And that was all the comfort Aldyth could gleam from them.
[CHAPTER XXVIII.]
KITTY SHOWS THE STRENGTH OF HER CHARACTER.
THE stroke of calamity which had fallen on her home roused Hilda Bland to an awful sense of the realities of life. She had been living in selfish dreams, nursing a sickly sentimentalism, with the assurance that she was altogether an exceptional being, exceptionally high-strung and sensitive, and wrapped in a misery which no one could understand. Self-pity had combined with self-admiration to blind her to the fact that there were other sorrows in the world besides her own. She had seen herself a patient sufferer, misconceived, slighted, unpitied; one singled out by fate for the endowment of peculiar sorrow.
And all the while she had been as one who dreams of storms in his warmly curtained bed. But now a real blast had awakened her to a sudden, pained perception of what human life is in a world where death and pain and loss are God's ministers to man.
There was nothing romantic in the blow that had shattered their happy home life. Hilda's heart sickened within her at the thought of the terrible injury, of the faint chance that Kitty would survive it, and the almost certain consequence that the life, if preserved, would be a helpless, maimed existence. And to think that on Kitty, of all persons, such a doom should fall—Kitty, always so full of life and energy, who liked to try her strength in every form of exercise, who never seemed to feel fatigue.
It was impossible to associate pain and helplessness with Kitty. Yet Hilda knew that many another bright young life had been blighted by a similar catastrophe. Such trials had been, and would be again. And it was vain to risk the why and wherefore.
"It is God's will," her mother was able to whisper in the midst of her anguish; but to Hilda that thought could yield no support. She had not learned to trust the will that embraces and controls all human life. If it were God's will so to afflict Kitty, then God was regardless of human agony, she said to herself.
Despite her cherished desire to become a nurse, Hilda was at first of little use in the sick-room. She lacked the nerve and self-control demanded of one who would serve there. But she was hardly needed, for nothing would induce Mrs. Bland to quit the bedside. Without flinching outwardly, she stood at her post, helping the surgeons, watching, waiting, praying, until the hour when the experienced surgeon summoned from London for consultation assured her that the patient would live—would live—guarding himself from using any expression that should convey the idea of restoration to health.
But at first it seemed enough to know that Kitty would not die. There was room for hope to flourish if life were granted. With tears in her eyes, Hilda told the good news to Aldyth, who came every day to see her, and was her chief comfort in this season of sorrow. Aldyth made the most of each gleam of hope, though in the background of her mind was the drear probability which the gossips of Woodham, finding something not unpleasantly thrilling in the contemplation of Kitty's crippled life, had decided must be the result of her accident.