Her first night in the hospital was very dreary. No one can be
surprised to hear that she shed some sorrowful tears. She was not taken
into a public ward, the kindness of Mrs Seaton procured for her a
private room while she should be there. There were two beds in it, but
the other was unoccupied, and after the first arrangements had been made
for her comfort, she was left alone.
How solitary she felt as she sat listening to the street-noises, and to
the voices and footsteps that came from other parts of the house. The
street was so narrow and so far beneath that she could see nothing that
was passing in it. The weather-beaten roofs and glimpses of dusty
tree-tops that formed the view reminded her of the sorrowful days she
had passed in Mrs Lee's attic-nursery, and a feeling very like the old
miserable home-sickness of that time made her close her eyes and drop
her face upon her hands.
Poor Christie! She had never prayed half so earnestly that she might be
strong and well again as she now prayed that she might not be left to
fall into an impatient, murmuring spirit. She shrank from the thought
of a renewal of these heart-sick longings as she had never shrunk from
the thought of enduring bodily pain. She prayed with all her heart
that, whatever suffering lay before her, God would give her strength and
patience to bear it--that she might be made willing to abide His time,
with no impatient longings as to what the end might be.
God has many ways in which He comforts His children. Leaning her tired
head on the low window-sill, Christie slept and dreamed, and in her
dream, peace came to her spirit. A strange, soft light spread around
her, like the gleam she had once seen fall on the sea in the early
morning. Only the sea seemed near now, and there were strange, bright
forms flitting over it, and on the other side, far-away yet near, her
mother beckoned to her. She knew it was her mother. Her smile was the
very same, and the loving look in her eyes. But, oh, she had grown so
beautiful! Gazing and stretching her arms towards her, she seemed
conscious of a sweet and awful Presence, before which the shining sea
and the bright forms, and even her mother's glorified face, vanished.
_have called thee by thy name. Thou art Mine_.
_I go to prepare a place for you_.
Whether the words were spoken, or whether she read them as in a book, or
whether it was only a remembrance of what she knew to be true, she could
not tell, but it brought peace ineffable.
She woke at the touch of the nurse, with a start and a sigh of
disappointment. But there was more than patience in the smile with
which she answered her kind chiding; and the woman, looking in her face,
kept silent, feeling vaguely that words of encouragement, such as she
spoke often, as mere words of course, to patients under her care, were
not needed here.
So when Christie rose to a new day in this strange, sad place of
suffering, it was with an earnest desire to be contented and hopeful
during the few weeks she expected to spend in it. It was by no means so
difficult a matter as she at first supposed. She was not confined to
her room, but was permitted at stated times to go with the nurse into
the public wards; and though the sights she saw there saddened her many
a time, she was happy in having an opportunity of now and then doing a
kindness to some poor sufferer among them. Sometimes it was to read a
chapter in the Bible, or a page or two in some book left by a visitor;
sometimes she had the courage to speak a word in season to the weary;
once or twice she wrote a letter for some patient who could not write
for herself. All this did her good; and the sight she had of the
sufferings of others did; much to make her patient in bearing her own.
Then, too, she could work; and Mrs Seaton had kindly supplied her with
some of the pretty materials for fancy work which Effie and Gertrude had
taught her. In this way many an hour, which would otherwise have been
very tedious, passed away pleasantly and even quickly. She had books
too; and once, during the first month of her stay, Mrs Seaton visited
her, and several times proved her kind remembrance of her by sending her
some little gift--as a bunch of flowers, a book, or some little delicacy
to tempt her variable appetite. Martha came almost every Sabbath, and
from her she heard of the little lads and sometimes of Miss Gertrude.
So the first few weeks passed far more pleasantly and rapidly than she
had thought possible.
When the doctor decided that she must not wait to hear from her sister
before placing herself under surgical care in the hospital, Christie
intended to write immediately to tell her of her changed prospects, but
when she thought about it again she hesitated.
"It will only be for a little while," she said. "I will wait for a week
or two at least. A month, or even six weeks, will soon pass; and if I
can write and tell them I am almost well again, it will not be half the
vexation to Effie and the others to know that I am here. I will wait a
little while at least."
She waited a month and then wrote--not that she was nearly well again,
but hopefully, more hopefully than she felt, for she could not bear that
Effie and the rest at home should be made unhappy about her. So she did
not tell them that she had been there a whole month, and that she was no
better, but rather worse. She told them how kind everybody was to her,
and how the doctor gave her good hopes of soon being as well as ever and
able to get home again.
"Oh, how glad I shall be when that time comes!" wrote poor Christie.
"But you must not think, Effie, that I am fretful or discontented.
There are many things to make it pleasant for me here that I cannot
write to you about, and the doctors tell me that when I get over this I
shall very likely be better and healthier than ever I was; and whatever
happens, we are quite sure that this trouble was sent to us by One who
cares for us. He has not forsaken me and never will, I am very sure of
that."
If Effie could have known of all the tears that fell before that letter
was fairly folded and sent away, she would hardly have taken all the
comfort from it that Christie intended she should; for notwithstanding
the doctor's frequent and kind assurances that her knee was doing well,
and that she soon would be as well as ever again, her heart sometimes
began to fail her. She did not think that she was in danger, she did
not doubt but that she should see the green leaves and the wheat-fields
at home. It never came into her mind that month after month, each
growing longer and more painful, might pass before a change should come.
And she never, even in the dreariest days, doubted that all would be
well in the end.
But six weeks, two months passed, and she grew no better, but rather
worse. The active measures thought necessary to check the progress of
the disease in her limb caused her often great suffering. Her rest was
uncertain, and broken by troubled dreams. It was only now and then that
she was at all able to interest herself in the work that at first gave
her so much pleasure. Even her books wearied her. She was quite
confined to her room now, and, of course, left the greater part of the
time alone. She was not often obliged to keep her bed all day, but
being moved to her chair near the window, she could not leave it again
but with the help of the nurse. Hour after hour she used to sit,
leaning back wearily, listening to the distant sounds in the house or
the street, watching the clouds or the rain-drops on the window if the
day was overcast, or the motes dancing in the sunshine if it were fair.
Oh, how long these days seemed to her! The leaves were not fully out
when she came in, and now summer was nearly over. She used to think how
the harvest-fields were growing yellow, and how busy all the people at
home would be at work gathering in the grain. The roses had come and
gone. The numberless blossoms of the locust-tree had nodded and
breathed their fragrance in at the nursery window, and faded, and it was
almost time for the few late blossoms whose coming had so surprised her
last year.
Was it any wonder that many a time her pillow was wet with tears? She
tried not to murmur. The nurse and the doctors, too, thought her very
patient and quiet, and praised and encouraged her, telling her their
hopes that her suffering would not last much longer. But still she grew
weaker every day, far weaker than she knew, for she could not try her
strength now by walking in the hall or climbing the broad stairs that
led to the wards. Yes, she grew weaker. Her appetite quite failed, and
except when the doctor gave her something to ease the pain and soothe
her restlessness, she slept little at night, but dozed in her chair
through the day, starting many a time from a dream of home, or of the
days when she was so happy with Gertrude and little Claude, with a pang
which was always new and hard to bear.
Thus awaking one day, she opened her eyes to see a grave, kind face
bending over her. She did not recognise it immediately, but raised
herself up to look again, as it was withdrawn. She knew the voice,
though, which said so kindly:
"My poor child, I fear you have suffered much."
With a flow of tears such as no one had seen her shed since she came,
she grasped the kind hand that was held out to her. It was only for a
moment, however.
"I beg your pardon, sir," she said; "I couldn't help it. I am so glad
to see you."
It was of no use to try to check her tears. They must flow for a minute
or two.
"You remind me so much of Miss Gertrude and my little lads," she said at
last, with a smile, which was sadder to see than her tears, her
much-moved visitor thought. "I don't often cry, but I couldn't help
it," and her voice broke again.
"I have just seen them all," said Mr Sherwood. "They are all at the
sea-side, as you know. They are all well; at least little Claude is no
worse than usual. Miss Gertrude made me promise to come to see you.
She never knew, till she joined Mrs Seaton at the sea-side, how it was
with you. And see, she sent you this."
"I thought she had forgotten me," said Christie, faintly, as she took,
with trembling fingers, a little note he held out to her. She did not
read it, however, but lay quite still with her eyes closed, exhausted
with her tears and her surprise.
"Mrs Seaton thought you might have gone home by this time," said Mr
Sherwood. "I suppose she did not know you had been so ill. I hope I
may tell Miss Gertrude, when I write, that you will soon be well again."
"I don't know," said Christie, slowly. "I hope I am not any worse. I
must have patience, I suppose."
"I have no doubt you are very patient," said Mr Sherwood, hardly
knowing what else to say.
"I try to be patient, but I am restless with the pain sometimes, and the
time seems so long. It is not really very long. I came in May, and now
it is August; but it seems a long time--longer than all my life before,
it sometimes seems."
Mr Sherwood did not often find himself at a loss for something to say,
but he sat silent now. There came into his mind what Christie had said
to little Claude in the cedar walk that day, about all things happening
for good, and how Jesus, if He saw that it would be best for him, could
make the little boy strong and well with a word, as He did the blind
man. But it would have seemed to him like mockery to remind her of that
now.
For in truth the first sight of the girl had startled him greatly. He
had come to the hospital more than half believing that he should find
that she had gone home to her friends well. She was greatly changed; he
would not have known her if he had met her elsewhere. Her face was
perfectly colourless, after the flush which her surprise at seeing him
had excited, had passed away; her eyes seemed unnaturally large, and her
brow far higher and broader than it used to be; and her hand, lying on
the coverlid, seemed almost as white as the little note she held in it.
What could he say to her? Not, surely, that she would soon be well
again, for it seemed to him that she was past any hope of that.
"You have not read your letter," he said.
"No; I shall have that afterwards; and it is so long since I saw any one
that I ever saw before. Did Miss Gertrude like her school?"
"Yes; I think she liked it. She has grown, I think, and she is greatly
improved in many ways."
"She was always good to me," said Christie, softly.
"Well, I don't know. She told me she was often very cross and
unreasonable with you," said Mr Sherwood, smiling.
"Well, sometimes, perhaps. But I loved her. I sometimes wonder if I
shall ever see her again."
"As soon as she comes home you may be sure of seeing her, and that will
not be long now--unless, indeed, you are better, and should go home
before she comes," he forced himself to add.
Christie made no reply to that, but in a little while she asked about
the children; and though Mr Sherwood was surprised, he was not sorry
that she did not speak any more about herself till he rose to go away.
"Must you go?" she asked, wistfully. "When you hear from Miss Gertrude
again, perhaps you will come and tell me about her?"
"That I will," said Mr Sherwood, heartily; "and I would come before
that if I could do you any good I am sure I wish I could."
"Oh, you have done me good already. I shall have something to think
about all day--and my letter, besides. I thank you very much."
Just then her eyes fell on a flower in his button-hole. He took it out
and offered it to her.
"Oh, I thank you! I didn't mean to ask for it. It will be company for
me all day."
"Are you quite alone from morning till night? Poor child! No wonder
that the time seems long!"
"The nurse comes in as often as I need anything. But she thinks, they
all think, it would be better if I were to go into one of the wards. I
can work or read very little now, and the time would not seem so long
with faces to see, even if they are sad faces."
Mr Sherwood still lingered.
"Do your friends know that you are here? Do they know how ill you are?"
he asked.
"Oh, yes; they know I am in the hospital. I have been waiting till I
should be a little better, to write again to Effie. I must write soon.
She will be anxious about me, I'm afraid."
Her face looked very grave in the silence that followed. Mr Sherwood
would fain have spoken some hopeful words, but somehow they did not come
readily into his mind; and when the nurse at the moment came into the
room, he withdrew.
But he did not forget the wan face of that suffering child. It followed
him into the sunny street and into the quiet library. Alone and in
company, all day long, he was haunted by the wistful eyes of that
patient girl as no sorrowful sight had ever haunted him before.
Mr Sherwood was not what could be called a benevolent man, a lover of
his kind. He enjoyed doing a kind act when it came in his way--as who
does not? But that he should go out of his way to do kind things for
people in whom he had no special interest, only that they were in
trouble and needed help, he had not thought his duty. He had had
troubles of his own to bear, but they had not been of a kind that other
people could help much. At any rate, people had not helped him; he had
not sought help. Possibly he would have resented the idea of any one's
bearing his burdens for him, and no doubt he thought that in this sad,
disappointing world, each one must bear his own. He had called at the
hospital because Miss Gertrude had asked him to call, and hoping that he
should find the little nurse already safe at home with her friends; but
however this might be, he had no thought of anything but pleasing his
little cousin in the matter.
Yet he had borne great and sore troubles in his lifetime--sickness and
sorrow and disappointment. He carried the marks of those troubles
still, perhaps because he had never learned that the way to heal one's
own sorrows is to do what may be done for the healing of the sorrows of
others. Certainly no such thought had ever come into his mind, and he
was quite surprised to find that the pale face and wistful eyes of
Christie still followed him. He did not try to banish the thought of
her as he sometimes tried to banish painful thoughts. He felt deeply
for her. There were few days after that in which Christie did not have
some token of his remembrance. Sometimes it was a bunch of flowers or a
little fruit, sometimes a book or a message from Gertrude. Sometimes he
sent, sometimes he went himself, for the sake of seeing the little pale
face brighten at his entrance.
After a little time he found her no longer in her solitary room, but in
one of the wards. It was not very large or very full. Many of the
white beds, that stood in rows against the walls, were unoccupied; and
most of the patients seemed not very ill, or on a fair way to recover.
But it seemed to Mr Sherwood a very sad thing indeed that the eyes
which shone with such eager longing when he spoke of the fields and
gardens, or of the hills and valleys that he had seen in his wanderings,
should open day after day upon a scene so dreary.
What a strange, sad picture of life it seemed to him. There were old
faces and young--faces on which years of sin and sorrow had set their
seal, young faces that looked old, and faces old and worn and weary, yet
growing slowly back into the look they must have had as little children,
as the end drew near.
There were a few bright faces even there. A young servant-girl occupied
the bed next to Christie on one side. She had been burned severely, but
not dangerously, in saving a child committed to her care from a serious
accident. She suffered much at first, but quite patiently, and in a day
or two was cheerful, even merry, at the thought of getting away to the
country, where her home was. She went away soon, and so did others--
some joyfully, with recovered health and hope, others to be seen no more
among the living.
"Do you like this better than to be quite alone?" asked Mr Sherwood one
day, as he sat by Christie's bed, watching the strange, painful scenes
around him. She did not answer for a moment, and her face saddened as
her eye went down the long ward, thinking of the peculiar sorrow of each
of the suffering inmates.
"For some things I like it better. It is less trouble to the nurse, and
the time does not seem so long. It is very sad, though," she added.
"Even when I am free from pain myself, there is sure to be some one
suffering near me. But I am getting used to it. Folk get used to
anything in time, you know."
Almost always he left her cheerful, and though her recovery seemed day
by day no nearer, she never seemed to doubt that she would soon be well,
at least she never expressed any doubt to her kind friend till one day
after he had been many times to see her.
September had come in more sultry and warm than August had been; even
out in the open streets, towards the mountain, the motionless air was
hot and stifling. It was a trying day in the narrow alleys and in the
low parts of the city, where many an invalid lay moaning and wishing for
the night to come.
In the ward where Christie lay the windows were darkened, and coming out
of the glare of the sun, for a moment Mr Sherwood thought it cool and
pleasant there. It was close and unwholesome, however, as it was
everywhere, and Christie was more restless and feverish than he had ever
seen her. She was now very often that way in the afternoon, she told
him; but when his eyes were accustomed to the dim light, he saw that
there were traces of tears on her flushed cheek, and he noticed that
even now it was all that she could do to keep her voice steady as she
spoke.
He did not ask her what troubled her; he had an instinctive feeling that
the question would bring back her tears, but he said, cheerfully:
"You look as if you needed a good sleep. Suppose I read to you a
little?"
Her Bible lay on the pillow, and he took it up. She laid herself down
wearily, and rested her cheek on her hand. The book opened most readily
at the Psalms, and he read what first met his eye.
"`They that wait on the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, that cannot be
removed. As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is
round about His people, from henceforth even for ever.'"
Christie's countenance lighted up with pleasure as he read, and the
tears that had been close at hand flowed freely. It was only a summer
shower, however, and they were soon dried, but the smile remained. Mr
Sherwood looked at her a little surprised.
"`They that wait on the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, that cannot be
removed,'" she repeated. "Surely that ought to be enough to make me
content."
"And was it because you had forgotten it that I found you with such a
sad face to-day?" he asked, gravely.
He read on, while Christie lay quite still, her eyes closed, and Mr
Sherwood thought she slept; but when he stopped reading she opened her
eyes, and thanked him gratefully. She was evidently soothed and
comforted, and Mr Sherwood could not help wondering at the change.
"I had a letter from my sister Effie, since you were here," said she.
"I trust you had no bad news? Are all well at home?"
"They are all well now, but little Will had the scarlet fever, and Effie
couldn't leave him; and now her holidays are over, and she cannot come
to see me."
"Did you expect her?"
"I did not expect her; but now her holidays are over, she cannot
possibly come, I know."
"I fear you must be greatly disappointed!" said Mr Sherwood, kindly.
"Yes, at first. For a little while I felt as though no one cared for
me, but that was foolish and wrong. If Effie had known how ill I am,
she would have come, though it is such a long way. I am afraid I have
not done right in not telling her."
"But you cannot mean that your sister does not know that you are here,
and that you are very ill?" said Mr Sherwood, in some surprise.
"She knows I am here, but she does not know all. I had just written to
her when the doctor told me I must come here for a while, so I waited
till I should be able to tell her I was better. When I wrote I did not
tell her how long I had been here; there was no use in troubling them
all at home, for it would make them very sorry to know I was suffering
all alone, and they cannot spare either time or money to undertake the
journey here. I kept hoping I should soon be better. She thinks, I
suppose, that I am quite well and at my work in the nursery again. But
I am afraid she ought to know just how I am. I am not better, and if
anything were to happen--"
If any one had asked Mr Sherwood if he thought Christie was likely to
recover, he would hardly have said that her case was a very hopeful one.
But when he heard Christie speaking in this way, his impulse was (as it
too often is in such circumstances) by cheerful and hopeful words to put
the too probable event out of her thoughts, and he said:
"But you are not to think anything is to happen. Why, we shall have you
ready for a race with Master Claude in the cedar walk before the winter
sets in. At the same time, I do not wonder you are anxious to see your
sister. I wish for your sake she were here."
Christie shook her head.
"I am not better, and I don't know what to do. Effie couldn't very well
come, even if I were to ask her; and it would only trouble them all to
know that I am no better after all this time. Still, they would think--
if anything were to happen--" but she could not finish her sentence.
Mr Sherwood was much-moved. It seemed only natural to him that the
poor young girl should shrink from the thought of a fatal termination of
her sufferings, though he felt sure that, as far as any one could be
prepared for the mysterious change, Christie was prepared for it. He
longed to say something to soothe and comfort her, but no words came to
his mind. Taking up the Bible, he read the very same portion again:
"`They that wait on the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, that cannot be
removed;'" and then he added, softly:
"You are in good hands."
Christie's face brightened as she turned her bright, tearful eyes upon
him.
"I know it, I am quite sure of it; and Effie too. I don't know why I
should be anxious and troubled when I have so sure a promise. I am not
strong. I suppose that makes a difference. But I _know_ all will come
out right."