Chapter III: Phil Receives Two Visitors

THERE were circumstances attending Phil's case that made it one of peculiar interest to the staff of surgeons at the hospital. To save the little lad's life would be a triumph of surgical skill, and they were very anxious to win this triumph. Their efforts, aided by Sister Kathleen's utmost care, were successful. Phil's constitution, enfeebled as it was by want and ill-usage, bore the shock of the amputation, though for some hours afterwards only the faintest hope of his recovery could be entertained. With less careful nursing, he must have slipped away in his extreme exhaustion. Humanly speaking, it was to Sister Kathleen he owed his life.

All immediate danger was over. The boy's pulse was good, his skin cool, and he was sleeping. Without anxiety Sister Kathleen could consign him to the care of a nurse.

"Keep him as quiet as you can, and let me know when he wakes," she said.

Then she went away to take her rest, and was soon sleeping soundly in her own room.

Some hours later she was roused by the nurse. "I am sorry to wake you, Sister," she said, "but what are we to do? Phil's mother is here, and she wants to see him. She says that she has been refused twice, but she will see him to-day."

"How is he?" asked the Sister, wide awake in a moment.

"Very well, and still sleeping. He woke once, and I gave him a little milk, and then he fell asleep again."

"I will come and speak to the woman," said Sister Kathleen, rising at once.

In the ante-room at the end of the ward she found Moll Dutton, standing with her arms akimbo and her head thrown back, her whole attitude expressive of defiance. She was sober, and had made some attempt at tidying herself for this visit, without, however, electing any perceptible improvement in her bold, repulsive appearance.

"I've come to see my boy," she was saying, in harsh, defiant tones, as the Sister entered, "and I'll see him before I go, if I stay here all night. What right have you to come between a mother and her child? How could the sight of his own mother harm him? Ain't he a-hankering for his mother, don't you think?"

Moll's aspect softened somewhat as Sister Kathleen Appeared. And the nurses, who had been listening with some amusement to the woman's tirade, suddenly dispersed to their various duties.

"You'll let me see my boy, good lady?" said Moll in a cringing tone, as she dropped a curtsey. "They told me down-stairs that they thought you would let me see him to-day. You'll have some pity for a mother's feelings, and not send me away again without a sight of him?"

"You shall see him," said Sister Kathleen, "but I must ask you to be content with merely looking at him to-day. He is sleeping, and I do not wish him to be startled or disturbed."

"Surely the sight of his own mother would not startle him," said Moll, with a cunning glance out of her narrow eyes.

But the calm, searching gaze she met made her look down uneasily, as though conscious of the falsity of her words.

Without further parley, Sister Kathleen led the way to Phil's bed. It was screened off from the rest of the ward, and not till they passed round the screen could they see anything of the bed or its occupant. Phil's sleep, as it happened, was over. He had but just opened his eyes, and was resting them with pleasure on the bright-coloured screen, when suddenly, at its farther end, beyond the foot of his bed, appeared the hated form of his mother.

Instantly Phil gave a shrill scream. It seemed less fear than anger that moved him as he cried passionately, with all the strength he could muster, "Go away, you nasty old thing! Go away! I don't want to see you. Sister, Sister, don't let mother come near me. I hate her! I hate the very sight of her!"

"Highty-tighty!" exclaimed Moll, reddening with annoyance. "Highty-tighty, young Phil! This is pretty behaviour. Is this how you speak to your poor mother, who has been waiting about for the last hour, and has missed her dinner in order to see you? It's well you are where you are, or you wouldn't dare to speak to me so."

"I don't care," cried Phil wildly; "I never want to see you again. I wish you were not my mother. Oh, Sister, do send her away!"

"Well, to be sure! You're a nice child!" said Moll, with a coarse laugh, trying to hide her discomposure.

But now Sister Kathleen interposed. She felt that for the sake of Phil, whom this agitation could not fail to harm, she must do as he bade her and send the woman away.

"Go," she said to Moll; "go at once. If you wait outside, I will come and speak to you presently."

Moll dared not disobey. She went without a word.

Sister Kathleen bent over the little boy and spoke to him with soothing tenderness.

"Why, Phil, Phil!" she said. "What does this mean? How could you speak to your mother so?"

"I hate her," cried the boy, between his sobs; "she is a horrid bad woman. I wish she were dead!"

"Oh, hush, hush!" said the Sister. "This is dreadful! Your life must have been very unhappy, my poor little Phil, that you should feel thus towards your mother. But now you must not cry any more."

"You won't let her come again?" he asked, with a nervous shiver.

"No, no, she shall not come near you again. I promise you that."

Phil continued to cry, but less violently. And soon Sister Kathleen was able to leave him and go in search of his mother.

Too brazen to be long abashed by what had passed, Moll was disposed to be insolent and self-assertive.

"You might have done me a better turn than to set my child against me," she said. "A nice welcome, truly, to give his mother!"

"No one has set him against you," said Sister Kathleen, with righteous indignation in tone and look. "You know best what it is that causes him to shrink from you in such fear and dislike. A good mother could never be so regarded by her child."

For a moment Moll looked guilty and cowed. Then, with a flash of fresh defiance in her glance, she exclaimed, "Curse him! He was always a black-hearted little scoundrel, was that young Phil! He has been the plague of my life. And now they tell me that the doctors have cut off his leg, and he'll be a cripple for the rest of his days."

"Yes, it is true," said Sister Kathleen, with a sigh; "he will be a cripple, poor child!"

"Poor child and poor mother, I think," said Moll, in a false, whining tone, with an evil look in her narrow eyes; "a helpless lad is a sore burden for a poor woman like me. Well, well, I'll go, since I see you would rather have my room than my company. I sha'n't be in a hurry to come again to see my beautiful boy, I can tell you."

"I shall be obliged to forbid your seeing Phil for the present," said Sister Kathleen; "so it would be of little use your coming."

Muttering angrily, Moll took her departure. The Sister felt as if she could breathe more freely when relieved of her presence. "Oh, to think," she said to herself, "that that woman was once a little child, and to see what she now is—a monster rather than a woman, so hardened in evil, dead even to the common instincts of womanhood, so utterly a lost soul!"

Phil had another visitor ere the day was over. Sister Kathleen met her on the stairs as she came wearily up the long flight to the ward where Phil lay. The Sister had wondered that she had neither seen nor heard anything more of Phil's aunt. And here she was, looking if possible paler and more unhappy than before, with such a look of hopeless sorrow in her dreamy blue eyes, that Sister Kathleen, eager to give her comfort, said at once, "Ah, you are troubled about little Phil, but do not be afraid. He is doing well, and there is good cause to hope that his life will be spared."

But the woman uttered a low, despairing cry, and such a trembling seized her that she caught at the bannisters to save herself from falling.

"Live will he live?" she said in faltering tones. "O God! I have been praying that he might die!"

"Oh no!" said Sister Kathleen, startled by her words. "You do not know what you are saying; you are overwrought. Come with me; you must rest in my room ere you see Phil."

So saying, she took her by the hand and led her from the public staircase, where nurses and medical students were passing up and down.

Alone with Sister Kathleen in her room, the young woman's composure completely gave way. Sinking on to a chair, she hid her face in her hands and sobbed with utter abandonment.

"It is true," she cried, between her sobs; "I have hoped that Phil would die. I have been praying for it every day since I was here. Would it not be well if God in His mercy would take him to heaven? Think what a wretched life Phil has led with that woman. And what will it be in the future, if he is a cripple? Do you wonder I prayed that he might die? Would it not be better for him? Oh yes, it would be infinitely better for poor little Phil!"

"It may seem so to you," said Sister Kathleen, "but how can we know what will be good for any one? Cannot you trust God to do what is best for little Phil? Not a sparrow falls to the ground without our Father, and is not this dear child of more value than many sparrows? The Love that sacrificed its own life to redeem the world cannot be indifferent to the suffering of any one child of man. Life is full of sorrow and darkness, I know; but there is light, there is comfort, there is healing for its woes in the cross of Christ."

But the sorrowing woman appeared not to heed the words. She was calmer now, but her contracted brow and quivering lips showed that her mind still dwelt on painful thoughts.

"He will be a cripple," she said presently, uttering her thought aloud; "he will be more at her mercy than ever."

"Is it inevitable that he should return to her?" asked Sister Kathleen. "Could any other arrangement be made for him, I wonder? Perhaps if we think it over, we can hit upon some plan."

A gleam of comfort came into the young woman's eyes, but quickly her face clouded again, and she said mournfully, "She would never give him up; he is her child. She has taught him to beg for her, I believe. She would never give him up."

"You think not?" said Sister Kathleen. "Well, it is of no use talking further of it now. Phil will not be able to leave his bed for some time yet; he is likely to be with us many weeks. We will go to him if you feel well enough, Miss —. Excuse me, I do not know your name."

The indirect question brought a deep flush into the young woman's face. She hesitated. There was a perceptible pause ere she replied, in nervous, tremulous tones, "My name is Austen—Lizzie Austen. I am quite well now."

"Then we will go to Phil, Miss Austen," said the Sister briskly. "Am I right in addressing you as 'Miss' Austen? You are not married, I suppose?"

"No, oh no!" was the hurried reply, given with a gasping, half-choked utterance.

Sister Kathleen turned to look at her. How white and frail this Miss Austen looked!

"I can let you see him for a few minutes," said Sister Kathleen, as she led the way to the ward. "I know he will have a welcome for you, though he screamed at the sight of his mother, and begged me to send her away."

Miss Austen responded only by a heavy sigh.

A few moments later, she was seated beside Phil's bed.

There could be no doubt that he was glad to see her. Sister Kathleen was pleased to see the radiant smile with which he welcomed his aunt, and it was good too to see his delight when she opened her basket and lifted out a lovely bunch of hothouse grapes.

There were tears in Aunt Lizzie's eyes as she put grape after grape to his eager lips. How delicious was the cool fruit to his parched little mouth!

Nor did the great bunch of chrysanthemums which Aunt Lizzie had brought with her give him less pleasure. She spread out the flowers before him, and he examined them with delight. There were some of the finest specimens of chrysanthemum culture—great yellow balls, and balls which might have been of snow, so spotless was their whiteness, flowers of deep crimson or of golden brown, and some whose paleness was flecked by the faintest touches of colour. What pleasure it was to Phil to turn them over and compare them, and try to decide which of all this great variety he liked best!

He clung to his aunt, and made a feeble effort to hold her when she spoke of going.

"If only you would stay with me always, Aunt Lizzie, you and Sister!" he cried. "I want no one else. I would like you and Sister always to be with me, and mother never to come near me any more."