Nurse Lang

by Jean S. MacLeod

  She braced her shoulders against the need for normality. “It’s almost two o’clock,” she said without looking again in his direction. “Miss Jackson will be waiting for her first patient.”

  When she had left it the silence in the room deepened. Elizabeth, who had long since learned the art of composure, stood waiting in a shaft of sunlight for Grant to speak. He stood with his back to her for a moment, looking out across the busy car-park to the terraced gardens beyond.

  “There was more difficulty than we thought,” he said at last in a voice that sounded dead. “The response was—disappointing.”

  Elizabeth stared at him as if she had not fully comprehended all that he had said.

  “What does Sir Archibald feel?” she asked at last.

  “He won’t commit himself at this stage, of course.” His eyes were tortured as he looked back at her. “It means time—uncertainty—setback, perhaps, and in the end, even defeat.”

  She stood appalled by this thing which had seemed so certain only a few brief hours ago. She had never had any doubt about Philip’s complete recovery. It had to happen—for Grant’s sake. That was how she had looked at it all along, and now Grant was telling her that they were practically back where they were, perhaps farther back than that, even.

  “When will Sir Archibald be able to tell?” she asked stiffly, because she could not really trust her voice.

  “I don’t think anyone can say,” Grant’s face took on a defiant look. “Surgery is sometimes like that. One can do the job up to a point, and no more. Nature has to work the remainder of the cure, if there’s to be one. In Philip’s case there has been a deterioration of the muscles and a breakdown of tissue which we didn’t expect.”

  “You don’t want Moira to be told?” she guessed.

  He shook his head.

  “It would not serve any useful purpose to tell her at this stage,” he said wearily.

  “Perhaps it would be best not to put a double strain on her,” Elizabeth agreed.

  Grant seemed not to have heard, and she went from the room, passing him with a brief, warm handclasp on his arm which conveyed more than any words could have done her understanding and her sympathy.

  It was after six o’clock before she went with Moira to Philip’s bedside and even then they were only admitted for a few minutes. Philip lay asleep, pale and very straight-looking on the narrow hospital bed, and they stood in silence looking down at the young face wiped clean of dissatisfaction and bitterness, the fair hair above the high forehead still damp and. matted from exhaustion.

  Moira’s lips were trembling as they walked away, and even Elizabeth found little to say before they reached the hall.

  “Would you like to come back with me to the flat?” she asked. “Grant mentioned that he would be running Sir Archibald down to the station after dinner, and then I suppose he’ll be coming back for another look at Phil.”

  The thought of being left alone with Serena proved too much for Moira.

  “I don’t know why you should be so kind,” she said, following Elizabeth out to her car.

  “Sometimes one can only do things by proxy,” Elizabeth returned smilingly. “I think Grant would like to feel that you are being taken care of for an hour or two.”

  They made their meal together, setting it out on a tray and carrying it through to the sitting-room to eat it over the fire. The weather was not quite warm enough to dispense with a fire, Elizabeth declared, pulling up her chair.

  Inevitably they spoke of Philip.

  “How long will it be, do you think, before he is really well again?” Moira asked. “Until he is able to walk again, I mean.”

  “It’s difficult to say.” Elizabeth had found herself faced with situations like this before, but never in such a personal way. “You know—I’m sure you don’t expect anything spectacular in the way of a cure.”

  “No,” Moira agreed. “Grant didn’t promise anything like that, but I thought, perhaps—”

  “That I, as a doctor, might be able to give you some idea?” Elizabeth hesitated, struggling with a moment of indecision, and then she said firmly: “My dear, we have to trust Grant.”

  “I know!” Moira pressed her hands tightly together in a small gesture of supplication. “Please understand that I do trust him, but—sometimes it is difficult to know what he is thinking, and he might feel that—that I couldn’t face up to failure in this. He’s so fond of Philip. He would want to do everything for him for the best.”

  “It’s because he is so fond of Phil that we’ve got to help,” Elizabeth said slowly. “I’ve known Grant for a long time, and Phil, too. Once, not so long ago, they were devoted to each other.”

  The words fell into a deep silence and somewhere out in the stillness of the evening a clock struck seven. Moira counted the strokes, feeling as if they marked some sort of milestone along the way she must take. “That was—before Kerry came into their lives,” she said.

  Elizabeth looked up at her.

  “Grant parted them,” she said slowly, “but not for himself. You know that, Moira, though he has never spoken about it. Whatever happened, he didn’t take Kerry away from Phil. Grant wouldn’t do a thing like that, even although he had loved Kerry to distraction.” Elizabeth’s voice wavered and her steady gaze fell. “Perhaps he was in love with her. I can’t tell you that, because no one would ever know with Grant, but what I am trying to say is that he didn’t step in to outdo his brother, to steal Kerry’s affection once he knew she belonged to Phil.” A deep, soul-searing envy of Elizabeth engulfed Moira for a moment as she said:

  “I’ve always felt Kerry like an unhappy influence at the Priory. She is still there, Elizabeth, haunting the place, making it impossible for Grant to forget, and perhaps Philip finds it hard to forget, too.”

  “Philip’s attitude was understandable at first,” Elizabeth said. “He had loved Kerry and he was mad with jealousy and grief. He blamed Grant freely for everything that happened, but no one will ever convince me that Grant was really to blame. The accident was perhaps the cruellest solution possible,” she added grimly.

  “But—surely it had nothing to do with their quarrel?” Moira whispered.

  “No. It was just one of these things that happen, I think. Kerry was driving away from the Priory when she died, having given Philip up—for Grant, some people said, but I don’t believe it. That was the story you heard, I dare say.”

  “It was the impression I received.” Moira’s heart seemed to be beating somewhere near her throat so that it was difficult to speak coherently. “It is the impression that Serena fosters at the Priory all the time.”

  “Serena has her own reasons for that,” Elizabeth answered contemptuously. “She wishes to remain undisputed mistress of the Priory and she wouldn’t do that if Grant married. Even if Philip marries,” she added dryly.

  Grant had evidently not taken Elizabeth into his confidence either, and somehow the engagement didn’t seem so very real just now. There were so many other things to think about.

  “I’ve applied for a room in the Nurses’ Home,” Moira confessed, “but there won’t be a vacancy for another couple of weeks, so it may be too much for Serena—or me!” she added with a rueful smile.

  “When you’ve had enough,” Elizabeth suggested almost casually, “you can move in here. There’s a bed in the box-room I can make up for you and we can soon make it habitable.”

  The offer was evidently meant to be accepted in the spirit in which it was made, without fuss and without undue sentiment, but Moira tried to thank Elizabeth, all the same.

  “You seem to be my safety-valve,” she smiled. “Coming here is like reaching some calm haven. It’s all so restful and—secure.”

  She knew that this was what Grant felt about Elizabeth, and when he came in ten minutes later he looked as if he would very much like to stay. The marks of strain were still visible on his face, round the eyes and about his closely-set lips, but he told them that Philip was comfor
table.

  “Sir Archibald has gone back to London.”

  Long afterwards, Moira remembered thinking of that as an encouraging sign, but she did not press Grant for further information about Philip because he looked so tired.

  “You can see Phil in the morning,” he said as they drove back to the Priory. “There wouldn’t be any point in going back to the hospital now. He’s had something to make him sleep. I’ll go over and take a look at him during the night.”

  “I wish I could have done something more to help,” she said impulsively. “I don’t seem to be doing so very much.”

  “You did what was necessary beforehand.” He had spoken with his eyes fixed straight ahead and his hands tightened momentarily over the steering wheel as he continued: “Philip will no doubt ask more of you in the future.”

  Moira’s heart turned over in an instant of sheer panic. She had nothing more to give to Philip, but how could she possibly tell Grant so at this stage? He felt that his brother needed her, that their engagement, which was no real engagement, should go on. He believed in her integrity, and knowing Philip, she could not refuse to do as he asked.

  “How long will Philip be in hospital?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure.” He turned the car in between the Priory gates and drove swiftly across the park. “That may be another point to consider. He is sure to want you back here as soon as he can be moved over.” Her heart contracted at something in his tone, a new coldness, a remoteness icy in its intensity, the steel of some sudden resolve which shut her out as clearly as if he had told her that intimacy or understanding would be impossible between them.

  She wondered desperately if Serena had been right, after all, if the thought of another woman in his home was unbearable to him after Kerry. The memory of his voice as he had denounced Serena that first day for opening up Kerry’s room to a stranger still had the power to hurt, and she felt bewildered by the thought of Kerry and conscious of that subtle reminder of the other girl as soon as they entered the house.

  “Serena will have gone to bed,” Grant said, glancing at the clock in the hall. “I’ll ring for a tray and have it sent into the library.” Suddenly Moira could not bear the thought of sharing this intimate meal with him, of coming home like this at the ending of a heavy day’s work at the hospital to the comfort of a room that was essentially his and knowing that she would never share it in the fullest sense of the word. It was too much for him to ask of her. The day had been too full of emotional upset as it was.

  “I—had something to eat with Elizabeth,” she said unsteadily. “It will do till the morning.”

  He looked too tired to protest, defeated almost, as he stood at the foot of the dimly-lit staircase and watched her go up, and Moira mounted the stairs as if each movement was painful to her and her limbs were weighted with lead.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Your boy friend over on surgical private has sent you a note!” Flippant, yet agog at the first suspicion of romance, the small, applecheeked probationer thrust a thick blue envelope into Moira’s hands three days later as she was preparing to go off duty.

  “Dear Moira,” she read.

  “I didn’t see you at all yesterday, since I was apparently asleep when you came in. Why didn’t you wake me up? I have all day and all night to sleep. If they were Grant’s orders, you have my authority to disregard them!” Always that small, bitter thrust at Grant’s authority, Moira thought. “The point of all this is,” she read on, “that I want you to be sure to come this afternoon. You said you might have an hour or two-off duty and, anyway, why not take it? I want to see you. It is most important.

  PHILIP.”

  No endearments, just a straightforward demand typical of the Philip she had come to know, but there was a buoyancy about the phrasing which set her pulses hammering as she folded the page back into its envelope.

  “Do you want me to take an answer to Mr. Melmore?” the probationer asked hopefully.

  “No—no, I’ll be going over myself shortly.”

  She was acknowledging Philip’s demand, but it was almost as if she were obeying Grant as she caught up her red-lined cloak and made her way to the surgical wing.

  It was the normal visiting hour and Serena was seated at Philip’s bedside. It was the first time she had been permitted to visit her cousin since his operation and Moira knew that she resented the fact.

  “Are you off duty, Nurse?” she asked coldly. “Or does Grant make exceptions of the hospital staff?”

  “Considering Moira and I are engaged,” Philip pointed out, “she was naturally first to come along. It can’t matter all that much, Serena. You’ll be sick of the sight of me lying here before I’m on my feet again, apparently!”

  He was all impatience, and Moira drew in a quivering breath as Serena rose to go.

  He lay staring up at the ceiling for a moment or two, as if he were turning some preconceived plan over in his mind, and then he turned to her and said:

  “I’ve asked Grant to buy you an engagement ring.”

  “Oh—no!”

  The swift protest had left her lips before she could stay it, and he asked, surprised:

  “Why not? It doesn’t look as if I’m going to be able to get to town for some time to come, and Grant offered to get me anything I needed.”

  “But—this is different.” She tried to keep her voice calm, but in spite of her efforts it rose on a thin note of urgency. “This isn’t like buying anything in the ordinary way.”

  How could she possibly convince him when what she really meant was that she could not bear Grant to buy that ring, choosing it cold-bloodedly as another chore thrust upon him by his brother’s inability to do things for himself.

  It was a week before Grant went to London and he did not mention the purchase of the ring to her until then.

  “Have you time off?” he asked one morning at breakfast when she went down early to find him still seated at the table in the morning-room window. “I’m going up to Wimpole Street for a consultation and Philip has asked me to buy you an engagement ring.”

  Moira knew that she should have been prepared for this, but she had allowed her emotions to govern her thoughts and had no calm answer ready to give him. When she remained silent he looked across the table at her, smiling whimsically.

  “Does it embarrass you so much?” he asked. “I thought you would have taken that in your stride, considering that it means so much to Philip.”

  If there had been faint cynicism behind the remark she was in no mood to grapple with it.

  “It’s not—the sort of thing one generally expects someone else to do,” she informed him in a choked undertone. “I—would rather wait.”

  “Which would disappoint your fiancé.” He gave her a long, searching look. “Philip appears to be particularly adamant about this, as if he almost expected you to change your mind, and I always thought the fair sex were prone to the outward show of an engagement. What shall it be? Diamonds or emeralds?”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  He raised dark, surprised brows.

  “My dear girl,” he said smoothly, “my wishes have absolutely nothing to do with this. I’ll have the family jeweller send a few brave specimens down for you to choose from,” he said when he turned at the door. “If they don’t happen to fit that can be remedied, of course. The stone is the important thing, I suppose.”

  He had gone before she could answer him, and she did not see him again that day.

  She had, however, made up her mind to leave the Priory, and to this end she walked briskly through the town and up Sadler’s Hill to Elizabeth’s flat, only to find it deserted.

  In the morning she learned that Grant had spent the night at the hospital.

  “There were two emergency operations,” the maid told her when she went down to breakfast, “and Mr. Grant did not come in. He left this for you.” She placed a bulky package at Moira’s elbow. “He said he might not see you before he went to London again.�
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  The parcel was unaddressed, but it had been wrapped up with scrupulous care, and she fumbled at the tape with shaking fingers, tearing away the top cover to reveal a second wrapping of corrugated paper sealed with cerise wax.

  Shaken and quivering on the verge of tears, she had to bite her teeth into her lower lip before she could control her voice sufficiently to refuse the maid’s solicitous offer of a second cup of coffee, and when the girl reluctantly left the room at last it was seconds before she undid the wrapping and sat looking down at half a dozen small ring boxes with a well-known jeweller’s monogram on the lids.

  She clicked them open, one by one, revealing six exquisite rings that winked back at her mockingly in the early-morning light, all of them cold, pale diamonds in magnificent settings with the exception of the sixth and last. When she opened it she knew instinctively that it would have been Grant’s choice if this ring had meant anything personal to him. The big, square-cut emerald held fire and warmth and a depth which even the finest of the diamonds lacked, but she could not bring herself to put it on her finger.