THE HOSPITAL.
When Berty came to herself, she was lying on a bed, and the strange
gentleman was bending over her, with a very anxious expression upon
his pleasant face. Her first impulse was to try running away once
more, but she found she had not strength enough to lift her head from
the pillow. Then she became conscious that there was a bandage round
her temples, and that a kind-looking lady was beside the gentleman,
helping him to unfasten her dress. “They’ll find the pocket-book
now,” thought she, and she tried to put up her hands to shield it;
but the right one was strangely powerless, and the left one the
gentleman held in his, while he felt her pulse. When the lady came to
the pocket-book, which she presently did to Berty’s great distress,
she took it in her hand, and squeezing it a little, handed it to the
gentleman, saying, “I don’t know what it is.” It was no wonder she
did not know, for Berty had wrapped it carefully in several papers,
and tied it with a piece of string before she left home that morning.
“Never mind,” said the gentleman, passing it to Tim, who, Berty now
saw for the first time, was standing at the foot of the bed. “Never
mind, Madam; only make haste, and cut the sleeve from the right arm
there. I suspect it is broken.”
Berty thought it very strange that the gentleman should not know
his own pocket-book when he held it in his hand; but she was so
frightened at the thought of her broken arm that she could scarcely
feel relieved at her escape. The sleeve was soon cut away, and the
gentleman lifted the wounded arm gently, and felt it tenderly here
and there. The pain caused by the motion was so great that Berty
could scarcely help crying out with it; but she made a great effort,
and kept still.
“Yes,” said Dr. John at length,—of course my young readers have
guessed that Dr. John and the strange gentleman were one and the same
person,—“yes, it is as I feared: the shoulder is dislocated, and the
forearm broken.”
Tim gave a pitying exclamation, and Berty a little frightened cry.
“Don’t be alarmed, my dear,” said the Doctor. “It is not so very bad.
If you are only brave and patient, we can put it all right again
directly; and after that we shall take such good care of you that
you will be quite sorry when you are well enough to go away. All our
little people are sorry when their time comes to leave us; are they
not, Mrs. Gantz?”
“But the children,” cried Berty, in dismay,—“what will become of the
children?”
“Sure, ye know I’ll not let them suffer, Berty,” said Tim. “Never you
worry for them.”
“Yes, we’ll take care of the children,” said the Doctor. “Never fear
for them. Now, Berty, see how still you can lie; and you, Madam, keep
hold of this hand while I feel of that poor shoulder again;” and,
with a single dexterous motion, Dr. John brought the bone back to
its wonted place. Berty had been too much taken by surprise to cry
out at first, and when it was over she felt too faint even to groan.
“You are a brave little girl,” said the Doctor, wiping the pale face
tenderly and holding a glass of water to Berty’s lips. “The worst
is over; it is only to dress the arm now and attend to one or two
other little matters. My boy,” turning to Tim, “you may go down to
the carriage,—I think Tom is back by this time,—and tell him to
drive home with you, and ask Mrs. Grey to put up a good basket of
provisions. By the time you are back again I shall be ready to go
with you.”
Tim telegraphed, in answer to Berty’s imploring look, that he would
take care of the pocket-book, and would not betray her; for Tim, it
must be remembered, had not the slightest notion to whom it belonged,
not having noticed little Mary’s question, and he would not, for the
world, have exposed Berty to the risk of going to the Tombs by taking
it to the station-house now: and yet the honest boy could not help
feeling almost guilty as he put the package in his pocket and went
down to the carriage.
“Now we are rid of the boy,” said Dr. John, who had been all the time
busily at work putting splints and bandages upon the broken arm,—“now
we are rid of the boy, we’ll attend to that bruise on the side and
the sprained ankle; and then I think you can change her clothing a
little, perhaps. Does your arm feel better now, my dear?”
“Much better,” answered Berty, faintly; “but oh, my side!”
The side was, indeed, the worst injury, for the horse’s hoof had
struck there, tearing off the skin and inflicting a frightful bruise.
The Doctor feared at first that a rib was broken, but finally
concluding it was not, he dressed the wound carefully and bandaged
the sprained ankle. Then the good nurse put on a little white
night-gown in place of the soiled and torn dress; and, by the time
Tim came back, Berty was much more comfortable, though still very
faint and in great pain.
“Your sister is a right brave little girl,” said Dr. John, as Tim
came to the bedside. “I never had a grown-up patient who behaved
better.”
“Berty’s not one of the whining sort,” Tim answered; “but, sir, she’s
not my sister at all.”
“Ah! is she not? I thought you were very unlike,” said Dr. John,
glancing from one to the other.
“She’s Dutch and I’m Irish, sir; but we live in the same house.”
“Fellow-lodgers, eh? That explains it. But about these children, now.
How many are there?”
“Four, sir,” answered Tim.
“And you don’t mean to say,” said the Doctor, turning to Berty, “that
there is no one who takes care of them but you?”
“Lieb helps me,” answered Berty, faintly, turning her face away from
Dr. John’s compassionate gaze. Berty did not much like talking to, or
looking at, the Doctor, kind as he was, and pleasant as he looked,
for the pocket-book somehow would come between.
“Who is Lieb?” asked Dr. John, turning again to Tim.
“He is her brother, sir; but he’s younger than she, and they’ve no
one else. The father died at sea, and the mother wint afther him last
spring, sir. It’s very hard upon Berty, sir, feeding so many little
mouths, and she’ll not let me help her, though I’ve tried, many a
time and oft.”
“Hard enough, indeed,” said Dr. John, exchanging a glance of surprise
and pity with the nurse; “but she can’t help herself now, my lad; so
you and I will take care of them in spite of her. You are faint and
tired, my dear,” he added, turning to Berty; “but all you have to do
now is to rest and get well. I would go to sleep directly, if I were
you. We’ll look after the children, this young gentleman and I; and
I promise you they shall not want for anything. I will see you again
to-morrow. Good night, now, and God bless you.”
Berty could only murmur a faint “Thank you,” in answer to all this
kindness; for the pocket-book loomed up very big by this time, I can
tell you. When the Doctor and Tim were gone, and the nurse, after
smoothing the bedclothes and arranging the pillows very comfortably,
went off to attend to her other patients, Berty tried to think the
matter over and decide what to do; but she was much too faint and
tired for such weary work, and soon, in spite of her efforts, obeyed
the Doctor’s parting injunction, and fell asleep.
Great was the amazement at Mrs. Flanagan’s when the grand carriage
drove up, and Dr. John and Tim got out; and dire were the
lamentations of Berty’s little family when informed of the accident.
But Tim’s glowing account of the comforts of the hospital and the
kindness of the Doctor and the nurse went far to console them; and
Mrs. Grey’s famous basket of provisions, too, was a great help:
for these poor little children seldom tasted anything really good;
and even Gottlieb and Lina, who were the only ones old enough to
appreciate their sister’s misfortune, could not help heartily
enjoying the wholesome food.
Fritzy cried a little for his Berty when bedtime came, but Lina
managed to soothe him; and, for the rest, the Doctor’s pleasant face
had so won their hearts that they were quite ready to credit Tim’s
assurance that both they and Berty would be safe under his care.
Tim did not sleep at the foot of the stairs again, but spread his
straw pallet at the head of them, close to the children’s door, in
spite of uncle Teddy’s remonstrance. He did not mind the hard bed in
the least; but the pocket-book pricked so, through the thin pillow
under which it was laid for safe-keeping, that Tim resolved to bring
Berty to terms on the morrow, or never to take charge of it again.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]