“I write these few lines for to let you now how I am gettin along in this plaice. I have bean hear six weaks to-morrer, which is little Jemmie’s birfday. I ain’t undergond the hoperation as I cum for yet, bekos the doctor says my sistem ain’t reddy fur to stand it yet. My patients is allmost gon, Jack, with waitin in suspends so long. Sumtimes I begin to think as the doctors ain’t acting straight with me. They makes a dredful hurtin examinashun everry morning with more’n a dozzun yung stoodents a-lookin on, which ain’t proper in my opinyun, and they talks a lot of Latin and says it is a verry pretty case. One feller sed it was you-neek or somethin of that sort, and Doctor Stanforth would be back in a fortnit and must see it. As for phizzik I swer I ain’t had a drop of anythink but pepermint water sins in this plaice I’ve bin; but I’ve bin pulld about shameful, as ain’t fit for no respectful marrid woman, for what objek I can’t for the life on me see. Now, Jack, do mind and keep Lizzie at her scholin, and don’t let Billy and Polly run wild in the streets. I don’t like meself at all in this plaice, and ef the tumour aint sune tuk out I shall bunk it, so I tell yer strayt. I wish you’d ask Dr. Phelps what thear littel gaim is hear. I beleaf I am only kep as a speciment, bekos my cais is curous; anyhow, I ain’t a-bein dun no good to, and they’ll find I’m sloped afore long. 2 on em in saim ward as me bunked it last week.
“Your lovin wife,
“Matilda Stubbins.”
“Now, Mum,” said the man, “what I wanted to ask you was this. Mrs. Foster, our relieving officer’s wife, I have heerd tell had a tumour in her inside, asking your pardon for speaking like that afore a lady; but you don’t mind me, I hopes, and she went to a ladies’ ’orspital in the West End, and they was a-going to take her pretty nigh all to bits, as the sayin’ is, tellin’ her she’d be a dead woman in no time if it warn’t done; and while the poor thing was a-prayin’ and a-screwin’ of her courage up for to have it done, a lady told her how she had bin cured of the same thing by drinkin’ of gallons and gallons of still water, think they called it.”
“Distilled water,” said the Sister.
“Maybe your right, lady; anyways, she drunk pretty nigh a hogshead of it, besides wearing a tin bottle full of it hot round her innards, savin’ your presence, and she got well in three months and the tumour went right away. I have heerd Mr. Foster say so hisself. Now I wants to ask you if so be as you thinks as my poor Tilly could be cured with these ’ere waters like that?”
“Well, I can’t tell you that, Stubbins, but if you like I will get a clever doctor I know to see her, and tell us all about the case; but my advice to you, from what I know of St. Bernard’s, is to get her away at once. If the operation must be done, we will find some other hospital, after we have tried what we can do with less severe means.”
Visions of similar cases crowded in upon the good Sister’s recollection—of eviscerated creatures in whom no tumour was discovered to remove; of cases where, on the post-mortem table, sponges, and even instruments, had been discovered carelessly sown up in the patients after operation, and had caused their deaths. Had not Dr. Stanforth ever after said, with a look full of meaning, when about to perform this operation, “Count your sponges, sister!”
Mrs. Stubbins discharged herself from St. Bernard’s without waiting for further treatment, and actually recovered her health perfectly, unassisted even by “still waters.” She always declares that her doctors were like “Helen’s Babies,” who wanted to see the “wheels go round,” and was glad they had not gratified their curiosity on her “works.” Poor woman! she forgave them the wrong they had intended to do her, for in common with her class she believed it was somehow meant for her good, only “they are so fond of hacking folks about at them places.” Good-natured creatures, they sacrifice their poor skins, organs, and limbs, usually with generosity, when a great institution requires it, though the general practitioner cannot touch them with a lancet without protest. It is the éclat does the business.
One day an old pavior smashed his hand. The surgeons at St. Bernard’s wanted to remove three fingers. Not before he had been to see Sister Agnes, he thought. Sister Agnes went in for conservative surgery, and told him to refuse his consent. How often had she known a simple method of dressing save the digits in such a case. In three months the man had the complete use of his hand as before the accident, but that didn’t console the house surgeon, whose fingers had itched “to make a neat little job of it.” The pavior was so grateful to the Sister for her advice that he begged her acceptance of his favourite linnet in a nice cage.