Vigil in the Night, Page 2

  The matron sat at her desk, and close at hand were seated the four members of the hospital committee: Amos Green, the miners’ agent; Mr. Weatherby, the coalmaster; Sam Staples, the auctioneer; and the Reverend Mr. David Perrin. They all scrutinized Anne with blank, curiously impersonal faces. Standing beside the matron, making pretense of turning over some papers, was Doctor Hassall. He did not even look at Anne.

  For a moment there was silence. Then Miss Lennard said abruptly:

  “Nurse Lee, we have been considering your case, and most painful it has been. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

  A cold shiver ran through Anne. What could she say that would not incriminate Lucy? The members of the committee sat like magistrates upon the bench.

  “I have really nothing to say,” she stammered.

  “Nothing!” exclaimed Amos Green. “Can’t you even offer some excuse for this damnable thing you’ve done?”

  Anne gazed at the stocky miners’ agent. He had been her father’s friend, had often given her sweets when she was a child.

  “Do you mean us to understand,” asked the Reverend Mr. Perrin gently, “that you are wholly to blame?”

  Anne nodded blindly.

  The members of the committee conferred. Finally Anne heard Mr. Weatherby, the chairman, say, “What is the use of taking it further?” He made a sign to Miss Lennard.

  The matron moistened her dry lips. “Nurse Lee,” she said, “I cannot tell you what a dreadful shock this has been to me. That one of my nurses, that you above everyone, Anne Lee, should have been guilty of such a breach of professional conduct—” her voice wavered; she broke off with a gesture.

  At this Dr. Hassall turned from the window. He spoke bitterly. “You may well search for a word, Matron. There isn’t one to fit it.” He glanced at Anne. “A human life has been wantonly thrown away through your gross and utter negligence. And yet you stand there dumb as a doorpost. You wouldn’t look like that if you’d had my job of telling the baby’s mother. Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  Anne had a frightful desire to blurt out the truth, to reinstate herself. It was the greatest temptation of her life to clear herself of this awful shame. With a great effort she fought back the impulse. She stood there in silence, her eyes downcast, trembling visibly.

  CHAPTER 6

  The matron interchanged a glance with Dr. Hassall and the chairman. Involuntarily she sighed. “Then there is no help for it. You must take the consequences. You are dismissed from your post. You will leave the hospital not later than tomorrow. Only your record here has saved you from a worse punishment, that of losing your certificate. Some of the committee wished this case to be brought before the nursing council. But out of consideration for your previous good conduct we have decided to hush the matter up. You may work out your own salvation elsewhere. That rests with yourself. I can, of course, give you no testimonial whatsoever. I don’t wish to see you again. Good-bye.”

  Anne gazed at the matron unseeingly, her eyes swimming with tears. That this wise and kindly woman who had trained and encouraged her, whose regard she was certain she had won, should now condemn and utterly despise her, was anguish almost unendurable. But what was there to be done? Nothing.

  As Anne turned away Dr. Hassall fired his parting shot:

  “There is nothing in the world so bad as a bad nurse. Nor so good as a good one. Remember that, Nurse Lee. Remember it all your days.”

  Outside the office Anne wiped her eyes, then hurried to her own quarters. Fortunately she met no one. Holding her side, gasping as though she had been running, she gained her own room. Awaiting her was Lucy.

  “Anne!” cried Lucy. “What’s happened? I couldn’t get near you all the day. That damned Hall kept me on duty till five o’clock. Quick! Tell me! What’s happened?”

  “Nothing.” Anne spoke slowly, as from a long way off. “I’m kicked out. That’s all.”

  A look of relief came over Lucy’s face. “No more than that!”

  Anne’s gaze was still distant. Yet through the painful haze of her emotions she sensed something of her sister’s selfishness. She said, “Isn’t it enough?”

  “Oh, I know, I know!” exclaimed Lucy with forced compunction. “But I thought there might be a case, police proceedings—far worse. I was waiting to own up. I kept thinking they might do something terrible.”

  Anne spun round quite fiercely. She was suddenly angry, passionately and fiercely angry. “You should have done your thinking this morning. Then that poor child would still be alive. Oh! It’s horrible, horrible—a nightmare! I can’t believe it’s true.”

  Lucy’s figure stiffened. “It’s not too late for me to own up yet,” she answered in a hard tone. “I’ll do it if you wish. Don’t think I’m afraid. I’ll go to Matron this minute.”

  “She wouldn’t believe you,” Anne said bitterly. “Now she would think you were trying to shield me.”

  There was silence in the little room, a sad, unhappy silence. Anne stared out of the window in tortured melancholy; Lucy bit her lip with stubborn perversity. Then with a cry of genuine contrition, Lucy threw herself into Anne’s arms.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, really I am!” she sobbed. “I don’t know how it ever happened. It was wonderful of you to take the blame. I could never have faced it, never, never. I haven’t the pluck. And they’d never have given me my certificate. I’d have been finished. But you can easily get another job, Anne. And when I pass my examination, I’ll join you. We wouldn’t have stayed here much longer in any case, would we, Anne? We wouldn’t have wasted our lives in a hole like this? But of course if you like, I’ll still own up—”

  CHAPTER 7

  While Lucy babbled on, almost hysterically, Anne held her close, stroked her forehead soothingly. So much did she love her sister, the sacrifice she had made became not merely necessary but inevitable. They sat together on the edge of the bed facing the window, envisaging the far horizon of their future, while lights beaded the dusk of the distant town.

  “Where shall you go?” whispered Lucy.

  Anne had already considered this contingency. She had always meant to seek her opportunity in a great city. Now the opportunity had come more swiftly, more sadly, than she had expected. “I’ll go to Manchester,” she said. “Now, don’t worry. I’ll soon get a job there. Plenty of chances. It’s not too far away from you, my dearest.”

  There was silence for a moment, then, hesitantly, Anne spoke again, her voice somber in the obscurity of the room. “There’s just one thing I want you to promise me, Lucy. If you think I’ve done something for you, then do this for me. Promise me never to be careless again. Promise me to vindicate yourself, to make up for what you’ve done. Promise me to be a good nurse.”

  “I promise,” whispered Lucy, choking back a sob.

  When Lucy had gone, Anne began to pack. Already she had made up her mind to leave the following morning at dawn. It was not that her peremptory dismissal rankled. She could not bear to face the other nurses in the common room, to hear their comments, sustain their condolences or criticism. In her present case one clear swift cut—that was the best way out.

  Yet there was one thing more she must do. At eleven o’clock, when the lights had been extinguished in the nurses’ home, she went down the stairs, stealing unobserved across the yard to a small stone building that stood detached, like a tiny chapel, close to the outer wall. It was the hospital mortuary.

  Anne entered, unafraid. And there she stood, for moments which fled swiftly, while she contemplated with graven features what the silent place now held. She thought how pitiful was the death of a little child. How doubly pitiful a needless death. Her soul throbbed within her. She prayed as she had never prayed in all her life: for her sister, for herself, for their future, that singly and together they might expiate this terrible mistake of Lucy’s. Then, strangely comforted, she retraced her steps and slipped into bed.

  At quarter to six next morning Anne’s alarm clock rang. She arose
, dressed quickly, and, carrying her one suitcase, left her room. She wished no heroic farewells at this hour. As she passed her sister’s room she slipped a note underneath the door. She felt that Lucy would understand. Then she went down the deserted staircase and for the last time passed through the gates of the County Hospital.

  It was raining gently, a soft sea rain which misted her hair and clung in tiny beads to the blue fabric of her raincoat. As she took the long road to the town, she dared not look across her shoulder lest she should give way to tears.

  A quarter of a mile along the road there came an interruption to her march. The loud note of a motor horn drew her up sharply, and in the same instant a much-used sedan circled on the wet cobblestones and splashed to rest at the curb beside her. Next minute Joe Shand was beside her, a short, fair-haired figure in soiled overalls, his round good-natured face drawn into an unusual and almost pathetic expression of concern.

  “I thought I’d find you making for the six-thirty.”

  Anne considered the full implication of Joe’s stammered remark. She said slowly:

  “You knew I was going then?”

  “Why, the whole town knows—”

  Joe caught himself up, but not before Anne had completely understood. The whole of Shereford knew of her dismissal, had undoubtedly been gossiping about it up and down the streets.

  It was a bitter dose for Anne. She caught her lip between her teeth. “I must hurry, Joe. I’ve barely time to get the train.”

  “No, no,” he protested confusedly. “That’s why I’m here. I can’t let you carry your case. Besides, if you’re taking the six-thirty local, you’ll have fifty minutes to wait at Grimthorpe Junction. Listen, Anne! Let me drive you to the Junction in the car. It’s dead easy for me, only thirty miles. And it’ll save you such a lot of bother.”

  Anne considered his homely, honest face. What he said was true. His plan would save time, spare her some awkward encounters at the local station.

  “Thank you, Joe,” she assented with quiet gratitude. “It’s like you to think of a thing like that.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The next minute they were in the car and bowling along in the direction of Grimthorpe; Joe drove beautifully; it was his one accomplishment, a quite superb knowledge of the mechanics and movements of motorcars. It was, in fact, his job. In all else he was clumsy and uncertain. And now he drove in silence. Studying his profile, which though pleasant was inclined to weakness, Anne saw that something was worrying him intensely. That worried her, too. She had known Joe Shand since her childhood. She and Joe and Lucy had gone to school together, gone bird’s-nesting in the woods together, sung in the church choir together, grown up together. And Joe had asked her to marry him so often that the question was a perpetual embarrassment.

  They were five miles out of the town before Joe darkly exploded his worry.

  “Anne! I can’t get the hang of this thing at all. It just doesn’t make sense. The things they say. Amos Green, for instance, he came to our house last night. I don’t believe him. For pity’s sake, Anne, tell me about it.”

  Anne shook her head firmly. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “It’s over. I’ve made up my mind to put it behind me—for good.”

  With Joe, Anne’s word was law. This time, however, he was not content.

  “But this going away,” he broke out again. “I hate it. There’s no sense in it. Why in the name of heaven are you doing it?”

  “Why should I stay?” she answered, realizing too late it was the wrong thing to have said.

  He was quick to take advantage of it. “Because I want you to stay. Because I want you to marry me. I need you, Anne. I could do things with you—build up a great old business. I could get somewhere and besides—” Joe flushed and floundered lamely—“I love you. Maybe I could help you in this fix you’re in.”

  Touched at this loyalty, Anne was silent, almost tempted, despite herself, to throw up everything and find a home and security with Joe. Yet something held her back, something intangible, something strange and deep.

  “Don’t press me just now, Joe,” she temporized. “You can see I’m rather upset. Some other time, perhaps, if you feel like asking me again—”

  Joe’s face colored more vividly, his mouth opened and shut. With a most unusual effort he restrained himself. Anne had given him more cause for hope than ever before. He would not spoil it by an ill-chosen word. He drove slower than before, though, spinning out their time together, reaching Grimthorpe Junction only four minutes before the southbound express was due. He had barely time to buy her some magazines and newspapers at the bookstall before the express shrieked round the bend and Anne was in her compartment, waving good-bye to him from the window.

  “Take care of yourself, Joe,” she said. Then as her last and most important injunction she called out, “And take care of Lucy, too.”

  The journey to Manchester was a dismal one, through harsh industrial land lying sodden and begrimed. Tall chimney stacks rose up in the rain among the dumps of slag and refuse. The towns were dark and ugly, beaten by the weather, grimed with soot.

  Yet Anne had more to occupy her than the landscape or the weather. Though the eventuality which had broken up her life was a staggering one, as she had told Joe, she was determined to put the past behind her. Opening the Nursing Mirror, she went carefully through its advertising pages. By the time she had finished her brows were drawn. There was nothing, not a single nursing vacancy advertised for Manchester. This was a serious blow. It was essential that she find work at once; her last desire in the world was to take lodgings in the city and hang about till work turned up. If she were forced to do this, she would soon be destitute.

  Anxiously she picked up The Clarion, the local Manchester daily. She folded back its advertisement page, and instantly her face brightened. There at the top of the first column was the following advertisement: “Nurses. Strong, young girls, with or without experience, wanted for the Hepperton Institution. Apply Miss East, S.R.C., Matron.”

  How lucky, thought Anne, her heart leaping, to have chanced on this, on this particular day!

  CHAPTER 9

  Hepperton, which Anne reached by the penny tramcar, lay on the south side of the city in a working-class quarter packed with struggling humanity. As Anne gazed at it, finding it so different from the homely little County, dazed almost by its rows and rows of windows, she felt a sense of awe come upon her. What a great place! Yet what a chance, among this crowded population, for experience, for real, wonderful experience in her profession. Fortified by a cup of coffee and a bun at a neighboring stall—she had not broken her fast till now—Anne marched toward the porter’s lodge and boldly asked to see the matron. Her request was granted after she had filled in a printed form.

  Though the interior of the hospital was much more antiquated than Anne had imagined, Matron East was far from being a relic of the past. A stocky, thickset, bustling woman of about forty, gave the immediate impression of restless, choleric energy. She wasted no time with Anne.

  “Your name’s Anne Lee. You’ve had three years at the Shereford County. Cottage Hospital, eh? Just got qualified and then cleared out? Bit the hand that fed you, eh? I know what ingratitude is. I’ve had it all my life. I expect it, and I thrive on it. Where’s your certificate?”

  Anne produced the document. The matron took it, glanced at it.

  “That’s in order. Well, I’ll give you a chance. Report to Sister Gilson in Ward C, surgical side. You’ll have to pass the medical examination tomorrow. And remember, I don’t stand any nonsense. One half day a week if you’re lucky. Extra duty if you’re not. No smoking, cosmetics, or perfume. And you’ll have to share a bedroom. Take this slip along to Sister Gilson. That’s all.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Ward C lay at the far end of the north wing; it was in fact two wards linked by an operating amphitheatre, and Sister Gilson, to whom she made herself known, was a harassed-looking woman who accepted her as mechan
ically as the matron.

  “You’ll take duty this afternoon. It’s our receiving day. We’re very full at present. And a little short-handed.” The ward sister turned to a young nurse at that moment passing. “Nurse Dunne, you’re going off now. Take Nurse Lee with you to the nurses’ home. Give her any help she needs. Get her a laundry number and find out where she’s to sleep.”

  Nora Dunne was about twenty-five, with a rounded, compact figure, a freckled, merry face, and dark long-lashed Irish eyes which held a twinkle that nothing seemed to quench. With an appraising glance at Anne, her face broke into a grin of friendly welcome.

  “So you’re the latest victim. Strong healthy girls wanted for the Institute for Destruction of Nurses. Well, you look as though you could stand it.” Anne’s blank expression only made her laugh the louder. “You don’t know what I’m gassing about, do you? But you’ll soon find out. Dear old Hepperton—the wonder hospital of the century—hot and cold running water, breakfast in bed, and all home comforts. Maybe!”

  “It doesn’t seem quite so marvelous as that,” said Anne cautiously.

  “It isn’t,” Nurse Dunne answered tersely. “It’s the frozen limit. Lousy accommodation, beds like boards, cockroaches in the woodwork, damp in the basements. The plumbing’s awful, you can’t get a hot bath in the home unless you send Mulligan, the janitor, a postcard. And you want the stomach—beg pardon, I forgot my physiology—I should have said the gizzard, of an ostrich for the grub.”

  “What’s the work like?” inquired Anne.

  Nora Dunne laughed gaily. “My dear, you’ll get plenty of that. Our wards are always full and running over. And we’ve got one marvelous man—Prescott—surgeon—a dark silent devil who operates like an archangel. Unfortunately we don’t belong to him in C, but we assist him in the operating room, and he’s simply grand. You see, the trouble with this place is lack of money. It’s entirely dependent on public subscriptions, and it doesn’t get them—at least, not enough. The result is—everything suffers, is skimped and scraped to the bone. Though the building looks good enough from the outside, it’s so old it creaks. What we nurses have to put up with would give you a pain. I suppose you thought you were lucky to see that ad. Let me tell you, dear chicken, that stays in seven days of the week. The matron’s a card. We call her the Bruiser.”