THE first day his father resumed his work, Diamond went with him as
usual. In the afternoon, however, his father, having taken a fare to the
neighbourhood, went home, and Diamond drove the cab the rest of the
day. It was hard for old Diamond to do all the work, but they could
not afford to have another horse. They contrived to save him as much as
possible, and fed him well, and he did bravely.
The next morning his father was so much stronger that Diamond thought he
might go and ask Mr. Raymond to take him to see Nanny. He found him at
home. His servant had grown friendly by this time, and showed him in
without any cross-questioning. Mr. Raymond received him with his usual
kindness, consented at once, and walked with him to the Hospital, which
was close at hand. It was a comfortable old-fashioned house, built in
the reign of Queen Anne, and in her day, no doubt, inhabited by rich and
fashionable people: now it was a home for poor sick children, who were
carefully tended for love's sake. There are regions in London where a
hospital in every other street might be full of such children, whose
fathers and mothers are dead, or unable to take care of them.
When Diamond followed Mr. Raymond into the room where those children who
had got over the worst of their illness and were growing better lay, he
saw a number of little iron bedsteads, with their heads to the walls,
and in every one of them a child, whose face was a story in itself.
In some, health had begun to appear in a tinge upon the cheeks, and a
doubtful brightness in the eyes, just as out of the cold dreary winter
the spring comes in blushing buds and bright crocuses. In others there
were more of the signs of winter left. Their faces reminded you of
snow and keen cutting winds, more than of sunshine and soft breezes
and butterflies; but even in them the signs of suffering told that the
suffering was less, and that if the spring-time had but arrived, it had
yet arrived.
Diamond looked all round, but could see no Nanny. He turned to Mr.
Raymond with a question in his eyes.
“Well?” said Mr. Raymond.
“Nanny's not here,” said Diamond.
“Oh, yes, she is.”
“I don't see her.”
“I do, though. There she is.”
He pointed to a bed right in front of where Diamond was standing.
“That's not Nanny,” he said.
“It is Nanny. I have seen her many times since you have. Illness makes a
great difference.”
“Why, that girl must have been to the back of the north wind!” thought
Diamond, but he said nothing, only stared; and as he stared, something
of the old Nanny began to dawn through the face of the new Nanny. The
old Nanny, though a good girl, and a friendly girl, had been rough,
blunt in her speech, and dirty in her person. Her face would always
have reminded one who had already been to the back of the north wind
of something he had seen in the best of company, but it had been coarse
notwithstanding, partly from the weather, partly from her living amongst
low people, and partly from having to defend herself: now it was so
sweet, and gentle, and refined, that she might have had a lady and
gentleman for a father and mother. And Diamond could not help thinking
of words which he had heard in the church the day before: “Surely it is
good to be afflicted;” or something like that. North Wind, somehow or
other, must have had to do with her! She had grown from a rough girl
into a gentle maiden.
Mr. Raymond, however, was not surprised, for he was used to see
such lovely changes--something like the change which passes upon the
crawling, many-footed creature, when it turns sick and ill, and revives
a butterfly, with two wings instead of many feet. Instead of her having
to take care of herself, kind hands ministered to her, making her
comfortable and sweet and clean, soothing her aching head, and giving
her cooling drink when she was thirsty; and kind eyes, the stars of the
kingdom of heaven, had shone upon her; so that, what with the fire of
the fever and the dew of tenderness, that which was coarse in her had
melted away, and her whole face had grown so refined and sweet that
Diamond did not know her. But as he gazed, the best of the old face, all
the true and good part of it, that which was Nanny herself, dawned upon
him, like the moon coming out of a cloud, until at length, instead of
only believing Mr. Raymond that this was she, he saw for himself that it
was Nanny indeed--very worn but grown beautiful.
He went up to her. She smiled. He had heard her laugh, but had never
seen her smile before.
“Nanny, do you know me?” said Diamond.
She only smiled again, as if the question was amusing.
She was not likely to forget him; for although she did not yet know
it was he who had got her there, she had dreamed of him often, and had
talked much about him when delirious. Nor was it much wonder, for he was
the only boy except Joe who had ever shown her kindness.
Meantime Mr. Raymond was going from bed to bed, talking to the little
people. Every one knew him, and every one was eager to have a look, and
a smile, and a kind word from him.
Diamond sat down on a stool at the head of Nanny's bed. She laid her
hand in his. No one else of her old acquaintance had been near her.
Suddenly a little voice called aloud--
“Won't Mr. Raymond tell us a story?”
“Oh, yes, please do! please do!” cried several little voices which also
were stronger than the rest. For Mr. Raymond was in the habit of telling
them a story when he went to see them, and they enjoyed it far more than
the other nice things which the doctor permitted him to give them.
“Very well,” said Mr. Raymond, “I will. What sort of a story shall it
be?”
“A true story,” said one little girl.
“A fairy tale,” said a little boy.
“Well,” said Mr. Raymond, “I suppose, as there is a difference, I may
choose. I can't think of any true story just at this moment, so I will
tell you a sort of a fairy one.”
“Oh, jolly!” exclaimed the little boy who had called out for a fairy
tale.
“It came into my head this morning as I got out of bed,” continued Mr.
Raymond; “and if it turns out pretty well, I will write it down, and get
somebody to print it for me, and then you shall read it when you like.”
“Then nobody ever heard it before?” asked one older child.
“No, nobody.”
“Oh!” exclaimed several, thinking it very grand to have the first
telling; and I daresay there might be a peculiar freshness about it,
because everything would be nearly as new to the story-teller himself as
to the listeners.
Some were only sitting up and some were lying down, so there could not
be the same busy gathering, bustling, and shifting to and fro with which
children generally prepare themselves to hear a story; but their faces,
and the turning of their heads, and many feeble exclamations of expected
pleasure, showed that all such preparations were making within them.
Mr. Raymond stood in the middle of the room, that he might turn from
side to side, and give each a share of seeing him. Diamond kept his
place by Nanny's side, with her hand in his. I do not know how much of
Mr. Raymond's story the smaller children understood; indeed, I don't
quite know how much there was in it to be understood, for in such a
story every one has just to take what he can get. But they all listened
with apparent satisfaction, and certainly with great attention. Mr.
Raymond wrote it down afterwards, and here it is--somewhat altered no
doubt, for a good story-teller tries to make his stories better every
time he tells them. I cannot myself help thinking that he was somewhat
indebted for this one to the old story of The Sleeping Beauty.