by A. J. Cronin
Anne raised her head. Though her air of youthfulness still persisted, her beauty seemed molded in firmer and more classic lines. The epidemic at Bryngower and the death of her sister had left their marks on her. Since that blustery day when, in the little mountain cemetery, they had laid Lucy to rest, Anne’s vivid and spontaneous smile seemed to have forsaken her. Now she said, “What do you think, Susan?”
I know you don’t care about it personally. But the publicity would do the Union a heap of good.”
Then I’ll see them,” Anne said decisively.
A moment later the reporters came in and stood before Anne.
“Good-morning, Miss Lee,” said the senior of the two. He went straight to the point: “We’re very interested, indeed, in the fact that your name has been put forward for the C. B. E. on account of your work in the Bryngower epidemic. We’d like to congratulate you. And we’d be happy to have your reaction for our readers.”
Anne considered her reply. “I’m glad, of course,” she said, unsmiling. “But I’d be happier still if all the nurses who fought the epidemic had equal recognition.”
“Ah, come now, Miss Lee,” said the other reporter. “You were the big shot down there. You can’t hand out a C. B. E. to each and every nurse.”
“No, but you can hand them out a fair deal.”
“Exactly,” Susan chipped in with emphasis.
The two reporters looked at each other, sensing a story out of the ordinary.
“Perhaps you’d explain?” said the first, opening his notebook.
“I’ll tell you,” Anne said, choosing her words with quiet deliberation. “Now that the epidemic is over, and they’ve let it into the newspapers at last, everyone is very pleased with what the nurses did at Bryngower. We’ve had nice little notices, nice little pats on the back. People have realized what the nursing profession can do and is doing all over the country. But what people do not realize is the appalling conditions under which so many of our nurses work—the long hours, poor wages, and hard living. I tell you straight that the average nurse’s life is a life of penury and slavery. You can’t cure that by giving one nurse in forty thousand a C. B. E. You can cure it by giving the forty thousand a decent standard of existence.
“The matter is one of national importance,” Anne went on. “If you don’t believe me, look at what is happening. Hundreds of girls who have a real flair for nursing are deterred from going into it—not because of the danger, though that’s great enough—but because of the heartbreaking sacrifices demanded of them. Already there’s a real shortage of nurses. If it goes on, before we know where we are, it will be a national calamity. The public only wants wakening up to the true facts. The people of this country are fair and generous. Believe me, we’ll get the support of the people sooner or later, and when we’ve got it, we’ll go to Parliament. Once that happens, nothing can stop reforms that are long and painfully overdue.”
There was a dramatic little pause in the office. The two newspapermen, hard boiled though they might be, were impressed by the sincerity of Anne’s speech, and by Anne herself.
“Maybe we can give you a start, Miss Lee,” said the first, snapping his notebook shut. “There’s a hell of a lot—beg pardon—in what you say. It looks to me as though our papers might give you some real support.”
Susan, the instant they were gone, allowed herself an exclamation of satisfaction. “Well! That was a break for us. It may start a big newspaper campaign if they do as they say.”
“If—” said Anne somberly.
Her pessimism was not justified. At two o’clock, after their lunch together, Miss Gladstone went outside and came tearing in with an early edition. For once her hard-bitten air deserted her.
“Anne!” she cried. “It’s in—bigger than life—and it’s grand!”
There, on the front sheet, was the smashing caption: “HEROINE OF BRYNGOWER, OFFERED C.B.E., DEMANDS NEW DEAL FOR NURSES INSTEAD.” And beneath, in a two-column article, was a full report of the interview, with a graphic presentation of her appeal. There was added a description of the Nurses’ Union, its object and its aims.
“After that,” Susan crowed, “our stock should boom.”
Anne made a movement of assent. She saw clearly the full value of this propaganda, much as she disliked the exploitation of her work in Wales. She was pleased, too, that the campaign was under way. Yet somehow she could not summon the elation she had expected. She was still melancholy, still easily depressed, perhaps she had not fully recovered from the shock of Lucy’s death.
She worked hard all afternoon, filing returns with Miss Gladstone. She felt Susan watching her from time to time, and, when at the end of office hours she rose to get her hat, the other woman quickly asked, “Aren’t you coming upstairs for tea?”
“I have an appointment,” Anne said. “I don’t especially want to keep it, but I must. I’ll be back by seven at the latest.”
CHAPTER 61
At half-past five Anne reached the Black Cat, the same cafe off Regent Street that she and Lucy had often patronized. Perhaps it was the haunting recollection of the past that made her feel so sad. Yet, as she entered, there was also a glint of anxiety in her eyes. She was meeting Joe, and she was vaguely apprehensive of what Joe might try to say.
But when Joe came in, bustling and smiling, in a new, dark suit and black, soft hat, she made herself smile cheerfully in return. He seemed confident, brisker than she had ever seen him.
“I’ve got news for you, Anne. Just been before the board. Can hardly believe it. They’ve given me the post of northern district manager. I’ve got to thank you for making me stick it with Transport, Limited. D’you remember that time in Manchester when I wanted to fling up the whole thing and you advised me to carry on, though it meant driving a bus?”
“You mean that night when you came out to the Hepperton?”
“Sure.” He nodded. “Gosh! I didn’t think then I’d work up to be northern district manager.”
“It certainly is fine, Joe.”
“Do you know what they’re paying me? Five hundred quid a year. And besides, now I have all the advantages of living up north. I’ll be moving between Liverpool and Manchester and Edinburgh. Hang it all, Anne, there’s nothing to prevent me from having a home at Shereford again.”
She lowered her eyes at his last remark, a wave of uneasiness passing over her as he continued, “That’s why I had to see you today, Anne. I mean, with me leaving next week and going up north for good. There’s something very special and important I want to say to you.”
She could have cried out. Her gaze nervously avoided his. He must have guessed the emotion that distressed her, for suddenly he took her hand.
“No, Anne dear,” he said. “It isn’t that. I still love you. I believe I’ll always love you. But it’s different now—all mixed up with Lucy’s death and gratitude to you and oh!—something else. Believe me, I’ll never bother you again.”
Relief flooded her face. It was an inexpressible load off her mind to be free, so unexpectedly, of the fear that he was going to propose to her again.
“We’ll be the best friends in the world, Joe.”
He nodded emphatically. “We are. That’s why I’ve the nerve to speak to you the way I’m going to.” He placed his elbows firmly on the table, gazed at her with all the sagacious interest of an elder brother. “Look here, Anne, if there’s one person in the world I admire and respect as much as you, it’s Dr. Prescott.
“You’ve got no idea how much he’s done for me. When poor Lucy died, he was grand. And it was he who put in a special word for me over my new job. Well, let that pass. It’s not me—it’s Prescott and you I’m talking about. I only want to tell you this in case you don’t know it. I know you both, and I’ve watched you both. You’re in love with him, and he’s in love with you. Why don’t you do something about it?”
Anne winced. Not alone because of Joe’s crudeness, but because he had penetrated beneath the armor of her res
erve. Nor could she avoid the issue he had raised. She had to answer. “You forget what I told you a long time ago, Joe,” she said. “Even if what you say were true, I belong to a profession which doesn’t admit of marriage.”
“Maybe that was right when you were nursing. But now you’re doing administrative work, office work.”
“I’m still a nurse, Joe. And I’m still working for the nurses.”
“You’re making a terrible mistake, Anne. Being married wouldn’t stop you working for the nurses. It’s your pride, I reckon.” He made an impulsive gesture of apology. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But all I’m thinking about is your happiness.”
She was touched by his unselfishness, his genuine concern for her. And she had also a warm and stabbing pain, deep in her side, the pain of a wound which, perhaps, would never heal. She knew with a firm premonition that she could never lower her pride to go to Prescott. And he was also proud. He would never come to her.
CHAPTER 62
Another day had gone for Robert Prescott. Not a day of hard work or of high enthusiasm, simply another day. He smiled bitterly. His work still went on, but it went on automatically, without fire, without the slightest desire for success on his part. Something had gone wrong with Prescott. He felt himself stale and spiritually empty—empty as his fine, empty house. And about as useless.
For perhaps an hour he sat before the fire. His pipe went out. The fire sank low without his bothering to replenish it. Then he heard the shrilling of the telephone in the hall. He barely stirred, remaining sunk in his chair.
“It’s Dr. Sinclair on the phone, sir,” his housekeeper announced. “A call from Manchester. Eh, I could hardly believe my ears when his voice came through—it was just like bein’ home again.”
A faint expression of surprise crossed Prescott’s features. He rose, went to the telephone.
“Hello, Prescott. Yes, it’s Sinclair here. It’s good to be talking to you again. Look here, Prescott, I want you to come up to Manchester to see a case with me. Rather an important case. And interesting. A girl of fourteen, threatened with blindness. I suspect a glioma.”
Instinctively Prescott temporized. In his present mood he was utterly disinclined to take on further work. “I’m not so sure that I can manage, Sinclair. After all, I’m in London now. I have my wards here. It would be difficult for me to come.”
“But you must,” Sinclair insisted. “This is absolutely your case. It’s possibly a question of operating. There’s no one else in England I’d have touch it. Besides,” Sinclair hurried to his final argument, “it’s your old friend Bowley’s niece.”
At the mention of Bowley’s name Prescott’s face hardened instantly. In a cold, final tone he said: “I’m sorry, Sinclair. You’ll have to get someone else.”
Back in the library, Prescott paced up and down with restless and indignant steps. Bowley, now the mayor of Manchester, could no doubt buy many things; but he could not buy the services of the man he had dropped so callously when it suited him to do so. Prescott had never forgiven Bowley for that selfish and cowardly retreat. It was rich satisfaction, indeed, to be able to retaliate in kind.
Once again the telephone rang. Prescott’s teeth clenched more firmly upon the stem of his cold pipe. He had an idea who might make this call. He went himself to answer it.
“You know who this is, Robert. It’s Matt, your old pal, Matt Bowley.” The voice broke off, as though awaiting some recognition, some sign of greeting. But Prescott was stonily silent. Then the voice, more agitated than before, went on. “Now listen, Robert. What’s this Sinclair tells me? Some kind of fairy story about your not coming up to see my Rose. Sinclair wants you, Robert. And I want you, too. You’ve got to come, old man.”
For the first time Prescott spoke. “Don’t expect me, Bowley.”
“Ah, come now, Robert.” Bowley’s agitation was now quite pitiful. “I know you don’t mean that. I know I treated you a bit shabby, but let bygones be bygones, Robert. Your old pal is up against it proper. It’s Rose, Robert, my little Rose. She’s pretty sick, got some trouble with her eyes. That fool Sinclair says she’s liable to—liable to go blind.” Bowley brought the last word out with a gasp.
So apparent was the other man’s anguish that a wave of compunction swept over Prescott. But he fought it coldly. “There are other doctors who will be prepared to see her.”
“We don’t want other doctors.” Bowley’s tone was abjectly beseeching. “It’s you we want. I know what you can do. I trust you. I wouldn’t have another surgeon lay a finger on my Rose. For God’s sake, Prescott, help us. Forget the dirty trick I did you, and remember that I love Rose. She’s all I care about in the world, and if anything happens to her, I’ll go mad.”
Despite himself, Prescott was moved. If Bowley had tried any other argument, offered him money, a magnificent fee, he would have icily refused. Yet now, almost against his will, he found himself hesitating. Then, all at once, he made up his mind. He said curtly: “Very well, I’ll take the night train up. Ask Dr. Sinclair to meet me at the station tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 63
It was very early in the morning when Prescott reached Manchester, but Sinclair, like a good friend, was already waiting at the station with his car. Sinclair, after their greetings, plunged directly into an account of Rose Bowley’s case.
In my opinion,” he concluded, “the lesion is almost certainly an intracranial tumor pressing on the optic tract. Her sight is steadily deteriorating. At this rate, if nothing is done, she will be stone blind. Speaking as a physician, I can only say that medical treatment is hopeless. As for any surgical interference—an operation on the base of the brain—that rests with you, of course.” Sinclair shrugged his shoulders expressively. “But it seems to me there isn’t one chance in a thousand of success.”
“You don’t sound exactly hopeful,” Prescott said.
“I’m not. Quite frankly, it seems to me a horrible choice. Do nothing, and it’s certain blindness. Operate, and it’s almost certain death. I haven’t told Bowley the worst yet. He’s half-crazy as it is.”
“He deserves to be,” answered Prescott darkly, and would say no more.
By this time they were at the Bowley mansion, the gateway now arched by a replica of the city arms. It was a strange experience for Prescott to reenter this home, which he had once known so well. But he gave no sign. The moment they were inside, he asked to see the patient.
Rose Bowley, a tall girl of fourteen, was awake in her darkened bedroom, her eyes covered by a protective bandage. Though she tried not to show it, she was desperately frightened, keyed to a pitch of nervous foreboding. Prescott judged that she had spent a sleepless night, anticipating his visit and the verdict that must follow it. Immediately he softened toward her. His touch was gentle as he removed the bandage, his voice even gentler as he began to question her.
As he proceeded with the examination, it became plain to him that Dr. Sinclair’s diagnosis was correct. The pressure symptoms—from the peculiar headache to the persistent sickness—were typical, and his examination by electric ophthalmoscope of the retina bore out the location of the lesion. And so far as the prognosis went, he could not but agree with his colleague. To operate in such a section of the brain would be courting almost certain disaster. And yet, if he did not operate, blindness, complete and absolute, would be the result. As Sinclair had said, it was one of the most terrible decisions that any surgeon could be called upon to make.
CHAPTER 64
Nothing of this showed in Prescott’s expression as he concluded his investigation and spoke a few reassuring words to the patient. But she, with an instinct that struck directly to the heart of the dilemma, gripped his hand as he was about to leave.
“Don’t let me go blind, doctor,” she pleaded in a strained and urgent whisper. “I think—I think I’d rather die.”
Again he soothed her, stroking her hand till she relaxed. Then he went with Sinclair from the room.
“Well,” he said in an almost extinguished voice, “what have you to say to me?”
Prescott had been prepared for strong evidence of anxiety on Bowley’s part. But this haggard agony caused him hurriedly to avert his eyes. The man, consumed by dread, was a shell of the plump and hearty Matt he had once known.
“It is difficult to tell you,” Prescott answered gravely. “What Dr. Sinclair has already explained is in all respects correct. Your poor niece is rapidly losing her sight. Nothing can be done for her—if we exclude an operation, so dangerous it ought not to be attempted.”
Bowley’s eyes never once left Prescott’s face. “An operation!” he repeated. “That’s why we sent for you.”
Prescott made a gesture of annoyance. “I am not omnipotent,” he said sternly. “And I am not disposed to undertake an operation so likely to prove fatal.”
“Do you want me to go down on my knees to you, Robert?” Bowley pleaded. “I don’t want my lass to go through life sightless. And she don’t want it either. We’re both prepared to take a chance, Robert. All I’m asking of you is to give us that chance.”
Prescott darted a glance at Bowley, then as quickly glanced away. Matt’s brokenhearted simplicity was undermining his resentment, driving him, despite his better judgment, to gamble with Rose’s life against incalculable odds. And yet, was there not truth in Matt’s words? Was it not better that she should be given this one slender chance rather than be condemned to long years of painful darkness? “No doubt,” Prescott thought grimly. But that would not salve his conscience, or save his reputation, if Rose died.
With bent head he walked to the embrasure on the landing, gazed grimly through the leaded window to the green stretch of lawn beyond, the shrubbery glistening with the morning dew, the lovely russet tints amidst the line of beeches beyond. All this beauty Rose would miss unless, by some miracle, he could give it back to her. The thought filled him with sudden resolution. He was a fool, an utter and presumptuous fool; but he would take the chance. He turned quickly to Bowley.
