A STRANGE BIRTHDAY
Late on the afternoon of that sad day the doctor, coming out of the
oriel room, was met by little Christine. She had been watching for him
on the stairs. It was his second visit since the morning, and his face
was very grave; but its expression altered at once when he caught sight
of Chrissie. Though Stern by name, he was very far from stern by nature,
and he was very fond of the Ross children, whom he had known nearly all
their lives. Besides, it is a doctor's business to cheer up people as
much as possible, and he was touched by poor Chrissie's white face.
Never had the little girl spent such a miserable day, and thankful
though she had been that her darling Ferdy's life had been spared, she
was beginning to doubt if after all he _was_ going to get better. Her
mother had scarcely left him for an instant; she had been busy arranging
the room for him, or rather she had been sitting beside him holding his
hand while she gave directions to the servants.
By the doctor's advice Ferdy's own little bed had been brought into the
room, and he himself moved on to it, lifted upon the mattress as he lay;
and it had, of course, been necessary to carry out some of the other
furniture and rearrange things a little. This would not disturb Ferdy,
Mr. Stern said, but Ferdy's head was now aching from the cut on his
forehead, though it was not a very bad one, and he was tired and yet
restless, and could not bear his mother to move away.
So there she sat, and Mr. Ross had gone off to Whittingham by a mid-day
train, and no one had given much thought to poor Christine.
"My dear child," said the doctor, "how ill you look! Have you been
wandering about by yourself all day?"
"Yes," said Chrissie simply, her lip quivering as she spoke. "There was
nothing I could do to help, and they were all busy."
"Where is Miss Lilly?" asked Mr. Stern.
"She wasn't coming to-day. We were to have a holiday. It--it is Ferdy's
birthday, you know, and we were going to be so happy. _Oh_," she cried,
as if she could keep back the misery no longer, "to think it is Ferdy's
birthday!" and she burst again into deep though not loud sobbing.
Mr. Stern was very, very sorry for her.
"Dear Chrissie," he said, "you must not make yourself ill. In a day or
two you will be wanted very much indeed, and you must be ready for it.
Your brother will want you nearly all day long."
Chrissie's sobs stopped as if by magic, though they still caught her
breath a little, and her face grew all pink and rosy.
"Will he, _will_ he?" she exclaimed. "Do you mean that he is really
going to get better? I thought--I thought--mamma kept shut up in the
room, and nobody would tell me--do you really think he is going to get
better soon?"
Mr. Stern took her hand and led her downstairs, and then into the
library. There was no one there, but he closed the door.
"My dear child," he said, "I will tell you all I can," for he knew that
Christine was a sensible little girl, and he knew that anything was
better than to have her working herself up more and more with miserable
fears. "I think Ferdy will be _better_ in a day or two, but we cannot
say anything yet about his getting _well_. Your father has gone to
Whittingham to see one of the best doctors, and ask him to come down
here to-night or to-morrow to examine your brother, and after that we
shall know more. But I am afraid it is very likely that he will have to
stay in bed a long time, and if so, you know how much you can do to make
the days pass pleasantly for him."
Chrissie's eyes sparkled through the tears still there. "I don't mind
that," she began. "Of course I know it will be very dull and tiresome
for him, but _nothing_ seems very bad compared with if he was going
to--" she stopped short, and again she grew very white. "Oh, you are
_sure_ he isn't going to get worse?" she exclaimed. "I do get so
frightened every now and then when I think of how his face looked, and
it was bleeding too."
Mr. Stern patted her hand.
"You have not seen him since this morning?" he said.
Chrissie shook her head.
"Not since papa carried him in," she replied.
"Would you like to see him very much?"
"Oh, _may_ I? I'll be very, very quiet and good. I'll bathe my eyes, so
that he won't find out I've been crying, and I'll only stay a minute."
"Run upstairs then and make yourself look as much as usual as you can. I
will go back for a moment and tell Mrs. Ross I have given you leave to
come in."
Two minutes or so later Chrissie was tapping very softly at the door of
the oriel room.
"Come in," said Mr. Stern.
He was not looking at all grave now, but very "smily" and cheerful,
which Chrissie was glad of, as it reminded her that she herself must not
cry or seem unhappy. But how strange it all was! She would scarcely have
known the pretty little sitting-room: Ferdy's bed with a screen round it
standing out at one side of the curiously shaped window, her mother's
writing-table and other little things gone. Chrissie could not help
staring round in surprise, and perhaps because she had a nervous dread
of looking at Ferdy.
He saw her, however, at once.
"Chrissie," said a weak, rather hoarse little voice, "Chrissie, come
here."
Chrissie choked down the lump in her throat that was beginning to make
itself felt again.
"Kiss me," he said when she was close beside him. He did not look so
unlike himself now, though there was a bandage round his forehead and he
was very pale. "Kiss me," he said again, and as she stooped down to do
so, without speaking, "Chrissie," he whispered, "I don't want mamma to
hear--Chrissie, just to think it's my birthday and that it's all through
our great wish coming true. Oh, Chrissie!"
The little girl felt, though she could not see him, that Mr. Stern was
watching her, so she made a great effort.
"I know," she whispered back again, and even into her whisper she
managed to put a cheerful sound. "I know, Ferdy darling. But you're
going to get better. And you haven't any very bad pains, have you?"
"Not very bad," he replied. "My head's sore, but I daresay it'll be
better to-morrow. But that won't make it right, you see, Chrissie. It's
it being my birthday I mind."
Christine did not know what to say. Her eyes were filling with tears,
and she was afraid of Ferdy seeing them. She turned away a little, and
as she did so her glance fell on the window, one side of which looked to
the west. She and Ferdy had often watched the sunset from there. It was
too early yet for that, but signs of its coming near were beginning;
already the lovely mingling of colours was gleaming faintly as if behind
a gauzy curtain.
"Ferdy," said Chrissie suddenly, "I think there's going to be a
beautiful sunset, and you can see it lovelily the way you're lying.
Aren't you awfully glad you're in here? It wouldn't be half so nice in
your own room for seeing out, would it?"
"No, it wouldn't," said Ferdy, more brightly than he had yet spoken. "I
can't move my head, only the least bit, but I can see out. Yes,
Chrissie, I can see the people on the road--I mean I could if the
curtain was a little more pulled back."
"Of course you could," said Mr. Stern, coming forward. "But you must
wait till to-morrow to try how much you can see."
"Shall I have to stay in bed all to-morrow?" said Ferdy.
"We must hear what the big doctor says," Mr. Stern replied, for he had
already told Ferdy that another surgeon was coming to see him, so that
the sudden sight of a stranger should not startle the little fellow.
"Now, Chrissie, my dear, I think you must say good-night; you shall see
much more of Ferdy to-morrow, I hope."
They kissed each other again, and Chrissie whispered, "Don't mind about
its being your birthday, darling. Think how much worse you might have
been hurt."
"I know. I _might_ have been killed," said Ferdy in a very solemn tone.
"And do watch the sunset. I think it's going to be extra pretty,"
Chrissie went on cheerfully. "If you _have_ to stay in bed, Ferdy, it
will be nice to have this lovely window."
And Ferdy's face grew decidedly brighter.
"Good little woman," said the doctor in a low voice as she passed him,
and by the way mamma kissed her Chrissie knew that she too was pleased
with her.
So the little sister was not altogether miserable as she fell asleep
that night, and she was so tired out that she slept soundly--more
heavily indeed than usual. She did not hear the sound of wheels driving
up to the house soon after she had gone to bed, and this was a good
thing, for she would have guessed they were those of the carriage
bringing her father and the doctor he had gone to fetch, from the
station, and her anxiety would very likely have sent away her
sleepiness.
Nor did she hear the carriage drive away again an hour or two later. By
that time she was very deeply engaged, for she was having a curious and
very interesting dream. She had forgotten it when she woke in the
morning, but it came back to her memory afterwards, as you will hear.
Ferdy did not much like the strange doctor, though he meant to be very
kind, no doubt. He spoke to him too much as if he were a baby, and the
boy was beginning at last to feel less restless and more comfortably
sleepy when this new visitor came. And then the library lamp was brought
up, and it blinked into his eyes, and he hated being turned round and
having his backbone poked at, as he told Chrissie, though he couldn't
exactly say that it hurt him. And, worst of all, when he asked if he
might get up "to-morrow" the strange doctor "put him off" in what Ferdy
thought a silly sort of way. He would much rather have been told right
out, "No, certainly not to-morrow," and then he could have begun
settling up things in his mind and planning what he would do, as
Chrissie and he always did if they knew a day in bed was before them;
for they had never been very ill--never ill enough to make no plans and
feel as if they cared for nothing in bed or out of it.
No, Ferdy was quite sure he liked Mr. Stern much better than Dr. Bigge,
for, curiously enough, that was the great doctor's name, though by
rights, as he was a very clever surgeon and not a physician, I suppose
he should not be called "doctor" at all.
When at last he had gone, Mr. Stern came back for a moment to tell
Ferdy's mother and Flowers how it would be best to settle him for the
night. They put the pillows in rather a funny way, he thought, but
still he was pretty comfortable, and he began to feel a little sleepy
again; and just as he was going to ask his mother what they were doing
with the sofa, everything went out of his head, and he was off into the
peaceful country of sleep, where his troubles were all forgotten, hushed
into quiet by the soft waving wings of the white angel, whose presence
is never so welcome as to the weary and suffering.
When he woke next there was a faint light in the room. For a moment or
two he thought that it was the daylight beginning to come, and he looked
towards where the window was in his own little room; but even the tiny
motion of his head on the pillow sent a sort of ache through him, and
that made him remember.
No, he was not in his own room, and the glimmer was not that of the
dawn. It was from a shaded night-light in one corner, and as his eyes
grew used to it he saw that there was some one lying on the sofa--some
one with bright brown hair, bright even in the faint light, and dressed
in a pale pink dressing-gown. It was mamma. Poor mamma, how
uncomfortable for her not to be properly in bed! Why was she lying
there? He hoped she was asleep, and yet--he almost hoped she wasn't, or
at least that she would awake just for a minute, for he was thirsty and
hot, and the fidgety feeling that he _couldn't_ keep still was beginning
again. He did not know that he sighed or made any sound, but he must
have done so, for in another moment the pink dressing-gown started up
from the sofa, and then mamma's pretty face, her blue eyes still looking
rather "dusty," as the children called it, with sleep, was anxiously
bending over him.
[Illustration: "WHAT IS IT, DEAR? DID YOU CALL ME?"]
"What is it, dear? Did you call me?"
"No, mamma. But why aren't you in bed, and why is there a light in the
room? Aren't you going to bed?"
"Yes, in an hour or two Flowers will come and take my place. You see we
thought you might be thirsty in the night, and the doctor said you
mustn't move."
"I _am_ thirsty," said Ferdy. "I'd like a drink of water."
"Better than lemonade? There is some nice fresh lemonade here."
Ferdy's eyes brightened.
"Oh, I _would_ like that best, but I didn't know there was any."
Mamma poured some out into such a funny cup--it had a pipe, so Ferdy
called it, at one side. He didn't need to sit up, or even to lift his
head, to drink quite comfortably.
"And I think," Mrs. Ross went on, "I think I will give you another
spoonful of the medicine. It is not disagreeable to take, and it will
help you to go to sleep again."
Yes, it did; very, very soon he was asleep again. This time he dreamt
something, though when he awoke he could not clearly remember what. He
only knew that it was something about birds. He lay with his eyes shut
thinking about it for a few minutes, till a sound close to him made him
open them and look round. It was morning, quite morning and daylight,
and from the window came the gentle twittering of some swallows, who had
evidently taken up their summer quarters in some corner hard by.
"That must have been what made me dream about birds," said Ferdy to
himself, though he spoke aloud without knowing it. "I must have heard
them in my sleep."
"You have had a nice sleep," said a voice from the other side of his
bed, and, looking towards her, Ferdy saw Flowers, already dressed and
with a pleasant smile on her face. "Are you feeling better, Master
Ferdy, dear?"
The little boy waited a moment or two before he replied.
"My head isn't so sore, and I'm not so tired, but I don't think I want
to get up even if I might. I want Chrissie to come and sit beside me.
What o'clock is it, Flowers?"
"Just six o'clock, sir. You will have to wait a little before Miss
Christine can come. I daresay she's tired, poor dear, and she may sleep
late this morning; perhaps you will be able to sleep a little more
yourself, Master Ferdy. Would you like a drink of milk?"
"Yes," said Ferdy, "I would like some milk, but I can't go to sleep
again; I've too much on my mind," with a deep sigh.
He spoke in such an "old-fashioned" way that, sorry as the maid was for
him, she could scarcely help smiling a little. She gave him the milk
and lifted him very, very gently a little farther on to the pillows.
"Does it hurt you, Master Ferdy?" she asked anxiously.
"N--no, I don't think so," he replied; "but I feel all queer. I believe
all my bones have got put wrong, and p'r'aps they'll never grow right
again."
"Never's a long word, my dear," said Flowers cheerfully. The truth was
she scarcely knew what to say, and she was glad to turn away and busy
herself with some little tidying up at the other side of the room.
Ferdy lay still, almost forgetting he was not alone in the room, for
Flowers was very quiet. His eyes strayed to the window, where another
lovely sunshiny morning was gilding again the world of trees, and grass,
and blossom with renewed beauty. It was all so very like yesterday
morning, all "except me," thought Ferdy, so terribly like his birthday
morning, when he had been so happy, oh! so happy, that it had been
difficult to believe in unhappiness anywhere. And yet even then he had
thought of unhappiness. It was queer that he had. What had put it into
his head? He remembered it all--wondering how very poor, or very old, or
very suffering people, cripples, for instance, could be happy. And yet
he had seen some that really seemed so.
"Cripples"--that word had never come into his mind in the same way
before. He had never thought what it really meant. Supposing _he_ were
to be a cripple? Was it for fear of that that the doctor would not let
him get up? Ferdy moved his legs about a very little; they did not hurt
him, only they felt weak and heavy, and he had a kind of shrinking from
the idea of standing, or even of sitting up in bed.
Was that how cripples felt? He wished somebody would tell him, but it
was no use asking Flowers--most likely she did not know. And he didn't
think he would like to ask his mother; she looked so pale and tired, and
it might make her cry if he spoke about being a cripple. He thought he
might ask Chrissie, perhaps. She was only a little girl, but she was
very sensible, and he could speak to her without being so afraid of
making her cry as if it was mamma--or rather, if she did cry, he
wouldn't mind quite so much.
He wished Chrissie would come. Only six o'clock Flowers had said, not so
very long ago. It couldn't be more than half-past six yet. What a pity
it was that people, boys and girls any way, can't get up like the birds,
just when it gets nice and light! What a chatter and twitter those birds
outside were making--he had never noticed them so much before. But then,
to be sure, he had never slept in the oriel room before. He wondered if
they were the same swallows that were there last year, and every year.
"If they are," thought Ferdy, "I should think they must have got to know
us. I wish they could talk to us and tell us stories of all the places
they see when they are travelling. What fun it would be! I'll ask
Chrissie if she's ever thought about it. I wonder if we couldn't ever
get to--under--stand--"
But here the thread of his wonderings was suddenly snapped. Ferdy had
fallen asleep again.
A minute or two after, Flowers stepped softly across the room and stood
beside the bed looking down at him.
"Poor dear," she said to herself, "he does look sweet lying there
asleep. And to see him as he is now, no one would think there was
anything the matter with him. Oh dear, I do hope it won't turn out so
bad as the doctors fear."