Crying for the Light Volume Iii Part 4

'Good heavens!' he exclaimed; 'Miss Howard, how came you here?'

He knew the actress, and at once rushed to rescue her from the dilemma.

Rose had little to go by. The note had been sent from Sloville. It was clear that someone connected with Sloville was lying ill-perhaps dying-there. Under the guidance of one of the nurses she went softly from one bed to another. One nurse after another was appealed to. At length one was found who had the charge of a case in one of the wards.

Her patient had at times spoken of the town in question; but she was ill, very ill, and the nurse was afraid any excitement might be fatal. When the medical man in charge of the case was consulted he shook his head despairingly. The thread of life was nearly worn out. A woman from Sloville had been there to see her, and the little talk between the two had considerably increased the patient's danger. Originally the woman in question had been run over by a cab outside one of the theatres. Her const.i.tution was entirely gone, and the injuries inflicted on the system had been serious. After three months' nursing she had been sufficiently healed to leave the hospital, and had led a more or less wandering life.

Then she had gone down hop-picking in Kent; had caught cold; that cold had settled on her lungs. There was no earthly hope for her, and there she lay, wrestling not for dear life, but with grim death. But there was no immediate danger. Good nursing and tender care might lengthen her days for a short season.

'If Miss Howard would return to-morrow, the doctor would try and get her into a proper state for a little talk.'

'I would rather see her now,' said the lady.

'Impossible, madam; quite impossible, madam,' said the medico, and Rose had reluctantly to retire.

'Surely I have enough on hand,' said she to herself, 'if all the note hints is true. People said when I left the stage I should find life tame and dull. I have not found it so at present. I believe no life is tame and dull if one is determined to make the most of it. After she had left the stage, Mrs. Siddons, from the want of excitement, was never happy. I am not a Mrs. Siddons, happily,' said the retired actress to herself.

The morning came, and Rose was again at the hospital. The medical man was there to meet her, and they went together to the patient's bedside.

In that emaciated face, purified by disease from its former grossness, few would have recognised 'our Sally.'

We are a merciful people. Let our tramps live as they may, we take good care of them in our hospitals.

'Father never gives beggars anything,' said a little boy to one of the fraternity in a small country town; 'but he always prays for them.'

We may show a stern face to the tramp; but once inside a hospital we give him something more than prayers-proper food, trained nursing, the best science that can be procured for love or money. Comforts, nay, luxuries, he could never procure for himself. Indeed, in all desirable respects, he is as well off as a millionaire.

But to return to our Sally, lying there calmly in her clean bed, in a long and lofty ward, apparently indifferent to all external things, simply satisfied with life such as it was.

'A lady has come to see you,' said the doctor, in his pleasant tones, 'A lady from Sloville.'

'Take her away. I am that bad I can't speak to her.'

'Are you quite sure you don't want to see her? She says you sent her a letter to come.'

'No, it warn't me. It was that Sloville woman as was here last week. I told her not to bother, and now she's gone and done it.'

A fit of coughing came, and conversation ceased.

Then the nurse administered a little stimulus, and that revived her.

'Leave us alone,' said the poor woman.

The others withdrew, and Rose stepped forward.

'You've been good to my boy,' said the patient slowly, as if it were hard to talk.

'What do you mean? The boy I took from Sloville?'

'Yes.'

'But someone has written to me to say that he is the heir of Sir Watkin Strahan.'

'Yes, he is. I stole him.'

'Stole him! Why, how could you do such a thing?' asked the actress excitedly.

'For revenge!' exclaimed the poor woman, with all the energy she could collect, and then fell back exhausted. For a time both were silent, and Rose watched with pity the face, stained by intemperance and sensuality and all evil living, wondering what could be the connection between that poor pauper in the hospital and the proud deceased Baronet.

'Read this paper,' said the poor woman.

'Oct. 187-. Saw my pore boy on a brogham at the theatre. I knowed him at once. His father is Sir Watkin Strahan, and he was on the box of Miss Howard's brogham. I lost him as I was going to speak to him.

The peeler told me to be off.'

'Then, it was you that left him at Sloville, where I took him up?'

'Yes,' said the poor woman feebly, adding: 'Come nearer.'

Rose complied with the request.

'I was an underservant in Sir Watkin's house. He was a wicked man. He took a fancy to me. I war young and good-looking, and a fool.'

The old, old story, thought Rose to herself, for the poor woman gave her plenty of time to think, so slowly and feebly did the words come out of her mouth.

'One day the missus came and caught me in his room. I was turned out into the street, without a character and without a friend. I vowed I'd be even with him, and I run off with his boy.'

'How could you manage that?'

'Oh, that was easy enough. The nursemaid was allus a talking to the sodgers in the park. And an Italian Countess helped me. She had an idea that if she could get rid of the child and the wife she would marry the master.'

'But was no effort made to get the child back?'

'Oh yes! But I managed to get a dead baby, the very moral of his'n. An Italian lady staying in the house helped me. I dressed it in his clothes. The master thought it his own, and had it buried in the family vault.'

'That was very wrong of you.'

'Perhaps it was. But had not the master and missus both wronged me?

Arter that I got married, but me and my husband were always quarrelling about the boy, and that made me take to drink, and then, when I lost my husband, I drank worse and worse.'

'And then you went on the tramp, and left the boy at Sloville, and I took him.'

'Yes.'

'He is a good boy.'

'He allus was.'

'But why did you not see him righted?'

'I did one day. I had a letter sent to Sir Watkin, and he sent me word it was all a lie, that his boy was dead. Then his lady died, and he went abroad, and-'

'And you never saw him again?'