Chapter V: A Plan for Phil's Benefit

MANY weeks had passed since Phil, so terribly injured, had been carried into the hospital. Christmas-tide, with its holy, gladdening influences, which are felt even in the wards of our hospitals, since the love of Christian hearts prompts them to make provision for the joy of all poor and suffering ones, had come and gone. The children's ward had been decorated with holly and mistletoe, gay banners and Christmas mottoes, and a large Christmas tree, glittering with lights and decked with toys, had delighted the eyes of the little patients. No child had entered more fully into the joy of Christmas than had Phil.

The Christmas carols which were sung in the ward found a glad echo in the boy's breast, for, if the words were new to him, he could feel that they breathed joy and hope and glad, exulting thankfulness. He too could rejoice in the birth of the Christ-child, for he knew that the Babe born in Bethlehem was the Friend and Saviour of the world, the Good Shepherd, who laid down His life for the sheep.

But now the wintry months were past, and that spring had awakened was evident from the primroses and violets which appeared in the children's ward. Phil's cure had progressed favourably as the weeks went on. With the help of his crutch, he could walk or rather hop about the ward with perfect ease. He would have been dismissed from the hospital a fortnight earlier, had not Sister Kathleen persuaded the doctors to let him remain till his health was more fully established. But now, as she looked at him, she felt with a pang of sorrow that there was no longer a good excuse for keeping him.

In spite of his maimed condition, Phil's general appearance was better than when he entered the hospital. Good food and wholesome living had had their effect. His little face had grown rounder, and there was a dash of colour in each cheek, whilst a happy light shone in his clear blue eyes. How soon the improvement would be lost if he went back to his wretched home and miserable mother!

Moll Dutton had been to the hospital once or twice, to make inquiries concerning Phil and the probable date of his dismissal from the hospital. But she had not thought it worthwhile to climb the long flight of stairs to the children's ward and risk the chance of an unfilial greeting from her boy. Needless to say, Phil was not sorry she kept away.

His Aunt Lizzie came to see him at irregular intervals, and he never failed to hail her appearance with delight. Several weeks had passed since her last visit, when one bright spring day she entered the ward, Sister Kathleen had been looking for her coming, and was scarcely less pleased than Phil to see her enter.

"Phil is still here, I understand," she said, addressing the Sister in panting, breathless accents; "I was afraid I should find that he had gone."

"No, he is still here; he leaves next week. But pray sit down, Miss Austen; you are quite out of breath. I am afraid you are not strong."

"Indeed, I am quite strong," she said hurriedly; "it is only coming up the stairs that has tired me. Ah, here comes Phil," she added, with a start and an involuntary shiver. "How quickly he gets along with that crutch! It makes me tremble to see him."

"Oh, he is very proud of his performance," said Sister Kathleen. "I must not stay with you now, but let me see you before you leave. I want to have a talk with you about Phil."

Phil's aunt readily assented, and Sister Kathleen left her with the boy.

Phil was overjoyed to see the flowers Aunt Lizzie had brought him. Primroses, violets, cowslips, wood-anemones, every treasure of the spring seemed included in the huge bunch which he proceeded to untie and to re-make into little nosegays to be distributed amongst his friends in the ward.

"Do these all grow in the country where you live, aunt?" he asked.

"Yes, Phil," she said; "they grow in the fields and along the hedges in the lanes."

"And may any one pick them?" he asked.

She nodded her head.

"Oh," he cried, "how lovely it must be to live in the country, and be able to pick such flowers every day!"

"Phil," said his aunt, "do you know that you are to leave the hospital next week?"

The boy's face fell. A look of acute distress came to it, and slowly large tears welled up in the blue eyes. But there was no outbreak of passionate rebellion against his fate. Apparently Phil had begun to exercise self-control.

"I knew it must come soon," he said sorrowfully. "Oh dear! Oh dear! I can't bear the thought of going back to mother. If only I had a good mother! But she is so bad and wicked. I hate her! No, no, I must not hate her, but—I can't love her, Aunt Lizzie."

"No," she said tremulously; "you can't love her. Can you love me, Phil?"

"Oh, I do love you," he said emphatically; "I wish you were my mother. You are so good and kind, Aunt Lizzie."

She started as if his innocent words stabbed her, and an ashy paleness overspread her face.

"Not good, not good!" she cried, in tones sharp with pain. "You do not know me, little Phil, or you would not call me good."

"Why not?" he asked, with a puzzled air. "I think you are good. You bring me flowers and all sorts of nice things, and you never beat me or call me names. Why are you not good, Aunt Lizzie?"

She did not reply. She put her trembling arms about him and lifted him on to her lap. Then she pressed his little head to her bosom, kissing the white forehead and golden curls with passionate fondness.

"I am glad you think me good, little Phil," she murmured; "and yet, God knows, I do not deserve that you should. Oh, was there ever a more unhappy woman than I am!"

The child on her lap looked up at her with mild wonder in his blue eyes. She recollected herself as she met his gaze, and forced back her emotion.

"Good-bye, my little Phil," she said, kissing him again and again. "May God watch over you and shield you from harm! If you never see me again, remember me as one who loves you and would pray for you, could prayer of hers be of any avail."

"Oh, Aunt Lizzie, don't go yet!" he cried.

But she set him down and broke from his detaining grasp. Going to a nurse, she begged her to let Sister Kathleen know that she was about to leave the hospital.

In a few minutes, Sister Kathleen came to her, and they had their talk in the Sister's private room.

"You guess, I daresay, that I want to speak to you about Phil's future," the Sister said. "Can nothing be done to save him from his mother's cruelty and neglect? I have been wondering whether it would be possible to find another home for him. Excuse my putting the question, but—you are his aunt—I suppose it would not be convenient for you to take him to your home?"

The question seemed to surprise Miss Austen. She stared at Sister Kathleen in amazement for a moment. Then, as comprehension came, a deep flush suffused her face.

"That is impossible," she said, in low, unsteady tones; "you do not understand. I live with my father. He is an old man, and getting feeble; it would worry him to have a child about."

"Even his grandchild," said Sister Kathleen.

"Phil is not—" Miss Austen began to speak in hurried, nervous tones, then hastily checked herself.

"You do not understand," she said again, after a pause. "I have let Phil call me 'Aunt Lizzie,' but I am not really his aunt."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Sister, hardly able to believe what she heard as she gazed at the face before her, which, worn and sad though it was, yet seemed to bear a marked resemblance to that of little Phil.

She was puzzled, and longed to ask questions, but Miss Austen's manner gave her no encouragement to do so.

"Since you can give no help," she said, after a minute, "I will tell you a thought that has occurred to me. Some friends of mine have established a home for destitute boys on their estate in Berkshire. It is known as St. Oswald's Farm Home. In this home from eighty to a hundred boys are sheltered. They are taught to farm the land, and to provide entirely for their own necessities, thus learning in addition to farm-work such occupations as shoemaking, tailoring, baking, carpentry, etc. There is a schoolmaster to teach the lads, and a matron to look after their comfort.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jeaffreson's pretty home adjoins the farm, and they take the deepest interest in the boys, and do their best to settle them well in life. Many of them on growing up are sent out to the colonies, where, as a rule, they do exceedingly well. I spent a day with the Jeaffresons last summer, and was delighted with what I saw of the home. The situation is charming, and all the arrangements seemed to me perfect. And now I cannot help thinking what a good thing it would be for little Phil if he could be received into that happy home."

"It would indeed," murmured Miss Austen, with a deep-drawn sigh.

"I have already written to Mrs. Jeaffreson on the subject, giving her particulars of Phil's case," continued Sister Kathleen. "She sends me word that Phil is eligible for admission, and as there is now a vacancy, he can be received at once if his mother gives her consent. What do you think of the plan? Would you have any objection to his going to this home?"

"I!" exclaimed Lizzie Austen in a startled tone. "How could I object?" Then more quietly she added, "I should be only too thankful to know that Phil was happily provided for."

"Then it only remains to get his mother's consent," said Sister Kathleen.

"She will never consent," said Lizzie Austen, with another sigh; "Moll Dutton will never give up the child."

"Do you think so?" said the Sister. "I quite hope to persuade her to agree to my proposal. She seems to have no love for the child; why should she not be glad to have him taken off her hands?"

Miss Austen shook her head. "I hope it may be so," she said, "but I doubt it."

She had risen, and was fastening her cloak.

"Shall you be here again before Phil leaves us?" asked the Sister.

"It is impossible," said Miss Austen sadly. "My father cannot spare me. I had hard work to get away to-day. But oh," she added, with a sudden break in her voice, "I should like to know what becomes of little Phil."

"I will let you know," said Sister Kathleen readily. "If you will give me your address, I will send you word of the result of my appeal to Moll Dutton."

"Oh, thank you," said Miss Austen. She hesitated for a moment, then added rather tremulously, "The address is 'Fairbank Farm, near Danesbury, Essex.'"

"I shall remember," said Sister Kathleen. Then, seeing the gloom on the other's face, she went on to say, "Now don't be cast down about Phil. I have good hope of managing this dreadful Moll Dutton. Why, you are as fond of Phil as if he were not your nephew merely, but your own child!"

What was there in the carelessly uttered words to move the other so? Every shred of the composure Lizzie had been struggling to maintain gave way beneath their influence. She sank on to a chair and broke into uncontrollable weeping.

Sister Kathleen laid her hand tenderly on her shoulder. "You are in trouble, I see. This is more than anxiety for little Phil. Will you not tell me what it is? Perhaps I can help you."

Miss Austen gave an uneasy movement, as if she would shake off the Sister's hand. "No, no," she cried almost wildly; "you cannot help me. No one can help me now."

"Except the one Divine Friend who can soothe every sorrow," said Sister Kathleen gently.

"You mean God," said Lizzie, looking up at her with eyes full of despair; "but even God cannot help me. He cannot undo the past."

"Indeed He can help you," said the Sister earnestly. "The past cannot, I know, be other than it is, but God can annul its evil, and take from memory its sting."

But her words seemed to fall on heedless ears. Lizzie had risen, and was impatient to be gone. She could not speak as she gave the Sister her hand. And save by her warm hand-clasp, Sister Kathleen gave no further expression to her sympathy.

"God help her!" she said to herself, when the frail young form, prematurely bent beneath the weight of hopeless sorrow, had passed from her sight. "If ever there was a sorrow-stricken, despairing soul, that poor woman is such."