Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 43

"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 pa.s.sed 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 b.u.t.ton-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?"