to laugh outright.
“There couldn’t be a story too good for you, Miss Beth dear,” she
said. “And as to noble ladies in Europe they’re not so much different.
A fine lady is a fine lady; if you call her just ‘Miss’ and she’s an
American, or if you call her ‘my lady’ and she’s something else. She’s
only a lady all the same and it makes nothing out what you call her.
Mrs. Cortlandt is a far grander lady to my thinking than the cross
mother of my little Lady Elise over there, not to speak of how handsome
the one is and how awful plain the other was. It’s likely there’ll be
some nobility from Europe dining with your aunt this winter; they’re
often over, and you’ll see lords and ladies are just like Mister and
Missuses.”
“Then I’d rather not see them,” said Beth decidedly. “I should not want
to stop thinking a noble earl was above a man. Only I do think Uncle
Jim could be a king and not be one bit more splendid than he is as his
regular self.”
Beth, her hair in perfect order, insisted upon being allowed to
finish her toilette unaided while Frieda made herself ready for their
expedition. The result was that young mistress and maid were ready
at the same time. Beth ran down to her aunt’s room to report herself
dressed and Frieda repaired to the maids’ sitting-room to wait till she
should be called.
Beth found Anna Mary folding a soft pink wrapper and packing it into
a suit-case in which already lay lace-trimmed white garments and some
attractive looking books. Anna Mary’s face expressed grim disapproval,
but in reality she had eagerly sorted out these gifts for Liebchen and
she felt pleasure in making them ready to go to her.
Aunt Alida gathered up her splendid furs, nestling her chin into their
cloudy softness as she smiled over them at Beth.
“I have had Anna Mary get together some outgrown garments which
belonged to Alys,” she said. “They should be nearly the right size for
Frieda’s little sister. And the girls selected a few of their fairy
tales and a story they thought Liebchen would enjoy. Mrs. Hodgman is
having a basket of fruit and jellies made ready. Shall we go now, Beth
dear?”
“I’m ready, Aunt Alida, and Frieda came down when I did. How lovely
it is, Aunt Alida, to look the way you do in those furs and yet be as
good as you are beautiful, taking things to the hospital!” cried Beth
sincerely.
Anna Mary looked up with a smile and Mrs. Cortlandt actually blushed.
“You funny little Beth,” she cried. “Do you think it proves goodness to
like to give pleasure to a sick child? A Hottentot would want to.”
“You’re not very Hottentotish,” remarked Beth, following her aunt out
of the room, while Anna Mary brought up the rear with the suit-case.
In the hall below they found Mrs. Hodgman waiting with a maid in
charge of a basket that in itself was as refreshing as an orchard;
green and white it was, made of shining braided straw, with a big tonic
red bow triumphing on its handle.
“The car is at the door, Mrs. Cortlandt,” said Mrs. Hodgman. “Kitty,
you may set the basket in the car and then call Frieda. I have grapes
and oranges, Mrs. Cortlandt, and several glasses of jellies and
preserves, lemons, in case the child is feverish, figs--I can’t recall
precisely all that was put into the basket. Here are the flowers you
ordered for Miss Beth to take.”
“I am sure the basket holds all that it possibly can of the wisest
selection, Mrs. Hodgman,” said Aunt Alida, with the smile that made
every one who served her feel rewarded. “Here is Frieda. Good-morning,
Frieda. Don’t look so anxious, child; I am sure we are to hear the best
of tidings. Come, my Bethie.”
They repaired to the car, the chauffeur held the door open and arranged
the robes, while Anna Mary gave a touch to Mrs. Cortlandt’s furs that
was not needed and which showed that austere person concealed affection
for her mistress under her severity. With less noise and fuss than a
car that held itself less proudly would have made, they got under way
and glided smoothly over the asphalt, up the avenue.
“Take the park to a Hundred and Tenth Street, Léon,” Mrs. Cortlandt
ordered the chauffeur, catching the gleam in Beth’s eyes as she looked
over the bordering wall of the park at the trees and the sunny malls
with the prettiest children in the world romping down them.
Léon Charette obediently turned in at the entrance gate and they
slowly made their way northward, one of a procession of cars and
carriages going in the same direction, though not in such numbers as
would be out later in that glorious day.
Beth could hardly sit still; the splendors of human beings, big and
little, of cars, above all the perfect horses and the beauty of the
park had not grown familiar to her. Central Park was like an enchanted
forest of her wonder tales; it gathered up romance, poetry, the Field
of the Cloth of Gold and fairy revels, and made them visible to her;
made her even a part of them.
“I never, never can make Janie understand how it looks,” Beth sighed,
out of a long silence.
“You must have your Janie here for a visit another winter,” laughed
Aunt Alida.
Beth thanked her with a look, but did not reply. She pondered this
suggestion for a long time. “Another winter!” Did Aunt Alida expect
her to spend another winter in this new world? What would Aunt Rebecca
say to that? And poor Aunt Rebecca, alone in the old house! Was Beth a
heartless child to let her pulses leap and her breath come quick at the
thought of coming back to this enchanted life?
“I’m pretty sure I should be homesick after I had time; you do like
things you have first, even if they aren’t very likable,” Beth said,
unexpectedly to herself, aloud.
Aunt Alida laughed again; she seemed to guess Beth’s train of thought.
“And some of us manage to like things because we ought to, but not
many of us, and it is not a genuine singing-in-the-heart liking when we
do!” she said.
“No, it isn’t,” agreed Beth gravely. “It keeps quiet. I guess it takes
all its breath to be a liking at all, so it can’t sing.”
The car turned out of the park, westward, at the uppermost gate. It
came into a broad street through which one caught a glimpse of heights
that Beth had not seen before, crowned by a great cathedral and a
building which Aunt Alida pointed out.
“There is the hospital, Beth,” she said. “That is our destination.”
“It looks kind and not in the least sorry,” said Beth.
At the hospital Mrs. Cortlandt led the way into the entrance hall. Léon
carried in the basket, Frieda took the suit-case. An attendant came
forward and, when Mrs. Cortlandt explained her errand, ushered them
into a waiting-room and disappeared. In a short time they were bidden
to follow a pleasant-faced young woman, in a uniform and cap, to see
Liebchen.
“She is in a remarkably satisfactory condition,” smiled the nurse,
looking at Frieda, divining that she was chiefly concerned in this
report. “It is too soon to tell how much has been accomplished by the
operation, but the child is doing remarkably well.”
Frieda caught Beth’s hand without knowing that she did so, and Beth
returned its pressure. When big things arrive, little things, like
differences in station, disappear like wax in heat.
Mr. Cortlandt had taken a room for Liebchen. When the door opened Beth
saw at once that it was a pleasant room, sunny and attractive, though
plain and white. On the bed lay a child, pale and thin, but with eyes
alight as she watched for the opening of the door. She was a decidedly
pretty child, but there was something so sweet in her face that one
thought more of its lovableness than of its prettiness.
“Oh, meine Frieda!” cried Liebchen holding out her hands; her arms she
could not move.
“Liebchen!” cried Frieda, and kissed the little creature with all her
heart. “And here is Mrs. Cortlandt who is doing it all for you, kleine
Liebchen. And Miss Beth,” added Frieda.
Liebchen smiled shyly, but with eyes warm with love. “I should say
thank you, only it gives no big enough way to say it,” Liebchen said
softly.
“Frieda, help Beth open our budgets, please,” cried Aunt Alida, nodding
at the child and rightly guessing that their baskets would further
acquaintance.
Beth had the covering Japanese napkins off the basket in a twinkling.
In no time at all Liebchen’s room looked like a creditable pantry;
fruit and glasses of good things adorned the dresser and table and
window sill, while Liebchen’s nurse looked on with her face quite shut
up with smiles.
“I do so like to take care of a child whose case allows dainties!” she
cried.
Liebchen was overcome when the contents of the suit-case, the fine
night-gowns, the lacy skirts, the soft wrapper, like a great rose,
overflowed on bed and chairs.
“Oh, my, oh, my, oh, my!” cried Liebchen. “It won’t be enough for me to
walk; I’ll have to dance when I’m up once!”
“You may dance, little Liebchen; if you can walk you can dance!” cried
Mrs. Cortlandt. “Frieda, you are to stay with Liebchen until the nurse
says you must go. Miss Beth will not be at home for some hours, so you
are welcome to stay. I am going to ask that my little niece be shown
the wards, hastily, for we have scant time, but she has never seen a
hospital. Do you think we may go through a ward or two?” she added to
the nurse.
“Surely. I will ring for an attendant,” said the nurse, carrying out
her intention.
Beth went over and bent down to Liebchen. “You’re a dear and I know you
will run like the other kind of a deer soon. And I’m so glad, you don’t
know!”
Liebchen put a hand on each of Beth’s cheeks to draw her face closer
and kiss it. “I love you, love you!” she whispered. “Frieda told me I
should, but you are a million times prettier and nicer than I thought
you were. If I get able to walk do you s’pose you’d let me come and
button you up the back some day, ’stead of Frieda?”
Beth laughed. “We’ll do something better than that!” she cried,
not knowing what it would be, but full of undefined intentions for
Liebchen’s future gladness. “Good-bye, Liebchen! It’s such a nice name,
only you can’t say dear, or anything with it, because it’s that itself!
Maybe I can come again, but anyway you will come to see me and that’s
better.”
She waved her hand back as she stood in the doorway. Of all the
happiness she had tasted in her life Beth had never had a sip of
anything so sweet as the thought that she had brought about Liebchen’s
chance to get well. And, besides, it was delightful to feel that
Liebchen was such a _little_ girl regarded from the summit of Beth’s
additional two years!
Under the guidance of a hospital attendant Beth followed her aunt into
one of the great public wards of the hospital. It was not visiting day
nor hour, but Mrs. James Cortlandt was a privileged person, as Beth
discovered. She did not know then, but later on learned that her uncle
was a large contributor to this hospital and that her beautiful aunt’s
father had been one of its founders.
The ward was wide and long, marvelously clean, with its white plaster
walls and row upon row of narrow white iron beds. But Beth walked
silently down its length, and, after a few steps, slipped her hand into
Aunt Alida’s. The patients on the beds looked comfortable, but there
were so many of them and most of the faces were worn, as if the pain
that brought them hither was only a small part of suffering patiently
borne. One or two of the beds had screens around them. Beth wondered
why, for she saw that Aunt Alida tried to withdraw her attention from
them. She guessed that within the screens were worse cases than those
allowed to lie in the sunshine of the undivided ward.
At last the visit was over. Beth drew a breath of relief as they came
down into the entrance hall. In the car she snuggled close to Aunt
Alida and slipped a hand into her roomy muff.
“Didn’t you like to see the hospital, Bethie?” asked Aunt Alida.
“It is sad, don’t you think so?” said Beth. “Liebchen was all happy; so
was her room. But so many, so dreadfully many, all sick at once! And
lots more we didn’t see! All in rows, sort of like ears of corn. It
seems awful to be sick in a row like that!”
“That isn’t the way to look at it, Bethie,” said Mrs. Cortlandt,
succeeding in stifling a laugh. “If these people had not a bed in a
hospital row, where do you suppose they would be ill? Many of them
in homes far more crowded than a row, without order or cleanliness,
without any one who understood nursing, without the implements of
nursing. Some of them would not have any home to be sick in, not even
the crowded tenement room. The hospital is not a sad place; it is a
cheerful place. Since there is sickness and suffering, the one comfort
is that the hospital gives the poor a chance to get well again. The
ward is bright and sunny. I’m always thankful there are hospitals when
I visit one. Try to see the glad side of things, not the sad side, my
Beth!”
“Yes, Aunt Alida, I do. Only that made me think of that psalm I
learned by heart last: ‘A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten
thousand at thy right hand.’ I felt as if all those little beds were
pavements and I was walking on people fallen on them, ‘at my side and
at my right hand,’ don’t you know? And it does smell perfectly awfully
strong of carbolic!” Beth ended with a shudder.
“Don’t you like carbolic, Beth? I don’t mind it; it is so clean!”
laughed Mrs. Cortlandt. “Say to yourself: ‘I don’t like carbolic, but
neither do all those wicked little harm-working germs!’ Dear Beth, the
main thing to think of when you see any form of suffering is what a
blessed thing it is that mankind has been taught to be merciful, and to
wonder what you can do to help the sadder side of the world.”
“Just as you do!” cried Beth with a closer snuggle. “Only to think that
Aunt Rebecca was afraid I’d be spoiled if she let me come to New York
where you were rich and worldly!”
This time Mrs. Cortlandt did not try to keep back her laughter; it
rang out girlishly. “You funny little Beth, there are two ways to love
the world. One is to take all it can give you and pay no debt to it,
but to live so selfishly and heartlessly, so wickedly, in all sorts of
ways, that you help to make it a worse world than you found it. And
the other is to take its gifts gratefully and try to repay them, and
live so kindly, so lovingly, so purely that you leave the world when
you die, a trifle better than when you came into it. And people with a
little money can do either of these things as well as richer people.
Don’t you see, dear, that worldliness and other-worldliness are in each
heart, not in a safe deposit vault?” said dear Aunt Alida.
“Of course I see, Aunt Alida! I shouldn’t wonder if people were
worldlier when they hadn’t much world and wanted it, than when they’ve
lots of it,” said Beth.
“Harken to the philosopher Elizabeth!” laughed Aunt Alida. “‘Far-off
hills are green,’ chicken; I suspect that is often true. Now let us
discuss giving instead of having. Tell me your Christmas list and what
you mean to give each one on it. It is high time we were about our
Christmasing.”
“I don’t have to make a list, Aunt Alida. I can easily count up all I
want to give Christmas presents to; I did this morning, at breakfast.
Only there are Natalie, Alys and Dirk; I couldn’t put them in when they
were there. And I never could think of a quarter of what they have, so
I’m sure I’ll never be able to think of one thing they haven’t! I might
just as well try to think of something for the Queen as for them! I was
wondering if you could tell me, Aunt Alida?” suggested Beth.
“Alys asked me to get her a certain bangle. I’ll leave it for you to
get, if you like it, Beth. And Dirk wants a fountain pen ‘that will
fount,’ as he says. Natalie--what was it Natalie spoke of the other
day? A little hanging model of a Grecian lamp. She wants it to burn all
night, instead of electricity or gas. Your eldest cousin is reaching
the æsthetic age, Bethie! How would those suggestions please you? It is
such a comfort to know what a person wants! I was going to fulfil these
desires of the children’s, but I’ll hand them over to you, if you like.
We are on our way to the shopping district; you shall see the lamp and
the bangle,” said Mrs. Cortlandt, throwing herself into Beth’s plans
just as heartily as she lent herself to more important things.
Beth felt this and allowed herself to hug her aunt, albeit they were
driving slowly down the western side of the park and emotions are not
ordinarily displayed in the cars and carriages there.
“Aunt Alida, you are perfectly angelically darling!” Beth declared.
“You never seem to think anything doesn’t matter, and you never have
one bit a there-go-along-and-play, child, and-don’t-bother-me way! You
don’t even think it.”
“Beth, child, how could I think all that? There aren’t enough hyphens
in my mind to string so many words together in my thoughts!” cried Aunt
Alida. And, quite unashamed, she hugged Beth back again.