"Doctor, I happen to"--
Some one"s fist from behind caused the speaker to turn angrily, and the Doctor resumed:--
"Go into any of those streets off yonder,--Treme, Prieur, Marais. Why, there are often ponds under the houses! The floors of bedrooms are within a foot or two of these ponds! The bricks of the surrounding pavements are often covered with a fine, dark moss! Water seeps up through the sidewalks! That"s his realm, sir! Here and there among the residents--every here and there--you"ll see his sallow, quaking subjects dragging about their work or into and out of their beds, until a fear of a fatal ending drives them in here. Congestion? Yes, sometimes congestion pulls them under suddenly, and they"re gone before they know it. Sometimes their vitality wanes slowly, until Malaria beckons in Consumption."
"Why, Doctor," said the city student, ruffling with pride of his town, "there are plenty of cities as bad as this. I happen to know, for instance"--
Dr. Sevier turned away in quiet contempt.
"It will not improve our town to dirty others, or to clean them, either."
He moved down the ward, while two or three members among the moving train, who never happened to know anything, nudged each other joyfully.
The group stretched out and came along, the Doctor first and the young men after, some of one sort, some of another,--the dull, the frivolous, the earnest, the kind, the cold,--following slowly, pausing, questioning, discoursing, advancing, moving from each clean, slender bed to the next, on this side and on that, down and up the long sanded aisles, among the poor, sick women.
Among these, too, there was variety. Some were stupid and ungracious, hardened and dulled with long penury as some in this world are hardened and dulled with long riches. Some were as fat as beggars; some were old and shrivelled; some were shrivelled and young; some were bold; some were frightened; and here and there was one almost fair.
Down at the far end of one aisle was a bed whose occupant lay watching the distant, slowly approaching group with eyes of unspeakable dread.
There was not a word or motion, only the steadfast gaze. Gradually the throng drew near. The faces of the students could be distinguished.
This one was coa.r.s.e; that one was gentle; another was sleepy; another trivial and silly; another heavy and sour; another tender and gracious.
Presently the tones of the Doctor"s voice could be heard, soft, clear, and without that trumpet quality that it had beyond the sick-room. How slowly, yet how surely, they came! The patient"s eyes turned away toward the ceiling; they could not bear the slowness of the encounter. They closed; the lips moved in prayer. The group came to the bed that was only the fourth away; then to the third; then to the second. There they pause some minutes. Now the Doctor approaches the very next bed.
Suddenly he notices this patient. She is a small woman, young, fair to see, and, with closed eyes and motionless form, is suffering an agony of consternation. One startled look, a suppressed exclamation, two steps forward,--the patient"s eyes slowly open. Ah, me! It is Mary Richling.
"Good-morning, madam," said the physician, with a cold and distant bow; and to the students, "We"ll pa.s.s right along to the other side," and they moved into the next aisle.
"I am a little pressed for time this morning," he presently remarked, as the students showed some unwillingness to be hurried. As soon as he could he parted with them and returned to the ward alone.
As he moved again down among the sick, straight along this time, turning neither to right nor left, one of the Sisters of Charity--the hospital and its so-called nurses are under their oversight--touched his arm. He stopped impatiently.
"Well, Sister"--(bowing his ear).
"I--I--the--the"--His frown had scared away her power of speech.
"Well, what is it, Sister?"
"The--the last patient down on this side"--
He was further displeased. "_I"ll_ attend to the patients, Sister," he said; and then, more kindly, "I"m going there now. No, you stay here, if you please." And he left her behind.
He came and stood by the bed. The patient gazed on him.
"Mrs. Richling," he softly began, and had to cease.
She did not speak or move; she tried to smile, but her eyes filled, her lips quivered.
"My dear madam," exclaimed the physician, in a low voice, "what brought you here?"
The answer was inarticulate, but he saw it on the moving lips.
"Want," said Mary.
"But your husband?" He stooped to catch the husky answer.
"Home."
"Home?" He could not understand. "Not gone to--back--up the river?"
She slowly shook her head: "No, home. In Prieur street."
Still her words were riddles. He could not see how she had come to this.
He stood silent, not knowing how to utter his thought. At length he opened his lips to speak, hesitated an instant, and then asked:--
"Mrs. Richling, tell me plainly, has your husband gone wrong?"
Her eyes looked up a moment, upon him, big and staring, and suddenly she spoke:--
"O Doctor! My husband go wrong? John go wrong?" The eyelids closed down, the head rocked slowly from side to side on the flat hospital pillow, and the first two tears he had ever seen her shed welled from the long lashes and slipped down her cheeks.
"My poor child!" said the Doctor, taking her hand in his. "No, no! G.o.d forgive me! He hasn"t gone wrong; he"s not going wrong. You"ll tell me all about it when you"re stronger."
The Doctor had her removed to one of the private rooms of the pay-ward, and charged the Sisters to take special care of her. "Above all things,"
he murmured, with a beetling frown, "tell that thick-headed nurse not to let her know that this is at anybody"s expense. Ah, yes; and when her husband comes, tell him to see me at my office as soon as he possibly can."
As he was leaving the hospital gate he had an afterthought. "I might have left a note." He paused, with his foot on the carriage-step. "I suppose they"ll tell him,"--and so he got in and drove off, looking at his watch.
On his second visit, although he came in with a quietly inspiring manner, he had also, secretly, the feeling of a culprit. But, midway of the room, when the young head on the pillow turned its face toward him, his heart rose. For the patient smiled. As he drew nearer she slid out her feeble hand. "I"m glad I came here," she murmured.
"Yes," he replied; "this room is much better than the open ward."
"I didn"t mean this room," she said. "I meant the whole hospital."
"The whole hospital!" He raised his eyebrows, as to a child.
"Ah! Doctor," she responded, her eyes kindling, though moist.
"What, my child?"
She smiled upward to his bent face.
"The poor--mustn"t be ashamed of the poor, must they?"
The Doctor only stroked her brow, and presently turned and addressed his professional inquiries to the nurse. He went away. Just outside the door he asked the nurse:--
"Hasn"t her husband been here?"
"Yes," was the reply, "but she was asleep, and he only stood there at the door and looked in a bit. He trembled," the unintelligent woman added, for the Doctor seemed waiting to hear more,--"he trembled all over; and that"s all he did, excepting his saying her name over to himself like, over and over, and wiping of his eyes."
"And n.o.body told him anything?"