When he had been hurled2 against the curb3 on the dark street, had been rolled over and tossed there and left there with no outcry, no movement, as limp and senseless as a mangled4 weed, the careless crowd which somewhere in the city every day gathers about such scenes quickly gathered about him. In this throng5 was the physician whose car stood near by; and he, used to sights of suffering but touched by that tragedy of unconscious child and half-crazed mother, had hurried them in his own car to St. Luke's—to St. Luke's, which is always open, always ready, and always free to those who lack means.
Just before they stopped at the entrance she had pleaded in the doctor's ear for a luxury.
"To the private ward," he said to those who lifted the lad to the stretcher, speaking as though in response to her entreaty6.
"One of the best rooms," he said before the operation, speaking as though he shouldered the responsibility of the further expense. "And a room for her near by," he added. "Everything for them! Everything!"
So there he was now, the lad, or what there was left of him, this quiet Sunday, in a pleasant room opposite the cathedral. The air was like early summer.The windows were open. He lay on his back, not seeing anything. The skin of his forehead had been torn off; there was a bandage over his eyes. And there were bruises7 on his body and bruises on his face, which was horribly disfigured. The lips were swollen8 two or three thicknesses; it was agony for him to speak. When he realized what had happened, after the operation, his first mumbled9 words to her were:
"They will never have me now."
About the middle of the forenoon of this still Sunday morning, when the doctor left, she followed him into the hall as usual, and questioned him as usual with her eyes. He encouraged her and encouraged himself:
"I believe he is going to get well. He has the will to get well, he has the bravery to get well. He is brave about it; he is as brave as he can be."
"Of course he is brave," she said scornfully. "Of course he is brave."
"The love of such a mother would call him back to life," he added, and he laid one of his hands on her head for a moment.
"Don't do that," she said, as though the least tenderness toward herself at such a moment would unnerve her, melt away all her fortitude10.
Everybody had said he was brave, the head nurse, the day nurse, the night nurse, the woman who brought in the meals, the woman who scrubbed the floor. All this had kept her up. If anybody paid any kind of tribute to him, realized in any way what he was, this was life to her.
After the doctor left, as the nurse was with him, she walked up and down the halls, too restless to be quiet.
At the end of one hall she could look down on the fragrant11 leafy park. Yes, summer was nigh. Where a little while before had been only white blossoms, there were fewer white now, more pink, some red, many to match the yellow of the sun. The whole hillside of swaying; boughs12 seemed to quiver with happiness. Her eyes wandered farther down to the row of houses at the foot of the park. She could see the dreadful spot on the street, the horrible spot. She could see her shattered window-panes up above. The points of broken glass still seemed to slit13 the flesh of her hands within their bandages.
She shrank back and walked to the end of the transverse hall. Across the road was the cathedral. The morning service was just over. People were pouring out through the temporary side doors and the temporary front doors so placidly14, so contentedly15! Some were evidently strangers; as they reached the outside they turned and studied the cathedral curiously16 as those who had never before seen it. Others turned and looked at it familiarly, with pride in its unfolding form. Some stopped and looked down at the young grass, stroking it with the toes of their fine shoes; they were saying how fresh and green it was. Some looked up at the sky; they were saying how blue it was. Some looked at one another keenly; they were discussing some agreeable matter, being happy to get back to it now after the service. Not one of them looked across at the hospital. Not a soul of them seemed to be even aware of its existence. Not a soul of them!
Particularly her eyes became riveted17 upon two
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