FullReads

My ill-humour had by this time almost worked itself off in the fresh air, and the novel scenes through which we had come; and, for the present, the morning’s disappointment was forgotten as I followed my father through the crowded miserable rooms, and clambered up staircase after staircase, till we reached the top of the house, and stumbled through a latched door into the garret. After so much groping in the dark, the light dazzled me, and I thought at first that the room was empty. But at last a faint “Good day” from the corner near the window drew my eyes that way; and there, stretched on a sort of bed, and supported by a chair at his back, lay the patient we had come to see.

He was a young man about twenty-six years old, in the last stage of that terrible disease so fatally common in our country–he was dying of consumption. There was no mistaking the flushed cheek, the painfully laborious breathing, and the incessant cough; while two old crutches in the corner spoke of another affliction–he was a cripple. His gaunt face lighted up with a glow of pleasure when my father came in, who seated himself at once on the end of the bed, and began to talk to him, whilst I looked round the room. There was absolutely nothing in it, except the bed on which the sick man lay, the chair that supported him, and a small three-legged table. The low roof was terribly out of repair, and the window was patched with newspaper; but through the glass panes that were left, in full glory streamed the sun, and in the midst of the blaze stood a pot of musk in full bloom. The soft yellow flowers looked so grand, and smelled so sweet, that I was lost in admiration, till I found the sick man’s black eyes fixed on mine.

“You are looking at my bit of green, master?” he said, in a gratified tone.

“Do you like flowers?” I inquired, coming shyly up to the bed.

“Do I like ’em?” he exclaimed in a low voice. “Ay, I love ’em well enough–well enough,” and he looked fondly at the plant, “though it’s long since I saw any but these.”

“You have not been in the country for a long time?” I inquired, compassionately. I felt sad to think that he had perhaps lain there for months, without a taste of fresh air or a run in the fields; but I was not prepared for his answer.

“I never was in the country, young gentleman.”

I looked at my father.

“Yes,” he said, in answer to my glance, “it is quite true. William was born here. He got hurt when a boy, and has been lame ever since. For some years he has been entirely confined to the house. He was never out of town, and never saw a green field.”

Never out of the town! confined to the house for years! and what a house! The tears rushed to my eyes, and I felt that angry heart-ache which the sight of suffering produces in those who are too young to be insensible to it, and too ignorant of GOD’s Providence to submit with “quietness and confidence” to His will.

“My son can hardly believe it, William.”

“It is such a shame,” I said; “it is horrible. I am very sorry for you.”

The black eyes turned kindly upon me, and the sick man said, “Thank you heartily, Sir. You mean very kindly. I used to say the same sort of things myself, when I was younger, and knew no better. I used to think it was very hard, and that no one was so miserable as I was. But I know now how much better off I am than most folks, and how many things I have to be thankful for.”

I looked round the room, and began involuntarily to count the furniture–one, two, three. The “many things” were certainly not chairs and tables.