Ruth's first night on duty at the hospital, ten days later, was
eventful.
She had the care of two patients, each in a room by himself, with an
open door between. One of these patients was a man with a broken arm, a
displaced rib, a bandaged head and wandering brain. He made no trouble
and was perfectly quiet, except an occasional mumbling to himself.
The other patient, the one who appealed more strongly to her
sympathies, was a boy about fifteen. Both legs had been broken in an
automobile collision and he was suffering from internal injuries. In
spite of constant pain his courage never weakened. He was always in
good spirits and trying his best to smile. His gratitude for any
attention went straight to the heart of his nurse:--"That pretty little
nurse with the sad face" as one surgeon described her.
Ruth was much impressed by Dr. Gladwin, a tall, heavy man, with a
bushy head of the whitest hair. His eyes were threatening, his glance
warlike, all in amusing contrast, however, to his friendly, cheerful
voice, his gentle manners and his unfailing sympathy. He said to her
that evening, after giving his instructions:
"We have not been able to define precisely this boy's injuries. The
constant pain about his chest is a bad sign, but we are hoping for the
best. His legs will be as good as ever."
While these words were spoken Ruth looked across the room toward the
patient. His eyes were closed. The round boyish face was drawn with
pain. At that moment his eyes opened and he returned Ruth's look with
a smile. It was a smile of friendliness and courage, the resolute,
pathetic courage of youth clinging to life. The look itself and the
tale it told brought a sudden moistness to the eyes of the new nurse.
Then she followed Dr. Gladwin into the adjoining room.
Standing by the bedside of the other patient she looked down upon a man
whose eyes were partly covered by the bandage about his head. The pale
face had the somewhat disreputable appearance that goes with a scrubby,
unshaven chin.
"This man," said the doctor, "has, as you know, a broken arm and rib,
with an injury to his head. He remains unconscious. The first few days
he made no effort to speak. But now he murmurs something at intervals;
always the same words, I am told. The effort to speak is a favorable
sign in this case, as it indicates a returning memory. He will probably
recover."
A few further instructions as to her own duties, and he departed.
Ruth found the boy more greedy for companionship than the unconscious
patient--which was not surprising. No human being could be braver
than this boy. Yearning for sympathy he liked to have his hand held
by this new nurse. As the night wore on he told her in a fragmentary
way, between periods of pain, of his parents in San Francisco, of his
ambitions, if he ever recovered. He also gave details of his accident
last Saturday, just how he was thrown from the motor when they collided
with the other car.
But the new nurse did not neglect the less interesting patient in the
next room. He seemed like one in a deep, unending sleep, except for the
occasional smile that came to his lips and the muttered words--whatever
they were.
About two o'clock in the morning the boy closed his eyes and he,
also, slept. Ruth arranged the covering about his neck and shoulders
then stepped gently into the adjoining room. For a moment she stood
at the bedside of the unconscious man with the scrubby chin. He lay
motionless, and in a slumber so deep, so silent, that it seemed to Ruth
he could easily pass away and none be wiser. Then, for a time, she
stood at the open window, looking out into the peaceful summer night
and up at the stars. Her thoughts, when alone these days, were always
in the past, and they were heart breaking. To-night, even the rising
moon, although in its fullest beauty, seemed a perfect symbol of her
own future--a world of dust and ashes.
At last, with a sigh of resignation--a sigh of despair and buried
hopes--she left the window. Again she stood beside the unconscious and
less interesting patient; he of the bandaged head and scrubby chin. As
she was turning away she noticed a movement of his lips--the beginning
of the periodic smile. She felt a sudden curiosity to hear the coming
words. If, as the doctor said, they were always the same, they might
be a message he had wished to send, important to wife or parents, that
could lead to his identification. Besides she had a strong desire to
learn what words or what thought behind the words--could bring so much
happiness, even momentarily, to a half conscious spirit.
The light in the room, while softened by shades, was clear enough to
reveal the uncovered portion of his face. And, as she looked more
carefully, the face was less "common" than she had judged from the
unshaven chin. She leaned over the bed, her face not far from his,
and listened. Through the open window came no sound from the sleeping
city; only the pale light from the rising moon; that cold, dead world
of dust and ashes. It may have been the solitude and the silence of the
hour that brought to Ruth a feeling of awe--almost of guilt at this
intrusion upon the privacy of another's thoughts; secrets, perhaps,
of a defenseless brain. As she was wondering what sort of accident had
brought him there the blissful smile became more pronounced. Although
his eyes were partly covered by the overhanging bandage it was clear
that the dormant spirit within was stirred by memories of a supreme
happiness, of a transcendent joy that no physical pain could extinguish.
Further still she bent over, until her face was near his own.
Then, through every nerve of brain and body, she felt a sensation of
mingled awe, of terror, of bewilderment, as if she were suddenly in
touch with another world, when she heard, hardly above a whisper:
"Cyrus, come back. I have--always--loved you."
* * * * *
Breathless, as in a trance, Ruth gazed at the lips, where lingered--but
slowly fading, as if reluctant to pass away--the expression of a great
content. The brief liberty of a rapturous thought. Then back into the
darkness.
* * * * *
Needless to say that Cyrus Alton was not neglected during his
convalescence. And Dr. Gladwin's prophecy was correct. Cyrus not only
recovered but his recovery, after once regaining consciousness, was
surprisingly rapid. So rapid that the "little nurse with the sad face"
threw aside her sadness, as if waking from a dream, and became the
happiest and most inspiriting person in her vicinity.
On a certain afternoon, when the convalescent was first allowed to talk
as much as he wished, he told his story. And no better audience could
be desired than the one then seated on the bed beside him, and quite
near the speaker--perhaps to save him the effort of raising his voice.
The day was warm, the windows open. Faintly through the closed blinds
came the murmur of the city, from beyond the spacious grounds of the
hospital.
The story was simply told. He started at night for the red planet. He
got there and he landed. The air seemed much like ours. But he found
himself in a world quite different from his own. All was architecture;
temples, towers and enormous viaducts fading away into the horizon,
as far as the eye could see. And everything was tall and slender. The
trees were very high with branches pointing upward like poplars, and
always formally laid out in avenues, or in geometric patterns. And the
color! It was like looking at an endless city through orange glasses.
The few people he saw had larger heads than ours, more like children,
but like children with very short legs. They were surprisingly light on
their feet. He was surprised at their high jumps until he remembered
that a man who weighs two hundred pounds on the earth weighs but
seventy-five pounds on Mars. He really saw but little, however, for
although he had tested the atmosphere he found, after looking about
him a moment, that the air, while pleasant enough to breath, was
affecting his nerves and brain, almost like laughing gas. Then, as
he stood there, and began to realize his danger, the wonderful thing
happened!
Like a soft whisper it came to his ears; gently but clearly, the words
that made him forget the things about him,--and all else, for that
matter. He thought, at first, the lighter air was affecting his nerves
and exciting his imagination; that his own brain was fooling him. For
he knew, or thought he knew, that such a thing was impossible. But as
he stood there, wondering, hoping, trying hard to believe it might be
possible, the message came again, in the same words. Then he knew it
was no delusion. He knew it was no invention of his own, nor the cry
from his own heart of its one desire.
"And, oh, Ruthy, it was the best news that ever came to that planet!"
After various remarks of a not impersonal nature from his audience, he
continued:
"And to think of its getting there! I knew it was possible,
theoretically, but I didn't really believe it. Three times it came.
Then I wasted no more time in wondering. I clambered back into the
machine. Foreign countries had no further interest for me!
"Foreign countries indeed!" and Ruth closed her eyes, and shuddered.
"Well," the traveler continued, "I reached home at night, as you know."
"Reached home!"
He laughed. "That shows how relative all things are, doesn't it? By
home I meant the Earth. I traveled as fast as I dared for I wanted
to meet somebody at Longfields. Instead of coming down over North
America I found I was sailing up over the Eastern coast of Africa.
When at last I struck Massachusetts, I met a thunderstorm. Any fool
would know better than to stay out in it, but I was in a hurry to get
to Longfields--where I had important business--and I took a chance. I
was nearing Worcester when the storm struck me I had run into it, not
realizing how fast I was going."
"Yes, yes--go on!"
"Well, I shall never know just what happened. I don't even know what
became of the machine. The next thing I did know I was in this bed, and
you beside it. Until you spoke to me and I heard your voice I believed
I was dreaming."
"What do you think did happen, Drowsy?"
"I think a touch of lightning, an electric shock of some kind, knocked
me silly, burst the door open and sent me heels over head out of the
falling machine."
Then Ruth told him how he was found in a field, the ground, not far
away, all dug up, a big tree splintered and a stone wall torn to pieces.
"Yes, yes--it probably took a run for a high jump, went off into space
and is now about a thousand billion miles the other side of Neptune."
"Thank heaven, it's gone!" exclaimed Ruth. And obeying a sudden
impulse she leaned over and kissed the happy man.
At that moment Dr. Gladwin entered from the adjoining room. Quickly
Ruth straightened up and backed away, her cheeks redder than roses.
The old doctor laughed, his face aglow with a boyish delight. "Don't
let me interrupt, for that's what makes the world go round. Doesn't it,
Mr. Alton?"
"Yes, Doctor. It always has and it will, forever and forever."
"True, indeed! And how far above science, electrical, medical and any
other kind, or any human invention--even yours."
"There's no comparison," said the smiling patient.
"And what a heaven-sent cure for a damaged head and arm and ribs!"
"And a damaged heart," said Cyrus, waving a hand toward the rosy Ruth.
"It's more than a cure. It's a continuous miracle!"
Here the much embarrassed Ruth interrupted: "Please don't think, Dr.
Gladwin, that----"
"That you treat other patients as kindly? Oh, never!"
"God forbid!" exclaimed Cyrus.
"I want you to know," Ruth persisted, "that in September there is to be
a----"