He rose and began to pace up and down with quick, restless strides. “I ought to tell you, Nurse, that I want a surgical brain clinic, a central unit concentrating upon lesions of the brain and the central nervous system. That’s the objective of all my work. You may not know it, but thousands of lives are thrown away every year because we lack specialized facilities for operative work upon the brain, because certain antiquated dunderheads cling to the belief that intracranial surgery is impossible. Well! I mean to have that clinic if it kills me.”
He broke off sharply, stopped his pacing, and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his brow. “I beg your pardon. I don’t often have such a good listener. I forgot it was time for you to have some lunch.”
He insisted that she remain where she was, and had his housekeeper bring a small round table. The lunch was placed between them: a hot bouillon, cold chicken, and hearts of lettuce, with a cream soufflé to follow. Anne had not tasted such perfect food for many months. The wine had fortified her, made her realize that she was hungry, that she had eaten nothing since ten o’clock the night before.
Strict formality had descended upon him again. He pressed the various dishes on her, anxious that she should eat well of everything, but his manner was stiff and cold.
“You probably understand,” he remarked with a certain brusqueness, “that I do not make a point of entertaining the nursing staff of Hepperton. I have the utmost contempt for any doctor who allows himself to become—shall I say—socially involved, using the phrase in its best sense, with any nurse with whom he is called upon to work.”
Anne nodded. “A doctor has his job, and a nurse has hers. Why should they have to meet on any other ground?”
He crumbled his bread absently. “The circumstances today are exceptional. And we did meet upon professional ground. Your work was truly magnificent.”
There was a silence; then, perceiving that she had finished, he declared: “If you feel better now, I might attend to your face. There’s a slight laceration on your temple. If I don’t stitch it, you’ll have a scar.”
He rose and fetched a glass tray from his consulting room; cleansed the cut with alcohol, anesthetized it, and, almost without her knowledge, slipped in two delicate sutures.
When she had rested a bit, he took her downstairs and gravely wished her good-bye.
As she set out for the Hepperton she told herself, without presumption, that she had made a friend.
CHAPTER 24
As Dr. Prescott had predicted, the coach disaster and its sequel at Rodney Farm became front-page news in Manchester. Headlines splashed: “Surgeon and Nurse Save Thirty Lives.” Anne was raised, quite against her will, to the pinnacle of a heroic figure. In the more conservative press Dr. Prescott’s name was freely mentioned, coupled with discreet yet persistent references to his scheme for a surgical clinic. It was rumored that Matthew Bowley was favorably disposed toward the project. If the mill owner decided to give it his support, financial and political, the clinic was as good as built. Anne followed these moves with intense interest, and ten days after her return to the hospital she tasted the full sweetness of her first success. She was promoted from Ward C to the post of senior nurse on the outdoor staff.
This for many reasons was a much coveted appointment. And, though it came ostensibly from the matron as a reward for her fine work at the accident and for all the glory she had brought the hospital, Anne knew, as did all the nurses’ home, that the hand of Dr. Prescott was behind her promotion.
And what a change it brought in the field of her endeavors! As senior visiting nurse it was now her duty, in conjunction with the six nurses under her, to serve the Hepperton district, attending patients in their own homes and giving them there the requisite nursing service. Actually this system was the survival of a voluntary welfare scheme which had once been run by the hospital. It gave the nurses engaged upon it wider and more individual experience, greater freedom, and the occasional opportunity of nursing some rich patient in a fine private house.
It appeared to Anne, reviewing her changed circumstances, that nothing but good fortune had come to her from the accident. But for Joe, alas, the event was positive calamity. The loss of the bus was a minor issue. But the claims for damages were likely to be colossal.
Anne had met him when he came to Manchester in May to attend the inquiry held by the Ministry of Transport. It was a rushed visit; yet from his demeanor she had guessed that he was seriously worried. It was the matter of insurance which seemed to be in question. Ted Grein looked after this aspect of the business. But apparently this policy had fallen into arrears. Or it possibly was worse. Anne had an uneasy suspicion that the money had been apportioned for the policy and not paid over by the suave, too gentlemanly Ted. Joe would not say. Yet as he hurried off to attend the court, his face spoke more than words.
The inquiry was adjourned for a month so that injured passengers, who were necessary witnesses, might appear. Anne did not see Joe before he left for London. She sent a long letter of consolation to Lucy. And then, though deeply disturbed, she was overtaken by the sudden rush of her new duties in the district.
Never before had she realized the full scope and usefulness of the nurse’s work. Never before had she come so closely in contact with humanity. She went into poverty-stricken homes where there was not enough to eat, into one-room slums where the furniture consisted of a dirty mattress, a rickety chair, an old iron cooking pot. She went into homes on which the hand of dread disease had laid its paralyzing clasp, homes rich and poor where people walked on tiptoe and anxiously read her face for some slight sign of hope. She came to realize what a password was her name, the magic name of “Nurse.” She discovered how rowdy crowds parted to make way for her, how in the worst localities of the city the sight of her uniform was more protection than a squad of policemen.
CHAPTER 25
Three weeks after her promotion Anne received her first important private case, and with it plain indication that she had made influential friends. In the course of her visiting she had done a certain amount of private work, but this, apart from the fact that it necessitated her living out of the hospital, was a case of the first magnitude.
She was sent out to nurse the invalid wife of Matthew Bowley.
The matron, having summoned Anne to her office, did not fail to impress the facts upon her with due severity. “You are very young, Nurse Lee,” said the Bruiser, drawing her eyebrows down, “for this particular responsibility. But Mr. Bowley wished you to be sent, and Dr. Prescott appears to have confidence in you. See that these good opinions are not misplaced. And remember: While you are in this household, see that your conduct is in every way befitting the traditions of the hospital.”
“Yes, Matron.”
With a warm sense of elation, a feeling that she was climbing the ladder of her profession, Anne left the office and went to the nurses’ home to collect her things. In a quarter of an hour she was ready, and at ten o’clock sharp the car, as promised, called for her. The car was a glittering blue Rolls-Royce with silvered fittings and a chauffeur in dark gray livery.
It was a warm, sunny morning. As Anne drove through those crowded, dusty streets down which she usually hastened on foot carrying her own bag, she sensed already, in the smooth luxury of the Rolls, something of the privileges afforded by enormous wealth. The Bowley home heightened this sensation. An impressive and many-gabled mansion, situated in its own extensive grounds on Dene Hill a few miles out of Manchester, it conveyed, through its rich furnishing, thick carpets, and fine paintings, an almost intimidating sense of affluence. There was an excess of opulence about the house.
Nevertheless Anne found her quarters, which were in the south wing next to Mrs. Bowley’s bedroom, charming in the extreme. Her little sitting room was filled with flowers, there were books about, and the windows opened onto a wide stretch of velvety lawn. No sooner had she arrived than a neat maid appeared and asked if she would care to have morning coffee. Anne
could not repress a very human thrill of satisfaction: there were, after all, pleasant oases in the arid desert of a nurse’s life. And this, after her days of grim trudging round the Hepperton slums, was surely one of them. Then she had changed into her uniform and hastened in to see her patient.
Mrs. Bowley was a dark, sallow woman of about fifty, with a well-nourished body, a high bust, and a worried, rather vulgar face. She lay in a large bed in the middle of the large room, the blinds of which were half-drawn, surrounded by every appurtenance—from her bedside table to her gorgeous array of medicine bottles—of the confirmed valetudinarian. Mrs. Bowley was, in fact, a chronic neurotic. Married to poor young Matt Bowley thirty years ago, she had been an active, energetic girl. But Bowley’s rise had reacted curiously upon her nervous system. Wealth had enabled her to develop those strange idiosyncrasies of temperament, those imaginary ailments, which poverty had denied her. Though still devoted to her husband, she spent most of her time in bed, suffering from repeated “breakdowns,” pathetically traced back to the struggles of her early married life.
Now, having made long and anxious observation of Anne, she nodded and remarked: “I think I shall like you, my dear. Dr. Prescott spoke so highly of you. ’Ave they made you comfortable? Fetch me over my Florida water, then come and sit by me. We’ll have a long chat. You can rub my forehead as we’re talkin’.”
Anne did as she was bid. It did not take her long to discover the exact nature of this kind, exacting, and self-tortured woman. As she laid her cool fingers upon the other’s dry brow, she experienced the beginnings of a real sympathy for her.
At three in the afternoon Dr. Prescott came in to pay his visit. Though he was a specialist in surgery, he went out of his way to attend Mrs. Bowley because of his friendship with her husband and because, indeed, she herself insisted that she would see no other man. Observing him closely, Anne felt a rising respect for Prescott’s handling of the case. Quiet, restrained, sitting informally on the edge of the bed, he listened to his patient’s string of symptoms with an impassive face. When she made some outrageous claim, he had a way of raising one eyebrow which was more effective than words. At the end of his visit Mrs. Bowley was soothed and comforted, almost persuaded that one day she would get well.
CHAPTER 26
Anne accompanied the doctor down the wide staircase to the front door of the house. As they walked together, he gave her his instructions. When he concluded, he shot a quick side glance at her.
“Do you remember what I once told you—about the value of good nursing? This is a case where a good nurse can do more than any doctor. I see the poor creature for only ten minutes in the day. You’re with her all the time. You can influence her enormously.”
Anne flushed slightly. “I should like to try. She’s such a nice person. I should love to get her well.”
He nodded. “That’s why I’m glad to see you on this case. When Bowley suggested it, I knew it was a good idea.” He paused. “He would be very grateful to you—and perhaps to me—if we could get her back to normal.”
She sensed instinctively the implication hidden beneath his words. Before she could restrain herself she said, “You are still thinking of your clinic.”
He gave her a sharp stare, and her color deepened. Then a trifle sardonically he answered:
“Yes, Nurse. In spite of our excellent publicity, my good friend Bowley has not quite come up to scratch yet. Nearly—perhaps. But not quite.” Another pause. “He’s a hard-headed chap, you see. And he’s running for mayor next month. He doesn’t want to do anything to upset the conservative forces in the city, doesn’t want to be dubbed a radical, to be accused of doing something for a rebel like me.
“But I believe, yes, I believe, with a lucky turn of the scale he might do the whole thing handsomely. If he doesn’t—” Prescott’s face hardened—“then no one else in Manchester will. That would slightly inconvenience me. I’d clear out and leave them to stew in their own juice.” Abruptly he looked at his watch. His expression cleared as he turned toward her. “I must go, Nurse. Don’t work too hard on your case. Get out in the gardens here; they’re wonderful. And see that you enjoy the cooking. I expect you’ll find it slightly different from the Hepperton.”
When he had driven off, Anne went up the stairs toward her patient. Her expression was reflective, intent. Dr. Prescott had been so kind to her, she owed so much of her present position to his help, that she was filled by an irresistible desire to help him in return. He stood for all that was best in the profession. What he wanted was not for himself but for his ideal. She must help him; she must watch every opportunity. If she succeeded, it would be the greatest thrill of her life.
CHAPTER 27
Within twenty-four hours of her arrival Anne had settled down to do her utmost for her patient. She felt that she had made a good start. Mrs. Bowley seemed to have taken to her. And it was the first essential that she should gain the other woman’s confidence and affection.
On Thursday at one o’clock, as she was going off duty for an hour, a mild commotion caused her to pause on the top landing and look down over the banister. There in the hall beneath was Matthew Bowley, returned from Liverpool, where he had been on business for three days. Bowley was being helped out of an enormous motoring coat by Collins, the butler, and he was firing questions with extreme rapidity. Suddenly he raised his head and caught sight of Anne.
He paused in his machine-gun interrogation to call out: “There you are, Nurse Lee. You’re the very person I want to see. You can tell me what’s been happening.”
As Anne slowly descended the stairs, he addressed the butler again.
“Nurse Lee will lunch with me today. Serve it straightaway, Collins—after I’ve seen Mrs. Bowley.”
It was difficult to argue with such an arbitrary command. Indeed, Bowley left no time for argument. He dashed up to see his wife, and in five minutes was down again, rubbing his hands, leading the way into the little sun parlor where he had ordered the meal served.
Anne would quite honestly have preferred to lunch in her room alone; it was the etiquette of her profession that she should do so. Yet there was something spontaneous, something bluntly good-humored, about Bowley which soon made her feel, as she sat opposite him, that there could be little objection to giving him, for once, as he phrased it, her company at table.
He must have observed something of her reluctance, for he expostulated with almost likable bad taste: “What’s your objection? You’re not a servant, are you? You’re as good as the rest of us. And I asked you, didn’t I?” He went on broadly with his mouth full. “Matter of fact, you may as well know, Nurse, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you here. ’Twas me put the idea in Prescott’s head. ’Twas me wanted ye to come and tend to missus.” He grinned all over his ruddy face. “Ay, and to give me a bit of your company when you have the time.”
Anne scarcely knew what to answer in the face of so blunt a declamation. She said awkwardly:
“It’s good of you to have given me this chance. And to have such confidence in me. Believe me, I’ll try to justify your kindness.”
“That’s right, Nurse.” He nodded approvingly. “I know ye will.”
On he went, talking and eating with tremendous gusto. Like most self-made men, he was not long before he launched into the story of his life. He had begun life as a mill hand and was now near enough a millionaire. And how he enjoyed his success—his fine house, his cars, his art collection, in fact all his possessions and the prestige they gave him. He was going to be mayor of Manchester, too!
His expression softened slightly as he went on to talk about his family. His wife, though an invalid, caused him to make no complaint, but his son had contracted an unfortunate marriage and had turned out a failure. There was only his niece, Rose, a little girl of thirteen, whom he adored. He was having her educated at the best school in England; in his own proud words, she was “getting her learning amongst the nobs.” He insisted on showing Anne several ph
otographs of the child.
Bowley would, clearly, have gone on talking about Rose, about himself, about life in general. But the clock on the mantelpiece now showed two o’clock. And Anne had her eye on it. Taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, she said quietly:
“It’s time I went back to my patient, Mr. Bowley. My off-duty hour is over.”
“There’s no hurry, my dear,” he said. “The missus won’t go wrong for another five minutes.”
But Anne shook her head, smiling. “I really must go, Mr. Bowley. I have my work to do. You wouldn’t think much of me if I neglected it.” And she rose from the table.
The unexpectedness of her action seemed to take him aback. Yet he quickly concealed his feelings. He got up heavily, leaned across and patted her hand.
“That’s right, my dear. Duty before pleasure. That’s always been my motto, and it’s paid me well.” He laughed heartily. “You run along, then. Give the missus my love. I’ll be seeing you soon enough. Make yourself at home. Collins here will look after you. And don’t forget, if there’s anything you want, you’ve only to say the word.”
CHAPTER 28
A fortnight passed swiftly. But to Anne’s bitter disappointment there was, despite all her efforts, no marked improvement in Mrs. Bowley. Judging by the reactions of her patient when she took over the case, Anne had hoped for a rapid, a dramatic cure. But during these last few days she had turned strangely taciturn and morose. Anne tried everything to dispel this mood. Yet the more she tried, the worse the mood became. She would look up suddenly to find the other woman’s eyes fixed on her with a queer and penetrating regard. It was both uncomfortable and inexplicable.