THE CRIPPLED BOY.
DURING Marion's call at the Home for the Sick in company with the
pastor, they examined the record of patients, etc., and related
to Dr. B— the singular circumstance of the brother and sister,
natives of another country, being there at the same time, each
longing to find the other, and remaining unknown. There were the
names and dates fully recorded:—
"Men's Medical Ward, Harold Angus, New York, aged twenty-four.
Disease, typhoid fever. Entered March 7, 18—. Discharged cured
June 20, 18—. Address of friends, Mr. James Whitney, New York City."
"Women's Medical Ward, Stella Angus, Doncaster, England, aged
twenty-two. Second admittance. Disease, consumption. Entered
May 2, 18—. Died June 4, 18—. Place of burial, Greenwood. Address of
friends, Miss Mary Angus, Leyden, England."
"I recollect perfectly," remarked Dr. B—, "that Stella, as we called
her,—from Miss Howard introducing her by that name,—often spoke
to the chaplain and to the nurses of one whom she had injured, and
that she wished to atone for it. I never heard, Mr. Angus, that you
mentioned her name."
"I never did. I supposed her to be in England. I can only believe
that God, for His own wise purpose, kept the knowledge of her
triumphant death from me till I could say, in regard to all His
dealings, 'Thy will be done.'"
From the Home they drove at once to Greenwood. The lot was small and
inexpensive, but it had been well cared for, and the grave, covered
with myrtle, was green and beautiful.
Marion led the way to the spot and then retired to a distance,
leaving the mourner alone with his sorrow. Not yet did she know how
deeply Stella had injured her brother, and so she could not
appreciate, as she did afterward, the abandonment of his grief as he
fell on the grave, saying,—
"My sister! My sister! Is it thus we meet?"
Still, as she walked away, with bent head and fast-falling tears,
she repeated to herself the familiar quotation,—
"To err is human, to forgive, divine."
At the head of the grave Marion had caused a simple stone to be
erected, with merely these words,—
STELLA.
ASLEEP IN JESUS.
As they were turning to leave the sacred spot, he pointed to it,
and tried to utter the words,—
"Thank you," but his voice choked.
Now, he in whom she had taken so deep an interest, whose happiness
had for a time been so intimately interwoven with her own, had sailed
for England. He had made a hasty call, on his return from Grantbury,
and received from her the precious letters assuring him of his
sister's affection. He had seemed ill at ease when she thanked him
for allowing her to peruse them, pressed her hand warmly as he bade
her farewell, took his hat from the table in the hall then suddenly
threw it down again, exclaiming,—
"I cannot leave you without saying, if we never meet again, I shall
die blessing you for your goodness to Stella and to me. Miss Howard,
you have opened a new future before me. You—but I cannot,—I ought
not to say more. Will you add one favor to the many I have received
at your hands? Will you answer a letter from me? May I tell you of my
visit to my native land, to the graves of my parents?"
He fixed his eyes full on hers, which at last fell before the ardor
of his gaze, while she answered frankly,—
"Mr. Angus, for Stella's sake and for your own, I shall be very glad
to hear from you. My time will be spent among my poor. If I find
anything to interest you, I will certainly write in answer to yours."
Marion was practical rather than sentimental, and she plunged into
the business of life as though nothing more than usual had occurred.
In one day, she visited Mary Falkner at the Home, gave music lessons
to four pupils, went with Hepsey nearly a mile to inquire for one of
her mission boys, and brought home for evening work one of the rolls
from the mission chapel, in order to stencil an additional hymn
upon it.
Still, wherever she went, however employed her thoughts were with
a lonely traveller whom the waves were every hour carrying farther
and farther away. While driving, with Hepsey by her side, through the
thronged thoroughfares, or sitting at her own well-spread board, the
question constantly recurred: "Why did he say, 'if we never meet
again'? Does he not expect to return?" Then her pulse beat more
warmly as she recalled the expression of his eye, and added, "I know
he hoped we should meet again."
In the morning Mr. Lambert called, and found her leaning over the
large table in the dining room, printing with the stencil plate the
hymn, work which company had obliged her to postpone the previous
evening.
He had scarcely taken his seat before he began to scold her.
"You ought to have a guardian," he began, in loud voice. "Pale as
ashes,—taking work out of the printer's hands, too. Well, they may
starve for all I care. World upside down, as usual."
"Will you please help me roll this?" asked Marion, turning an arch,
smiling face full upon him. "It must be held very tight, or it will
wrinkle. Mr. Lambert, why don't you help me in my mission school?"
"Help—mission school—insane idea—couldn't get any scholars—
pretty teacher, indeed!" He grumbled away for some time to himself,
and finally ended with a fit of laughter. "All nonsense,—throwing
away money on bummers, stuff and nonsense—embryo thieves and
murderers." He walked to the window, pretended to be examining the
flowers in the conservatory, pulled out his purse and quickly
concealed a bill in his hand just as Marion, who had finished her
work, said, pleasantly,—
"You needn't try to deceive me with your grumbling: I found you out
long ago. You would go a mile any time to carry food to the hungry,
only you would want the privilege of scolding them afterwards."
The eccentric old gentleman hung his head, too much confused even to
grumble at her.
"How guilty you look!" laughed Marion. "You took me in, once upon a
time."
"Aye! aye! Frightened you well, that's some comfort."
"I don't think I was much frightened, though I confess I considered
your manner rather rough. I recollect well that I pitied you for
being so suspicious of everybody."
He sprang from the floor, shouting,—
"Suspicious, eh? Suspicious, is it? Pitied me, did you? If any one
else had dared,—well, I'm an old fool, anyway."
He sat down and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, looking so
pale and hurt that Marion pitied him more than ever. She drew a chair
close to his side and said, soothingly,—
"Now that we understand each other, I want to tell you a story,—
a true one. You know Hepsey and I go out sometimes to see our friends
in the back alleys."
"Humph! Yes,—and bring home fevers, and all that."
"One day I heard a woman crying,—and true enough she had cause.
Her boy had been crushed by a wheel which ran over his legs;
and there he lay on a pile of straw, in a fainting fit. I tried
to bring him to while Hepsey went for an ambulance, and we soon had
him in the care of the doctor, on his way to the hospital. Hepsey and
I followed with the mother. To make a long story short, the injury
was so great that Neddy—that's his name—had both his legs
amputated just above the knees, and he is well again. Now the
question is, What can he do to earn his living? He's a dear, patient
little fellow, and he has made friends of everybody at the hospital.
One of the doctors has given me five dollars for—"
Mr. Lambert threw down his cane, and pulled out his purse again.
"No, I don't want money now, I want advice. He can't earn his living
yet awhile; but what can he be fitted for?"
"I'll get him a place in a printing-office." In his excitement,
Mr. Lambert forgot to grumble. His voice was natural and agreeable.
"Just the thing! But isn't he too young,—he's only nine?"
"That's a fault easily cured. He must be put into the Five Points
Mission School till he's twelve,—learn to read and spell, and all
that sort of thing. Where is he?"
"In the hospital. Will you go with me to see him?"
"Certainly not. Why should I go? I've nothing to do with it,
any way. You wanted advice and I gave it,—that's all. Don't be
nonsensical now," putting another bill stealthily on the table.
"What did you say the fellow's name is?"
"Neddy Carter. He isn't strong enough to be carried to that old,
tumble-down attic, and so I have engaged a friend to take him home
with her till he can have his artificial legs made. That's what the
doctor subscribed five dollars for."
"Wooden legs, eh! That's the plan, is it? Five dollars! Tell this
doctor to mind his own business. I know a man—that is, he owes me—
that is, he will owe me—a bill, and I'll get the legs out of him—
see if I don't. I'll"—grumbling. "Well, I'm going. I don't find
your story very entertaining. It's lucky I'm forgetful: shan't know
anything about it to-morrow. Good-day, Miss Howard. Don't make a fool
of yourself more than you can help."
He caught his cane and was crossing the room when he saw the bill he
had first taken from his pocket and forgotten lying on the floor.
"Pretty way to use good money," he said, with a sneer, pointing to
it. "With all your teaching business, you'll never get rich that way,
Miss Howard."
[Illustration: MARION AND THE CRIPPLED BOY. Page 207]
"I saw that bill drop from your hand, sir." Marion laughed till all
her dimples came into play. "But you can't have it," she insisted,
as she saw his look of disappointment at being found out. "You've
forfeited the right to it, and I shall add it to my fund for Neddy."
"Pretty sharp practice that," he grumbled, looking intensely
relieved. "Well, good-day to you."
The next time Marion went to the hospital a singular circumstance
occurred,—a circumstance which unravelled for her quite a mystery.
She inquired for Neddy Carter, and was allowed to proceed at once
to the convalescent ward. The boy was sitting in a low chair, which
he had learned to wheel about with great rapidity. As soon as he saw
her, his face brightened, and before he could reach her side
he shouted,—
"Miss Howard! Miss Howard! Mr. Regy's been here!"
"And he's such a funny man," said one of the older boys.
"I wish I had seen him," was Marion's answer. "What did he come for?"
"To see me. He was awful cross at first, and scolded me for getting
under the wheel like sixty; but I know him, and he's real good for
all that; and I like him; and when I told him I didn't get under the
wheel on purpose he gave me this," pulling a silver dollar from his
pocket. "Will you please take it to help buy my wooden legs?"
"No, indeed; those will be ready when the doctor says you can wear
them."
"Mr. Regy says I'm to be a printer," continued the boy, fixing his
large brown eyes on hers; "and I'm to go to school at the
Five Points, and learn to read and spell, and by-and-by, he says,
there's no knowing but I may be a great man, and print newspapers."
Marion started. This was Mr. Lambert's plan. Had he told Mr. Regy
of it?
"How does Mr. Regy look?" This inquiry was addressed to one of the
nurses, who was passing.
"Very oddly," she replied, laughing. "He's about fifty or sixty years
old, very gray hair, which he wears long, floating over his
shoulders."
Marion laughed too as she said, "I've often heard of him, but I never
saw him."
Mr. Lambert was over sixty; but his hair, naturally light, had not
turned gray, and was cut short to his head.
"He stoops a little," added the nurse, "and makes frightful faces.
Some of the little ones were afraid of him, but before he went away
he coaxed them to sit in his lap and put their hands in his pockets,
where they found nuts and raisins and candy in abundance. A lady came
in to see a little cripple, and as she passed him surrounded by a
group of them, Neddy's chair rolled as close as he could get it,
she remarked, smiling, 'It's a blessed work, sir.'"
"Mr. Regy had not seen her before, and he started to his feet,
looking very angry.
"'Troublesome little brats!' he shouted, pushing them away."
"Just like Mr. Lambert," was Marion's reflection. "How very strange
there should be two such men!"
Just then she noticed that several of the boys were putting their
heads together, whispering and gesturing as they looked toward her.
Presently one came forward, and asked, timidly,—
"Will you please sing us a tune, Miss Howard?"
"How do you know I can sing?" she asked, with one of her brightest
smiles.
"I heard you at the mission Sunday school. I'm Maurice Long, what
used to be sent to the back seat for being allus in mischief."
Maurice looked anything but humble, as he confessed his faults.
"Why, Maurice!" exclaimed Marion, holding out her hand. "You have
grown so much I did not know you,—and you are so pale, too."
"Yes, miss. Me and another boy got into a fight, and I had my head
smashed in, and the p'lice brought me here. I'm going out next week."
"O Maurice!"
Marion was interrupted by several voices shouting, "He'd fight agin,
ma'am. He'd oughter. It was ter save a feller littler than him.
Hurrah for Maurice!"
"How was it, Nurse? I want to hear the story."
"Maurice had a chance to earn a dime carrying a bundle for a
gentleman from the cars. A little fellow came along, leading a poor,
half-starved dog of which he seemed very fond. Just then a big bully
of a boy met them, and began to tease the dog. When his owner timidly
begged to be let alone, the bully flew at him, and then Maurice
thought it time to interfere. He caught the bully by the hair, and
would not let go till he was terribly bruised. A policeman came up
and arrested both the boys, just as Maurice fainted from loss of
blood. The gentleman had seen the whole fight from beginning to end,
and he followed the bully to the court-room and gave his testimony,
and called Maurice a hero."
"And a good fighter, too," added Maurice, who had stood by, listening
to all with a kind of proud humility.
"I am glad you were not fighting to defend your own rights," said
Marion, approvingly. "But who was the gentleman?"
"He gave his name as Lambert," said the nurse. "There is a very
curious sequel to the story," she added, in a low tone, as they
turned away.
"Mr. Lambert came here twice before Maurice was well enough to know
him, and showed a good deal of anxiety till he was out of danger,
growling to himself that he ought to have stopped the fight earlier.
He gave the doctor some money for Maurice when he goes away; but the
boy knows nothing of that yet. When Mr. Lambert saw Maurice
he scolded him well; said a street fighter was a mean fellow and
ought to be arrested, and hoped he should never hear of his street
brawls again.
"His voice was so loud that some of the little ones began to cry,
but Maurice spoke up rather saucily,—
"I'd fight for you, sir, to-morrow, if you was hit. I know you're
jolly, for all your scolding.'"
"Well," said Marion, laughing heartily, "what did Mr. Lambert say
to that?"
"Not a word that we could understand. He went away with his
handkerchief to his face, but when he reached the street he shook
all over with laughter."
"Shall I sing for the children now?"
"They will be delighted to hear you."
Standing in the midst of the ward, with the little ones pressing
to her side, Marion sang the sweet melody set to the words,—
"Will you come where the sweet-briar grows,
Where the heath flower blossoms around?
Will you come where the hyacinth blows,
And the daisy just peeps from the ground?
There's a bower by the side of yon lake,
'Tis the chosen abode of the rose;
Where the wings of the linnet awake
The leaves from their calm repose."
Every word was distinctly enunciated, and the children, with bated
breath and sparkling eyes, proved their appreciation by calling out,
"More! Please, Miss Howard, sing more." Smiling, she gave them the
mocking-bird, which was followed by shouts of applause.