Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 42

"And I don't think I am very ill either; but the pain in my knee is sometimes very bad. It grows worse when I walk about, and then I cannot sleep. I am afraid I must go home and rest awhile."

"Is it so very bad?" said Mrs Seaton, gravely. "Well, the doctor must see it. You shall go to him this very afternoon--or we may as well have him here. If he thinks there is anything serious the matter, something must be done for it, whether you go home or not. Don't be anxious about it. I dare say you will be as well as ever in a day or two."

But the doctor looked grave when he examined it, and asked some questions about it, and the fall on the stairs, which seemed to have brought on the trouble. To Christie he said nothing, but his grave looks did not pa.s.s away when she left the room.

"She must go home, then, I am afraid," said Mrs Seaton. "I am very sorry to lose her. I don't know what Claude will do without her."

The doctor looked grave.

"Where is her home? Far-away in the country, is it not? It will never do to let her go away there. She must go to the hospital."

"The hospital!" exclaimed Mrs Seaton. "Is it so very serious?"

"It may become very serious unless it is attended to. No time ought to be lost. Could she go to-day, or to-morrow morning?"

Mrs Seaton looked very troubled.

"Must she go? She was brought up in the country. It seems necessary she should have fresh air. I am afraid her health would suffer from confinement. Could she not remain here? Of course, if she needs advice she must not think of going home. But could she not stay here?"

"It is very kind in you to think of such a thing, but I am afraid she will need more attention than she could possibly get at this distance from town. She will be very comfortable there. Indeed, it seems to me to be her only chance of a speedy recovery."

"But it seems unkind to send her out of the house, now that she is ill.

I can't bear to do it," said Mrs Seaton.

"Not at all, my dear madam. It is done every day; and very well it is that there is a place where such people can be received when they are ill."

"But Christie is very unlike a common servant. She is such a gentle, faithful little thing; the children are so fond of her too."

"No one knows her good qualities better than I do, after what I saw of her last winter. But really it is the very best thing that could happen to her in the circ.u.mstances. Shall I tell her? Perhaps it would be as well."

Christie was greatly startled when they told her she must go to the hospital. Her first thought was that she could not go--that she must get home to Effie and the rest before she should grow worse. But a few words from the doctor put an end to any such plan. A little care and attention now would make her quite well again; whereas if she were to go home out of the reach of surgical skill, she might have a long and tedious season of suffering--if, indeed, she ever fully recovered. She must never think of going home now. She must not even think of waiting till she heard from her sister. That could do no possible good, and every day's delay would only make matters worse.

He spoke very kindly to her.

"You must not let the idea of the hospital frighten you, as though one ought to be very ill indeed before they go there. It is a very comfortable place, I can tell you. I only wish I could get some of my other patients there. They would stand a far better chance of recovery than they can do with the self-indulgence and indifferent nursing that is permitted at home. You will be very well there; and if you have to look forward to some suffering, I am quite sure you have patience and courage to bear it well."

Courage and patience! Poor little Christie! The words seemed to mock her as she went about the preparations for her departure. Her heart lay as heavy as lead in her bosom. She seemed like one stunned by a heavy blow. It destroyed the pain of parting with the little boys, however.

She left them quietly, without a tear, even though poor little Claude clung to her, weeping and struggling to the very last. But her face was very pale, and her hands trembled as she unclasped his arms from her neck, and hurried away, saying to herself "Shall I ever see his face any more?"

CHAPTER TWENTY.

NEITHER FORGOTTEN NOR FORSAKEN.

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 pa.s.sing in it. The weather-beaten roofs and glimpses of dusty tree-tops that formed the view reminded her of the sorrowful days she had pa.s.sed 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, G.o.d 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.

G.o.d 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, pa.s.sed 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 appet.i.te. Martha came almost every Sabbath, and from her she heard of the little lads and sometimes of Miss Gertrude.

So the first few weeks pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s; 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 a.s.surances 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed, 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 appet.i.te 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."