SOME SHOCKING INCIDENTS.
The next two days were busy ones for Marion, for she was almost
constantly at the bedside of poor, delirious Kittie.
As the girl tossed on her pillow she talked incessantly, so that, bit
by bit, Marion learned her sad history, finding that, like herself, the
child had been born and bred in the country, but had run away from her
home only to find treachery and disgrace in a conscienceless city. The
names of “father” and “mother” were constantly on her lips. Then there
was another name which she tried to speak, but which seemed always to
be choked back by a flood of agony or a torrent of bitter, ill-timed
denunciations.
Marion guessed that this name would have meant a revelation. It was
doubtless the name of poor Kittie’s betrayer, which, for some reason
or other, she could never utter.
A sudden dislike to her own child was the next development of the
fever. When she saw its tiny face she screamed and shrieked with rage.
It was necessary to remove it from her sight entirely.
“It is a typical case,” said Miss Williams to Marion. “You can study
the chart as much as you wish. It will not hurt you to learn the
tracings, even though you are a ‘probationer.’”
On the very next bed to Kittie lay an older woman. She was also a
mother and was slowly dying of consumption.
As Kittie moaned and cried, this woman wept silently. In her own dire
distress she was consumed with pity.
“Oh, the misery of it all,” she sighed, as Marion bent over her.
“Bless your dear face, nurse, and may the good God keep you from such
wretchedness.”
Marion looked upon death for the first time that night, for the poor
consumptive died without a sound or struggle.
Try as they would, they could not keep it from Kittie. There was too
much to be done, too many to be cared for, to go into any extraordinary
effort at secrecy. As the stretcher was carried out with the still,
cold figure upon it Kittie almost sprang from her bed and tried to peer
over the screen to look at it.
Marion caught her in her arms and pressed her firmly back. The girl was
screaming with horror, and as strong as a lioness.
“She is my mother, I tell you!” she shrieked over and over. “I saw her
face once. I am sure she is my mother!”
Miss Williams came to Marion’s help and together they laid Kittie on
her pillow. There were shrieks and groans all over the ward, for Kittie
had excited all the other patients.
Marion would have gladly put her fingers in her ears to shut out the
sounds, but one glance at Miss Williams’ face made her ashamed of her
cowardice.
In a few minutes the head nurse and an assistant were moving about the
ward—they went from bed to bed, quieting and soothing their patients.
Kittie was lying back exhausted on her pillow now, and as she lay
staring at Marion her eyes seemed suddenly to emit a brilliant lustre.
Marion was fascinated by the glance and sat staring back mutely. She
held one of Kittie’s hands and was stroking it absently.
Suddenly Kittie leaned a little toward her and began to mutter. There
was a fierce intensity in her manner, as though she had determined to
impart something which must be divulged.
Marion divined the poor girl’s message at once. It was clear that she
was about to speak the forbidden name, and in spite of herself Marion
could not help feeling a deep interest in the secret.
Over and over again Kittie struggled to speak distinctly, but her
throat seemed parched and her tongue and lips unruly.
Marion held her head and gave her some water, trying with wonderful
self-control to lay her back upon her pillow.
“I must! I must!” whispered the poor girl, distinctly. “I must tell it
to the world for my baby’s sake. You shall know, every one shall know
my baby’s father.”
“Not now, dear,” said Marion, soothingly; “another time. Lie down,
Kittie, and be calm. You will be better to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” murmured the girl, hoarsely. “To-morrow I shall be dead!
To-night I must speak! To-night or never.”
Marion saw that she could do nothing, so she leaned sadly over the bed.
“If it will relieve your mind, Kittie, you can whisper it to me softly.
I will never tell. It shall always be your secret.”
The burning eyes of the sick girl were searching her face, and the
claw-like fingers which Marion held twitched and trembled convulsively.
“No, no. I can’t speak it,” she said at last, “but there is a
picture—his picture—in the bosom of my dress: the head nurse has it—ask
Miss Williams for it.”
She sank back upon her pillow completely exhausted now. There was a
change passing over her face that even Marion noticed.
In a second Miss Williams was standing beside the bed.
“Poor thing, it will soon be over,” she said, sadly; “put the screen
around her and go to Miss H——, Miss Marlowe. She is suffering greatly,
and I am too busy.”
“What! Leave Kittie now?” whispered Marion in horror.
“She is dead,” said Miss Williams, with a quick glance at Kittie. “The
living first, Miss Marlowe, the living and suffering.”
Marion went mutely across the ward, mastering her grief as she went. In
that one short week she had learned to love Kittie.
“It will soon kill me at this rate,” she reasoned to herself. “Oh, I
must learn not to sympathize so deeply with my patients.”
At sunrise the next morning Marion stood by one of the windows of the
hospital, looking out upon the water, that glinted and gleamed all
around her.
A group of convicts were busy mending a broken spot in the sea-wall,
their two guards standing idly by, each armed with a rifle.
“Here is the picture Kittie spoke of,” said Miss Williams, coming up to
her. “You can look at it, Miss Marlowe, and then you must go to bed.
It is not necessary for you to work day and night, even if you are a
‘probationer.’”
She slipped a picture into Marion’s hand and went away. She was too
busy herself to think of sleeping. A great beam of the golden sun fell
upon the window panes at that instant and Marion’s eyes were slightly
dazzled as she looked at the picture.
Then with a stifled scream Marion dropped the bit of pasteboard from her
hand.
It was a picture of Reginald Brookes—frank, blue-eyed and handsome!