IN THE HOSPITAL
In a private room of a New York hospital, a pale, pain-worn man lay
resting upon his pillows. The surgeons said that he was almost fit for
discharge, and there was the gleam of returning health in his dark eyes
and a faint color in the firm lips beneath the heavy moustache.
He had been looking through his window toward the western sky, but his
thoughts were not upon it, and he scarcely heard his nurse when she
entered. Ill as he would have appeared to anybody who had known him in
his vigor, his present state and progress were satisfactory to her. She
announced her arrival by asking:
“Well, Mr. Manuel, have you been sleeping any?”
“Thank you, no. I’ve just been dreaming, Miss Burnham. I’m very
homesick; very restless and anxious to see my children.”
“That’s good. I like to hear my patients talk like that. It’s a certain
sign of improvement when their interest in things returns. Such an
evidence of strength on your part that, if you wish, I will read to you
whatever you fancy. I’m sure you are able to listen and enjoy news now.”
“Can’t I do that for myself? Though the doctor did forbid me to use my
eyes much yet.”
“Quite right he was. ‘Make haste slowly’ and you’ll not regret it.”
“Haste! when I’ve been here for months!”
“Better for months than for life--or death. What shall I begin with?”
she answered, opening the evening paper as she spoke.
“Of course, any western, or southwestern, news first. The nearest home.”
“It’s matter that interests me, also. I’ve a brother in the southwest;
a station-master on a railway. Some day, when I can, I’m going out
to see him. Ha! Here’s something. I’m always attracted by ‘scare
headlines,’ and this article should please you, too, since it’s all
about children and you seem so fond of them.”
She let her eyes skim the column then exclaimed:
“This is a real fairy tale of wonderful happenings and touches
somewhat upon your own line of business. It is forwarded by a special
correspondent:
“‘Albuquerque, July 17th, 18--. Discovery of a magnificent mine
of the finest anthracite coal. The discoverers are children under
thirteen years of age.’”
“Humph!” exclaimed the convalescent, with doubting emphasis.
“The story of this find is as marvellous as any tale of romance and the
childish discoverers are New Mexican twins. They were born somewhere on
the border of the United States and Mexico and have always lived there.
Their father is in the business of prospecting, or locating, mines
for a syndicate of wealthy men, and had trained the children to that
observation of ‘little things’ which he himself exercised. The little
girl knew that a certain flowering plant grows only where coal is to be
found, and her twin brother had enough knowledge of geology to verify
the discovery. The father of the children, Mr. Adrian Manuel--”
The newspaper dropped from the reader’s hand, and she turned to her
patient in swift alarm. In his still weak state she dreaded the effect
of these unexpected tidings, but he rallied from the startled silence
in which he had listened, and begged:
“Go on! Oh! go on--go on!”
“Mr. Adrian Manuel had, for some unexplained reason, left his home
for a trip to the ‘north,’ leaving his children in the charge of his
household, supposed to be devoted to him. Yet, in some manner, the
youngsters learned that some strangers who had come to their home in
their father’s absence were his ‘enemies’ and would either spirit them
away from their home and him, or work them some other harm. With a
faith as great as their ignorance, they set out to ‘find their father.’
Needless to say that they have failed; though the publicity given their
discovery may, also, discover the lost parent.
“They have had lots of adventures, have been in a ‘norther,’ an Apache
raid, a Pueblo village, a visionary miner’s camp, etc., etc. Indeed,
it was at this last stopping-place, while under the care of the miner
Burnham’s family--”
Again the paper fell. There was a queer sensation about the nurse’s own
heart. Burnham? Her brother? It might be he!
Mr. Manuel could not wait for her recovery, but seized the paper and
finished the article for himself, and aloud. He was excited, yet not
hurtfully so. Pride, amazement, infinite gratitude thrilled in his
tones. When he finished the nurse and her patient could only stare at
one another in silence. Then habit asserted itself and she sternly
inquired:
“Mr. Manuel, did you do this--leave home without telling your people
where you were going and for what?”
Heretofore, he had been ill, meek and submissive. Now he had suddenly
recovered. He grew quite bold and self-assertive, and thus convinced
the nurse that he was indeed uninjured by this first, startling “news
from home.”
“Yes. I now see what a foolish thing it was, but it didn’t seem so
then. There was so much uncertainty--But I can’t talk! I’m well,
and--Why in the world hasn’t Miguel been here? Or has he? His letter
of instructions, it’s past time for opening that--I told him he needn’t
write unless trouble happened. I was determined to recover if human
will could aid the surgeons and I knew that to hear often from Refugio
would tend to make me restless and so hinder my progress. There was
plenty of money and it is a land where money counts for less than
friendliness.”
“Why hasn’t the manager been here? Probably because that, after he read
your letter, he realized how much depended on your peace of mind, which
your knowledge of the children’s loss would utterly destroy. He loved
you too well to kill you outright.”
“But why, then, if my children were in an Apache outbreak--the men
who rescued them--since they must have been rescued--Oh! it’s all a
dreadful muddle. Somebody should have put that into the papers--”
“Maybe that was done. How should we know? You’ve been in hospital
for more than two months. During all that time until to-day you have
neither read for yourself nor listened to reading. In any case, the
advertising columns of the daily press are the last things which I, in
my busy life, have time for perusing. But--about that Burnham. I know
he is my brother. Do you believe he can effect a claim to any part of
that mine? or--oh! I forgot!”
He smiled gayly.
“I don’t want you to forget. I want you to remember. And--I am going to
Albuquerque. I start to-night. I’ve thought the details out, already.
You are going with me, and on the same train with the young doctor,
that interne, who has been so faithful and who needs a vacation almost
as badly as you do. The trip will be glorious. We’ll surprise them all.
Our interests are mutual. I understand all the red-tapeism of settling
the claims to this discovery. What do you say?”
She was a woman growing old in her beneficent but toilsome life. The
thought of seeing that distant family to which her heart so often
turned was tempting. Besides, when this present patient left her care,
it would be time for her vacation. She was resourceful, and deliberated
but a moment.
“Yes. We’ll go. All of us.”
“That’s good of you. Thus, under the care of my doctor and my nurse,
I can make the trip in safety, even though I’ve not yet received my
hospital discharge. Well, if we’re going, as my little Carlota would
say--‘Let’s!’”