Читать книгу The Sinner - Eliza Margaret Humphreys - Страница 8

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A special message from the matron to any nurse or sister was always ominous. It meant either rebuke or dismissal. Nell's conscience was clear on the matter of fines, or broken rules, or neglected duties. Therefore, she feared the worst, for which Deborah Gray had, in some measure, prepared her.

The matron received her very kindly. She was a stately person, with an air of dignity that would have done credit to a duchess. She bade Nell sit down, and noting how pale she was, and how her hands shook, she poured her out a glass of wine and made her drink it.

'Don't look so nervous, my child,' she said. 'I only want to tell you something that Dr. Mowbray said. I think it is better you should know at once. He thinks that hospital work is too hard for you.'

She opened a note-book on the table beside her, and turned back to a date. 'Two weeks ago,' she said, 'you fainted in the operating-room. Yesterday you did the same thing in your own room. Yes, yes'—as Nell began to protest—'I know what you would say. The operation was a very horrible one, and the sudden heat yesterday upset you, but my dear child, a good nurse must have no nerves, and she must not be upset. To her, no case is horrible or repellent, if it requires attention and lays any demand on skill. I know you are very young, and that this is your first experience, but the house-surgeon has very keen eyes, and his judgment is rarely at fault. You will never be able to bear the strain of another year here. Remember how ill you were in the winter. You have not quite lost your cough yet. As for night duty, we would not think of giving it to you. I feel, therefore, I ought to tell you plainly that you must not continue this life. I don't know of your reasons for taking it up. You were recommended by a first-rate Dublin physician, and certainly you have deserved his recommendation. But it would be cruel to let you wear out your constitution until a breakdown was inevitable. Therefore, I consider it my duty to speak.'

'You mean then,' said Nell, in a weak, unsteady voice, 'that I am dismissed from here.'

'Don't put it like that, my child,' said the matron kindly. 'We would gladly keep you. I know you love your work, and you are a general favourite with patients and sisters alike. No, it is no case of dismissal. Only we advise you to give up your duty before the strain becomes too heavy. Take a long holiday. Brace yourself up; forget all the horrors and disagreeables of nursing life, and then, well, you will look like yourself—the bright, fresh little girl who came to me from Ireland nine months ago. Look in the glass there. Had that girl pale cheeks and sunken eyes like the picture you see?'

Nell was obliged to confess she had not. She stood there, looking at the changed reflection; the hand resting on the table trembled like a leaf. She felt it would be childish to cry, but she longed to do it, the disappointment was so keen. She had given up pleasures, society, enjoyments, all for nothing. She had trained herself to laborious duties and distasteful work, all for nothing. She had put her hand to the plough, but was forced to look back whether she would or no. The prospect of a return to ordinary life did not please her. The pulse of throbbing youth had ceased to warm her blood and quicken her heart beats. The springtime had no glad music in its voice. She could have echoed Deborah Gray's words, 'I feel so old, so old!'

But she had only run down. She was only tired and weak and unnerved. She sat down again and clasped her hands tight to still their foolish tremor.

'Do you think,' she said, suddenly, 'that I could take private nursing if it came in my way? There must be plenty of old ladies, of inexperienced mothers. Could I not get something of that sort, with a recommendation from here?'

The matron shook her head doubtfully. 'We could not, of course, give you a regular nurse's certificate, because you have not even stayed a probationer's time, leaving the year of regular nursing out of the question. But I have no doubt Dr. Mowbray would speak for you, if you asked him. I see you still harp on the one string. Would you not prefer some lighter or more congenial occupation?'

'No,' said Nell. 'I have tried governessing. That was hateful, and I shouldn't like to be in an office or a shop.'

'But why must you do anything?' asked the matron kindly. 'You are not the sort of girl to buffet with the storms of life. Have you no relatives who would give you a home?'

'Oh, yes,' said Nell, flushing, hotly. 'But I prefer to be independent. I have a little money, very little, just enough to dress on. But I want to do something with my life, not to live in idleness and uselessness!'

'You are unlike most girls of your age. They only care for dress, amusement, lovers. It seems strange, when I look at you, that you should voluntarily put away those things out of your life!'

'The scales dropped from my eyes long ago,' said Nell, bitterly. 'I have seen too much of men's selfishness and women's misery, and the wreck that marriage makes of lives. I don't want a practical experience. So it is that work of some sort has become an actual necessity.'

'If I try and find something for you to do, will you promise me to give yourself six months' rest and quiet? Go to some little seaside place. Bathe, walk, idle, lie on the sands and watch the waves. Give yourself thorough rest of body and mind. Then, when health comes back, and life swings on an even balance once more, write to me, and if you are still of the same mind, if nursing is your one ambition, I will see what I can do. I have a friend who has established a children's hospital—founded it, carried it on by her own unaided exertions. I fancy she might have a vacancy for you. The hospital is at Southampton. I will make a note of it; and now, time is up. I must send you away.'

'When do you wish me to leave—altogether?' asked Nell, as she rose.

'I think for your own sake it had better be soon—say the end of this week.'

'Very well, I will go. You have been very kind,' she added, her voice half-choked by emotion. 'I shall never forget the time I have passed here. I am only sorry I turned out so useless!'

'No, my dear, not useless; pray don't think that. Only you overtaxed your strength, and we could not have it on our conscience to try it any longer.'

She took the girl's small hands in both her own and kissed her kindly on the brow.

'There, cheer up,' she said. 'Don't think you have failed because of this. You will have plenty of opportunities of distinguishing yourself in other ways. Write home, and make your arrangements, and then let me know when you leave. I will tell Sister Adams that you are to have no more heavy duty in your ward.'

Then she opened the door and Nell found herself stumbling along the familiar passages, her eyes half blind with tears.

'Another failure,' she thought. 'Another turned down page in the book of life. . . . What will be written on the next?'

* * * * * *

Nell had never thought of herself as a popular person in the big hospital with its staff of nurses—some learned and apt as the doctors themselves—its busy students—its numerous surgeons, and visiting physicians. She was surprised during the next few days at the regrets, the kindness, the parting gifts, which met her perpetually.

She almost broke down when the last day came, when she rose and dressed in the old commonplace garments of the ordinary girl, and put aside the lilac gowns and pretty caps and aprons of which she had grown so fond. It was very trying to make the round of the wards. To look at the pale faces of the convalescents, the suffering or disfigured ones of the patients; to turn her back on the nurses' home, the familiar classroom, even the dreaded ward where the operations took place.

She had never known how attached she really was to the life and everything associated with it, until she was obliged to bid goodbye to it all. Her eyes were swollen with weeping. She looked the most forlorn little object possible, as she stood by Deborah Gray's side in the nurses' sitting-room, and farewells all said at last, her box and herself only awaiting the hour of departure.

'Now, this is all very foolish and feminine and useless, Nell,' said Deborah, in her clear, firm tones. 'Tears never did any good yet. When a thing is inevitable, put a brave face on it, set your teeth firm, and go through with it. That's my parting advice. With regard to our two selves, nothing is altered. I am not going to forget you, or lose sight of you. We are friends for better or worse, come what may. Excuse my quoting the marriage service, but it came in appropriately—for once. Now dry your eyes and listen. I am going to give you some practical advice.'

Nell sat down. Her lips quivered with a faint smile. She shook the tears off her heavy lashes; her small, restless hands were alternately smoothing and rolling up the grey kid glove that matched her travelling dress.

'Well,' she said. 'I am listening.'

'I have a feeling—an instinct rather—that your coming here was for some definite purpose,' said her friend slowly. 'A purpose that you have yet to learn. I have Scotch blood in my veins, on the distaff side, Nell, and they say my mother had the gift of second sight. Be that as it may, there are times and occasions when things are "borne in" upon me. I see in a flash what is to happen. I don't feel this with everybody, mind you, only just in some special case. Yours is one, Nell. I know we were meant to meet and be friends. I know also that there is a time of trouble and difficulty coming for you, brightened now and then by a great happiness. The happiness is round your path, if you can understand. You may take it or refuse it, but it makes life easier and better for you. Now, my dear, forewarned is forearmed. Exercise your judgment and be cautious in your friendships. If, as I fancy, an opportunity comes for you to make practical use of your training here, remember your old habits, and keep to the rules. I seem compelled to tell you this. I can't give any reason.'

She put her hand to her head and closed her eyes.

Nell watched her wonderingly. In all their hours of intimacy and confidence she had never known her to look or speak as she had done now.

'That is all,' she continued, and her hand dropped, and her face resumed its usual composure. 'Now be a good child, and don't fret any more. The life you go to will be infinitely more to your liking than this. Take a good rest, brace up nerves and energies. Above all write to me as often as you can, and tell me everything about yourself that you care to tell.'

She took up a parcel that had been lying on the table.

'I want you,' she said, 'to take this as a little parting remembrance. It is nothing particular. It is only a book for notes and entries, with this peculiarity. It is leather-bound, and has a lock and key. It may be useful, or it may not. But if ever you feel inclined to be confidential on paper, Nell, it will hold your secrets safely.'

Nell took the square brown paper parcel with murmured thanks. It did not strike her at the time that it would be a very useful present. Keeping a diary was the very last thing she had ever contemplated, but then, one does not tell a friend that a gift is not likely to be put to its intended use.

'I am going with you to the station,' continued Deborah. 'I took my hours off on purpose to suit your departure.'

'How good of you. I am so glad. And your next holiday, Debbie. You will come to me? You promised that.'

'I will certainly come, if possible. I should like to see Ireland. I shall get my leave in June.'

'We won't stay in Dublin,' said Nell, all eagerness and enthusiasm once more. 'We will go to some quiet place by the sea, and have a real good time, all to ourselves. The coast of Ireland is lovely. You will like it, I know, Debbie.'

'I am sure I shall,' said Deborah Gray. 'We workers got the full meaning of enjoyment out of our holidays, that is certain. And mind you, Nell, you are to do nothing but rest. Don't trouble about getting anything to do. Your work will come to you when the day and the hour are ripe for it. Remember that.'

'Are you really a seeress, Debbie?' asked the girl, smiling faintly.

'Never mind what I am. Time and the future will prove the correctness of my prophecies.'

'You have been one thing to me at all events,' said Nell. 'A true friend. A tower of strength when I was weak and foolish. There are people one meets—I am sure you know what I mean, Debbie—who seem to make constant demands on one's time and patience, and sympathy. And there are others who just give all that, and strength, too, without seeming to know they give it.'

'I understand,' said Deborah Gray, and the blood came warmly into her dark, clear skin. 'But don't say pretty things to me, my dear. I am distrustful by nature, and I know my own failings well enough.'

'If I were a man,' said Nell, suddenly, 'how I should love you!'

The colour left Deborah Gray's face. She turned aside and busied herself with the dressing-bag that Nell had brought down in her hand.

'The book will just go in here,' she said, 'and I think it is time to call a cab. For goodness sake, don't cry, Nell!' she added, almost fiercely. 'I hate to see tears. They remind me that I am only a woman, after all.'

But it was in Nell's eyes that the self-betraying drops were standing as the two women went out of the familiar room and entered the waiting vehicle, while scores of white-capped heads and waving hands gave a last farewell from the windows of the great building.