Chapter XIX. At the Hospital.

Otago Witness, Issue 1858, 1 July 1887, Page 33

Chapter XIX. At the Hospital.

Two months had passed since the blind man died. Dreary, cold, wet months, and it was now drawing towards the end of July. It was one of those raw, damp afternoons when it doesn't exactly rain, and can't be persuaded on any account to clear up. The streets of Christchurch presented anything but a cheerful appearance, and few folk were out and about, except those who had some object rather than their own pleasure. Walking at a brisk pace along the river side in the direction of the hospital was Jack, with a parcel under his arm. It was one of thejvisitirig days at the hospital, and reaching the gates, he was admitted without delay. The gardens of the Christchurch Hospital are always well kept, and in summer time look very pretty, with the green, close-cut lawns (sloping on one side down to the Avon), the bright flowers and numerous shrubs. Here andt here, undera drooping willow, stands an inviting garden seat, and a pretty view of the park on the opposite side of the river is obtained, while boat after boat of pleasureseekers on summer evenings skiff over the smooth, dark waters, and are finally hidden from view under the overhanging willows. Even at this time of the year the place had a bright, trim look, Jack thought, as he followed the gravel walk until reaching the broad corridor ; he passed along until he came to the number of the ward he wanted. In the summer this broad, cool corridor is a favourite retreat of the convalescent patients, and even to-day there were a few men, some on crutches, some with their arms in slings, loitering about. Pushing open the folding doors, Jack entered the ward. "It was scrupulously clean, and a long line of beds was ranged on either side of the room. Some were empty and neatly made, awaiting the arrival of a fresh occupant ; upon some, men with bandaged arms or bandaged heads were sitting ; a pair of crutches and a book were lying upon another, and its occupant reclining oeside them ; and in others lay men with ghastly faces, and a thin bony hand held in the fond clasp of a sister, wife, or mother. Others of the patients were congregated round the bright fires burning in the grates in the centre of the room, talking and laughing among themselves, or with such visitors as were there. Jack cast a pitying glance at one group as he passed. A man — evidently with little chance of recovery — lay upon the bed. His face thin and pale with bodily suffering, and mournfully sad with grief, for by the bedside knelt a woman —his wife apparently ; her face bowed in her hands, and her frame shaking with sobs. Two little children— one too young to share its parents' grief, and playing with its father's hand; the other sitting upon the bed, looking mournfully at its mother — completed the picture of human suffering. From a bed in the further corner of the room a pair of large, grey eyes were watching Jack's approach, and a pale, thin face lit up with bright smiles as he took his seat by the bed.

"Well, Tom, how are you to-day?" asked Jack cheerily.

" I'm a'most well agen, I am, thank yer, sir. The nuss ses I ken git up in the mornin' ; it's werry kind o' you to come sir, and you allers brings me somethink."

" I'm glad you are better, Tom. Here is a book with a lot of pictures in it, ' A British Workman.' That's what you are, you know. Isn't that what ' your lady ' called you 1 "

" She sed I was allers at my post, like a true Briton. I ain't theer now 'cause I can't stan' on my legs, but I .was as long as I'd got a leg to stan' on. It's four weeks to-day since I was fetched 'ere, but for a long time that rumatic fever was a comin' on, sir. I shivered an' ached in my bones stunmat horful, and there was a week of them sow'- westers— regler busters, and I on'y seemed to 'aye got dry when it was time to get wet agen. Now the pains is gone it's horful nice a lyin' 'ere warm and dry, if it wasn't for seem' the sufferin' of t'others. That little boy in the next bed, sir, a makin' of that ship, is a nice lettle feller, he's chummed up to me 'c 'as sir, and told me 'is 6pine is 'urt."

"I'm afeered," continued Tom, looking earnestly at Jack, " if my lady goes along she'll think I've cut it "

"Jo will tell her where you are, as he told me," interrupted Jack, arranging the pillows with a woman's tenderness and a man's awkwardness.

" 0 so 'c will, sir ; I'm glad o' that. I don't want 'er to think I'm anyways ungrateful. Nobody never took no notice on me till she did, then you corned, and since then I 'ain't wanted for nothink, no more 'as mother. When I seed 'my lady 'last she was in sorrer, sir, she was. I didn't think sorrer ever could come to f er, but it 'as. I hadn't seen 'er for four weeks, and one

arternoon I seed 'er comin' along all in black, with 'er face as white, as white could be, and 'er lips a tremblin' so she could scarce speak. ♦ Don't think,' she ses, ' as'bw I 'aye forgotten yer,' she ses. "Taint so, but I've 'ad a great loss,' she ses. 'So great, Tom, the world seems a'most empty.' " " Go on, Tom, if you can, but don't cry."

" ' A'most empty, Tom ; my father 'as died. 'Im what I loved most of anythink on earth. Oh, why do people 'aye to die ? ' she ses, not talkin' to me, but to 'erself . * Or, why can't we all die and go away together ? Why can't everyone be 'appy, and things go on jist the same forever.' In course I didn't know ; I only knowed it weren't so." " You must not talk any more now," said Jack, " you lie quite still while I read you one of these stories." , \ So Tom lay still and Jack read. You would have thought, to look at Jack, that he was quite used to spending his time so. He threw as much interest into the story as he knew how. If he had been reading before an audience of cultivated ladies and gentlemen j I doubt if he would have read so well as he did now to this little untaught boy. So occupied were they that neither observed the approach of a young lady dressed in deep mourning, whom all gazed after. She quietly stood by until, the tale at an end, Tom exclaimed : " Why, you makes 'em all alive. It's beautiful when you read it."

"It is beautiful!" said the lady in a sweet, gentle voice. Jack started, and flushed to the roots of his hair.

" Why," exclaimed Tom, " it's my lady 1 "

"Is this 1 " asked Laura, taking Tom's hand. "Is this the kind gentleman who for so long has been so good to you, and whom you love so much, Tom 7 "

" Yes, that's 'im, miss."

Laura turned on Jack a look she had never given him before — a look Jack 'never forgot, so full of pride and admiration of him was it.

" I had nothing better to do, so I just ' began Jack hesitatingly 'and apologetically.

" So you just," finished Laura, " came to throw a gleam of sunshine into a sunless life. If you had sought for years you could have found no better work, dear Jack."

"Well, I'm blowed," thought Tom. "Ef 'er and 'im don't know one anothe | Well, it's the rummiest go as ever I heard tell on — the rummiest go 1 " An hour after Laura'and Jack were walking side by side on their way home. They walked along for some distance without speaking. Then Laura, with that touch upon the arm, a trick of her's when in earnest converse, said :

" Jack, I have to ask your pardon. Once I told you I did not believe you capable of earnestness— of real self-denying action. I did you an injustice, Jack "

" You didn't," interrupted he'; " I was fit for nothing when I knew you — I'm not up to much now — but I hope one day with your help to turn out a little more presentable."

" My help 1 ah, Jack I have been no help to anybody of late ; I have been selfish in my rebellious grief. I've got much to do yet in subduing my own impulsive, impetuous heart, How patient you and Uncle John have been with me — how good and kind ; while I in base ingratitude have given you all so much pain. It was so hard," she continued in a faltering voice, " to wake up in the morning and to know he would not be here to-day, nor to-morrow, nor the next day, nor any day again for ever, that I almost forgot there was so much love left for me ; I shall not do so again, for I hope I have learned a lesson to-day I shall never forget. Those poor suffering creatures 1 Oh, Jack, didn't you see how some were dying and alone. It has sunk deep down into my heart, dear Jack, deep down into my heart ! I shall never forget the hungry, yearning look in the eyes of those who had ao friends to visit them. There was a screen round one bed, and I peeped in as I passed, and there lay an old man with the death glaze on his eyes, dying and alone. I asked the nurse if he had no friends, and she said, ' Not one in the world we know of.' Think of it, Jack ! not one. Think of you or me dying alone in strange place, with nothing known of us but our name and complaint, and date of entrance ticketed on the wall above our head."

" You must not go again, Lola, you are too sensitive for such scenes."

" Too sensitive to see what others must endwre ! If I am overburdened with such spurious sensibilities I am an encumbrance to the earth, Jack. Oh 1 I hope I never shall again go on my happy, hopeful, healthful way, unmindful of earth's sorrowing, suffering ones. .