by Jane Arbor
He and Ursula returned to her office shortly afterwards, and as he stood at her table, turning over his record cards, she was aware of a springing sense of injustice. And when he spoke antagonism sparked between them.
Matthew said: “Perhaps I should mention at the outset that I prefer not to feel myself hampered by officiousness, Sister?”
Ursula flushed. Upon her fair skin it was a slow suffusion of color that mantled from throat to hair. As quietly as she could she said: “I am sorry. Of course, I realize where you consider I was officious.”
“Yes. In the past it may have been your policy to discourage patients from questioning their doctors about their cases. But it is one to which I don’t subscribe. If a patient needs reassurance, and can get it from the answer to a question put to me, he must have it. You should give me credit, at least, for being able to reserve anything I think should not be told. But perhaps I am being unjust to you, and you believed you were co-operating with me in checking that child just now? Perhaps you thought I expected it?”
Ursula scorned to tell him that his predecessor, Mr. Rabillies, had always been so preoccupied with his own bonhomie that he ignored any questions put to him by patients, and that Mr. Chaddesleigh definitely forbade them. Instead she said: “I suppose I could hide behind that as an excuse if I wished. But that wasn’t why I interfered. Actually it was because long experience of Sarah Caspar—the hopes and despairs she has been subjected to since she has been here—has taught me that to any new hope she has only one reaction—a physical one. Her temperature flares at once, and within a few hours she may be in a high fever.”
“Her temperature rises? That’s significant. But her chart didn’t show variation?” Matthew’s tone was sharp.
“Now that we know the effect of the slightest excitement upon her we keep her calm and can check it—if we are allowed to do so.” If she had not been so roused Ursula would have been aghast at her own audacity. It was with amazement that, as she stopped speaking, she saw Matthew’s hand outstretched to her across the table.
He said simply: “I’m sorry. That was a too-premature judgment, and I’m grateful to you for putting me right. And now—shall we go on with young Sarah’s case from here?”
Ursula glanced at him as their fingers met in the brief handclasp that she recognized as this man’s honorable amend for an injustice done. Nothing in her face betrayed her, though her pulses quickened involuntarily. Hitherto he had issued orders to her, and—in one moment that she must believe to have been unguarded—he had revealed a tenderness of gratitude of which she had not thought him capable. But only in that comradely offering of his hand had he seemed to draw her into an alliance of purpose with him, a fellowship that promised at least to speak the same language, however much the words should sometimes differ.
He was saying now: “What do we know of this child’s history? This matter of dancing, for instance?”
“She was training for ballet,” Ursula told him. “Her parents had made every possible sacrifice to send her to a ballet school; it seems that it was the passion of her whole life, and until she had this accident she was considered to have tremendous promise.”
“And what happened? She was run over, I understand?”
“Yes, she was run down by a car that didn’t stop.”
Matthew’s face darkened. “The old story—the awful holocaust of the roads that we seem either to tolerate or that we can’t summon enough social conscience to end. So she is just another victim of that? Well, I shall try fusion, as I said. If there is to be an answer to that disease of the hip joint, that’s the only one I know.”
“You consider that the grafting of new bone will do it?” murmured Ursula.
“The hip may never rotate in the free circle that it did. But it will rotate, and she will walk, which is more than she can do now.”
Through dry lips Ursula asked: “Will she ever be able to dance?”
He shook his head. “I can’t promise. We may have greater success than we expect. We may have less. But if we restore her independence of movement, does that matter so much?”
“To her, now, it matters everything.”
Matthew shrugged. “Now, yes. But ten years hence, how much? She may be in love, have married, be already living in her children—”
“Not all women can count on that sort of compensation,” Ursula reminded him quickly.
“You mean, rather, that some women deliberately turn their backs upon the chance? And since when, I wonder, has any woman’s true fulfilment come down to being a mere ‘compensation’ for her loss of a career?” he retorted, the words seared across with scorn.
And as Ursula, not trusting herself to reply, bent to square the corners of a pile of papers upon her table with fingers that trembled, he strode across to the door and was gone.
Deliberately she forced her thoughts to the next job in hand. She permitted herself only one wry mental glance backward at her hope that they would speak the same language from now on. In their work together it might indeed be so. But, man and woman, they were worlds apart.
She wanted not to care. And knew in every quivering mutinous nerve that she did.
CHAPTER FIVE
ONCE URSULA had picked up the threads of the progress made by her various patients during her absence and had become thoroughly conversant with the details of the newcomers, she became caught up once more into the steady routine of the ward which, by its very regularity, made the days fly.
Matthew Lingard visited his patients on most days when he was not operating, and even then, Night Sister said, he would come at night to see any case giving anxiety. Unlike Mr. Rabillies, whose private life had had to be regarded as sacrosanct, Matthew had made it clear from the outset that the house-men were to call him if they were in doubt, no matter what the hour. This made for the approval and confidence of the resident medical staff, especially as he rarely meted blame for the false alarms which inevitably occurred from time to time.
The patients on Christian Shere ward continued to approve of him, and even Ursula was aware that the smarting antagonism he could arouse in her mattered less on the ward than anywhere else. In fact—since the incident at Sarah Caspar’s bedside—by some unspoken understanding between them they did not betray that it existed. Sometimes, working in complete harmony of partnership with him or under his direction, she could assure herself that it did not, and that, though he did not need her friendship, at least she had not incurred his enmity. And if there were times when not to be his enemy seemed a negative, thankless state, there were others when merely to work with him held an almost tangible contentment. And wasn’t that all she could look for from their relationship? Not for her the gentle understanding he had for Mrs. Damon or for Averil; certainly not for her the amused tolerance which Coralie might have roused in him; for her, only their common interest in their work. She wished that always it could seem enough.
She was particularly intrigued by the interest which, from the start, he took in Miss Calcum’s case. Miss Calcum, spare, sour-faced and ceaselessly critical, was in hospital for spinal pains of which she complained a great deal but which so far had resisted treatment though they continued to keep her bedridden.
Matthew, Ursula noticed, did not give much time to the physical examinations which Miss Calcum expected, and had come to regard as her right. Instead he would sit down at her bedside to ask her questions which were seemingly irrelevant, but which were designed to lead her to tell him something of her outside interests, though they succeeded in betraying little but that, beyond herself, she had none.
Apparently she had no one who cared for her or for whom she cared. She had no visitors and despised the other patients’ pathetically eager dependence on theirs. She affected to have no faith at all in doctors or nurses, but she stayed on in hospital, always ready to talk about herself, yet never ready to extend so much as a passing interest to the people about her. Consequently, neither her fellow patients nor the nurses liked her, and
even Ursula had, sometimes been driven to sharp rebuke of her querulous selfishness.
She was obviously flattered by being subjected to the new surgeon’s probing questions, even if they had small bearing upon those agonizing pains in her back which she endured with a patience and a resignation which had hitherto gone unrecognized, or so she considered. And when Matthew sat down at her bedside for a chat she would draw herself up straight and stiff against her pillows, her eyes bright and her tongue eager. Here was someone for whom she was in the centre of the stage. She would make the most of the experience, for clearly he regarded hers as a most interesting case.
One day, after such a session, Matthew returned to Ursula’s office and, in the course of their usual discussion of treatments, asked abruptly: “I suppose you realize what I’m driving at with the woman in number eight bed—Miss Calcum?”
“Not really, though I’ve wondered,” Ursula admitted. “She has been a problem ever since she was admitted. As you know, her condition has defied X-rays and radiant heat and injections, and when Mr. Rabillies felt particularly baffled he would declare that there was nothing in the world wrong with her, and would threaten to discharge her then and there. But the fact remains, doesn’t it, that she is frequently in pain, even without apparent cause?”
“Oh, yes. She is in pain—no doubt of that. Otherwise I shouldn’t be trying so hard to discover the cause. You see, I had to ask myself: ‘If it’s nothing operable and responds to no clinical treatment, what is the cause?’ And I believe I may be on to it now.”
“Why, what do you think it can be?”
“She is lonely.”
“Lonely?” Ursula’s echo was incredulous. “But surely that couldn’t—?”
“Believe me, the research I have done assures me that an acute mental state can, and often does, bring on physical symptoms that may last as long, and cause as much suffering, as a traceable condition can do. The physical state is liable to give trouble as long as the mental state goes unattended. And that, I am becoming convinced, is Miss Calcum’s case.”
“But lonely? Surely she is not!” protested Ursula again. “Why, she never stops boasting of her independence of other people—of how little she needs them in her life!”
“I think,” said Matthew thoughtfully, “that that attitude may be a protective armor that she has had to forge for herself, and I doubt whether, by now, she could break out of it even if she wanted to. But while it—and the cause of it—lasts, so may her symptoms of pain. That’s how I judge it.”
“If you are right, it would be very interesting—if it weren’t also very sad,” said Ursula, realizing that his intuition had shown her most difficult patient in a new light.
The look he gave her was straight and unwavering. “It is sad,” he agreed gravely. “As I see it, somewhere along her way Miss Calcum turned her back upon love—the love of her kind or of an individual, it doesn’t signify—and thereafter turned all that wasting affection inward upon herself. And here, upon Christian Shere ward, you have the result—a woman, not yet middle-aged, for whom pain has come to be her wistful bid for the attention and sympathy which she pretends to scorn. It’s not a cheerful outlook for her, is it?”
In a tight, choked voice Ursula said: “I think you may be too hard upon her. It could be that—love turned its back upon her.”
He shrugged. “Even so—and if she allowed the experience to destroy every other emotional outlet for her—I should still blame her for rolling herself into a hard chrysalis of retreat because of it. Surely, Sister, if you and I learn nothing else from our profession, we learn that we must not allow life to die upon a single disaster if we can put up any sort of fight against it? And people must learn that same lesson in their own lives. After all, other warmths will glow if one keeps one’s hands outstretched. And who, relighting a fire in the morning, blames it for dying overnight?”
Somehow, behind the low intensity of his tone rang a conviction which she could have allowed herself to believe he thought it important to convey to her. But because along that way lay only an unrewarding speculation as to what it could be, she would not let herself hope it. Instead she asked as briskly as possible! “Would you, in the light of all this, recommend any different treatment for Miss Calcum, Mr. Lingard?”
“I think not.” His tone was now as crisp and businesslike as hers. “Our line should be to draw her out as I have tried to do, to continue with the sedatives as she needs them—and to watch for results.”
Ursula permitted herself a rueful smile. “She won’t like that. She believes she should be operated upon.”
“And our failure to operate is a reflection upon our skill, no doubt? Well, that’s as may be. I want to keep her on the ward for a while yet.”
“She is not really ‘surgical’ of course,” murmured Ursula doubtfully.
“Strictly speaking, no. But as a guinea-pig for my theory, and perhaps for her complete recovery, I mean to keep her here under my eye for a time. Besides, now that I have explained matters to you I have confidence in the special care you will give to her case. And now, you have your number five coming in to the Theatre tomorrow I think ...?” Once more they were upon their professional footing. Or was it an illusion that even momentarily they had ever left it?
As she looked forward to her off-duty periods Ursula realized that this summer she was likely to have more engagements than time to fulfil them—which was unfamiliar enough to be quite exciting.
Soon after her return to hospital she had received a charming note from Mrs. Damon urging her to go to Shere Court whenever she was free; Ned, with the rest of his scientific convention, came down to Sheremouth shortly afterwards, and Mrs. Craig and Coralie were due.
Upon the day of their arrival she got evening leave and went down to the Grand Hotel to have dinner with them.
Mrs. Craig, who was not easy to please in such matters, expressed herself delighted with the rooms they had been given and seemed reasonably satisfied with the promise afforded by those of her fellow guests who were scattered about the vast, ornate lounge when they went there after dinner to take their coffee.
Ursula’s own opinion was that she herself would find the somewhat garish splendor of the place a little overwhelming. But she was amused to notice that Coralie, who loved to appear completely sophisticated, was revelling in the prospect of making new, exciting friends and was probably already wondering how many people were saying to each other: “Who are those charming newcomers? We really ought to try to get to know them.”
She hoped that Coralie might have forgotten Matthew Lingard, but in this she was disappointed, for Coralie’s first eager questions included his name.
“What really happened at Shere Court—you never told us?” she demanded.
So Ursula told her briefly, only to find herself inundated by another wave of questions—an envious: “Now that you are back in hospital, I suppose you see Mr. Lingard every day?”; a faintly suspicious: “Why should he have asked you to stay on after Mrs. Foster Damon arrived?”; and a femininely curious: “What is she like? Is she marvellously sun-tanned and has she got lovely clothes?”—all of which Ursula meant to try to answer faithfully when, lifting her eyes towards the door, she saw that Coralie would need no answer to, at least, her last question.
For in the wide doorway, with the tall form of Matthew Lingard behind her, stood Averil Damon. Both were in day clothes, Averil in an exquisitely cut black suit which marked her mourning, but hatless, so that the soft if unnecessary lighting caught the sheen of her hair and emphasized its great twisted knot as a continuation of the purity of the line of her profile.
Watching her, Ursula had a single ungenerous thought—She is making an entrance—realizing for the first time that she knew just what the phrase meant and that only someone with as strong a sense of the dramatic as Averil Damon possessed could make so important a thing of mere entry into a room. Other people, thought Ursula ruefully, just opened a door and walked in. But Averil’s very
stillness upon the threshold seemed to put to use both her audience and even the man behind her, in order to make her pause there a completely theatrical moment.
Ursula looked quickly at Coralie, to see that she too had recognized Matthew, and to spare a glancing pity for the girl’s undisguised dismay at sight of Averil’s exotic beauty. When Matthew looked across, saw Mrs. Craig and touched Averil upon the arm, saying something to her, it was clear that Coralie had already guessed who his companion was and that in preparing to meet Averil she was having a struggle between fascination and reluctance.
Matthew made the introductions and asked Mrs. Craig’s permission to join her party for coffee. He and Averil had been dining together, and he mentioned that he was staying at the Grand himself until he could find a suitable home in or near Sheremouth.
At this Averil threw in lazily! “There’s no reason on earth, Matthew, why you shouldn’t stay on at Shere Court until you find it. Lucy has told you so often enough, surely?”
“She has. But she also happens to understand that I shouldn’t care to take permanent advantage of her hospitality,” he replied.
“And you wouldn’t care—or would you?—that I should appreciate your being there? I’m pretty lonely.” Beneath her sweeping lashes Averil’s eyes challenged him, while Coralie watched in envious silence, promising herself long practice of a lifting glance of equally glamorous appeal.
Matthew’s reply to the question was discouraging. “I should care,” he said, “if I thought that my sleeping at Shere Court could be of any real comfort to you. But I happen to be more or less permanently at the end of a telephone line, and that scarcely makes for really satisfactory companionship or real helpfulness.”
Averil shrugged. “I’ve always said that you take yourself too seriously,” she protested. And with a little air of dismissing him from her attention for the time being she turned a flattering interest upon Coralie, whose response was immediate and eager.
