Читать книгу Splendid Joy - Marguerite Williams - Страница 4

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CLARE CHALMERS lay in her bed in the long hospital ward dreamily watching the travelling sunlight. Early in the morning, when it had looked in at the eastern windows, it had shone on the doctor’s table, brightening the polished glass and glistening on the shining instruments. In passing it had blessed the corner of her bed, and for a little while lay, a patch of gold, on the white coverlet. Later she had watched it travel along the clean green wall, light up the cover of the chart hanging over the bed of number eighteen, gleam redly on the shade over nineteen’s bed, and now, through a south window, it was reaching her once more, glorifying the flowers in front of her on its way.

She shut her eyes, they were too tired to bear the brilliance, but she put her left hand outside the bed clothes to be caressed by the warmth.

It was a worn young face on which the sunlight rested. The brown hair it brightened had lost its sheen; the eyes that were hidden by those tired lids were despoiled of their laughter. Lying there in the sunlight, her eyes closed, her left hand bathed in the warm glow, Clare was praying that she might leave the wonderful world of laughter and tears she knew, for a wonderful world of mystery, that she did not know. Behind that still face there was passionate pleading—for it was the only thing that she wanted, and she wanted it so badly.

“Number twenty, what time’s your operation?”

Clare came back to the world that she had been praying to leave and opened her eyes.

“Two o’clock,” she said, turning restlessly away from the sun and looking towards the big woman who occupied the next bed.

“Are you nervous?”

Clare smiled wonderingly.

“No,” she answered simply.

“It isn’t very serious, is it?”

“It’s only my arm—but—”

“You’ll be all right!” pronounced the woman cheerily. “But you don’t look fit to stand much.”

“I’m quite fit for a Long Journey,” Clare responded soberly; then she closed her eyes again.

The young men came and carried her from her bed to the operating room. She lay on her back, seeing nothing but the high white ceiling, not knowing who was near until she heard the Surgeon’s voice.

She felt him take her hand, and heard his laughing remark to the group she could not see.

“This is a dangerous child to tackle. If any of you fellows try it, you’ll probably come off second best.”

Then a voice, which Clare recognized as belonging to one of the students, said with laughing emphasis:

“I know.”

Clare tried to remonstrate. She was very human still, though she had been looking forward to the Long Journey.

“You’re taking a mean advantage!” she protested.

The anesthetist came to her side. She smiled up at him as she said in a weak voice:

“They’re not playing fair! You might fight for me.”

Then the strong smell of the anesthetic filled her nostrils. She forgot the Surgeon and the students, and began to wonder how long the Journey would take, and whether her prayer was to be answered.

It was not easy going. The voices fell farther and farther away and then ceased; but through her body pains shot piercingly until she felt as if she was on a rack—every limb stretched out and tortured. Then—still racked—she began to fall—down, down,—into great darkness.

And then....

The Surgeon—skilful, silent—was intent on his work, repairing the damage done to the thin arm that lay bare beneath his hand. The students watched—it was a beautiful piece of work.

Suddenly the anesthetist spoke.

“She has stopped breathing, Sir.”

The Surgeon looked up from his task. His exclamation was brief and forceful. Yes, Clare had stopped breathing.

The Surgeon gave his orders—clear, decisive. Students and nurses promptly obeyed—determined to bring back to the world the spirit that had prayed to go....

Clare found herself in an atmosphere of peace. Had she reached her haven at last?

She opened her eyes. At her side was a shining Presence, but on the radiant face there was not the welcome that the tired spirit had expected. Clare looked into the compassionate eyes; in their light she saw the self that she had left, and suddenly it appeared small and mean.

“Have you granted my prayer?” she breathed wonderingly.

“You prayed; the answer rests with you.” The Angel looked at her tenderly. “Why did you pray?” he asked.

“I had lost all I loved. Life was so lonely,” she faltered. “Was I wrong?”

“You had lost,” responded the Angel, “yes; but you had gained. You knew the loneliness of Life; but you were learning its Secret. What have you done with the great talent that you were entrusted with?”

“The great talent!” she echoed, amazed.

“The great talent for loving.”

“I loved,” she protested, “but—it wasn’t wanted.”

“Love is always wanted,” responded the Angel. “You prayed to come away leaving your work undone.”

“But—but—there was no-one left—to need me. I thought I had finished my work.”

“Finished your work! My child—you had hardly begun. You were only just learning to use the powers you had won through the long, long years.”

“Must I go back?”

Again he looked at her tenderly.

“Will you go back?” he asked. “You are given the choice.”

She hesitated, questioning his eyes. “Tell me,” she pleaded.

“Back in the world you have wanted to leave is one who needs you,” he answered. “If you return you will suffer.” He looked at her steadily. “You will have great joy, but you will suffer—again and again. But as a reward for every pain, you will have increased power to help another soul nearer to the life which is Divine.”

Again there was silence. To leave this world of peace, where the atmosphere was glorious color, where the silence was music, and where suffering was past! Clare looked into the Angel’s eyes, and in them she saw the Love of God. By the light of that wonderful Love she caught a new glimpse of Life’s meaning. How very small her thought had been!

“I will go,” she said.

“You are right,” said the Angel.

Then she was left alone....

It was evening before Clare returned to the world of normal consciousness. Vaguely, dimly, she realized that she had been turned back from the Long Journey she had passionately hoped to accomplish. She was still going to stay in this wonderful world of laughter and tears, of comedy and tragedy, of villainy and heroism; the world that held the bitterness of hate and the lilt of children’s laughter. She was going to stay—but she was very tired.

The young student who had been charged to watch her, noted the signs of returning consciousness.

“That’s better,” he said brightly. “You’ll soon be all right!”

The light of recognition in her eyes was very dim. He smiled—to fan it into a flame.

“You’ve been trying to hold my hand for the last hour,” he said, watching her. Yes, she was coming back to the world again.

“I’m sure I haven’t,” she protested in a weak voice. Then she too smiled. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,”—and she closed her eyes again.

The lights were low in the long ward. Most of the patients were asleep. The student went away and left Clare alone, after speaking to the Sister who sat by the table, the shaded electric lamp throwing light on to the report she was writing.

Presently the House Surgeon came in. Clare watched him pass quietly from bed to bed with the Sister, until they reached her own and paused there....

Once again the ward was still, but Clare lay restless, unsleeping, full of pain. Vaguely, dreamily, she followed the passage of the moonlight, as she had followed the passage of the sunlight in the morning. Presently that light too reached her....

A few miles away Wilfred Cavendish was lying by the moonlit lake where he had gone to find the fairies. That same moonlight was welcoming Clare Chalmers back to the world—where she had come to find her work.