“Sentimental! Snoopy. Silly sort of word. Flowers aren’t sentimental. They’re just flowers, and if a woman gets babies on the brain——”
She laughed, and began to spread out her flowers on an old copy of The Times which she had found on the sofa.
“Or men, for that matter. And give me a man who’s a bit untidy. Old Ugly’s last week’s paper. Look at the creature’s pipes. Well, who’s going to arrange the flowers?”
Nurse Carthew was looking at the array of pipes on the mantelpiece.
“O, you can; you were here first.”
“But I’m not heading the queue for Love’s Young Dream. I like to do things for Old Ugly, just because he’s not in the glad-eye business. I got fed up on the streets with glad eyes.”
Kitty sat down on Dr. Morrow’s sofa and watched Mrs. Part arranging the flowers.
“Why do you call him Old Ugly?”
“Because he’s not old, and because he’s got a phiz on him that ain’t exactly beautiful, but makes you feel like a kid. Say, I want to put out my tongue at him some times.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Yes, now why don’t I? I’d do it to the Bishop of London, slap out, just like that. But Old Ugly’s different somehow, and I’m a reformed character, my dear, whatever that means.”
She was busy with the roses, and Nurse Carthew, sitting with her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands, looked intently at this other woman.
“Mrs. Part, how long have you been here?”
“A little over three years.”
“Were you a trained nurse when you came?”
“I’ve never had a day’s training but what I’ve had down here. It came easy—somehow. The first time I watched Old Ugly handle a kid with a tuberculous spine it taught me something, and you go on learning after that.”
“What were you before you became a nurse?”
Mrs. Part paused with a rose held poised. Her blue eyes hardened momentarily.
“That might be an awkward question to ask. Do you mean—you don’t know?”
“How should I know?”
Mrs. Part, realizing her innocence, laughed and jabbed a rose into the vase with unusual emphasis.
“I was what they call a tart. Till I got ill. Just as you got ill, my dear. It’s a hell of a life, isn’t it?”
Nurse Carthew dropped her hands.
“Really, I don’t——”
“Well, I’m not showing any false modesty. After all, the Bible handled the Magdalene business without any guff. I know a thing or two, my dear, and the sort of look a woman gets in her eyes, and about her mouth and nose. You had it—when you came here.”
“I?”
“Sure—you did. I saw you’d been in trouble. Said I, ‘Here’s one of the lady amateurs down and out.’ No offence. I was sorry for you.”
Nurse Carthew sat staring.
“Did I look like that? Yes, I suppose I did. Do I look like that now?”
“You don’t.”
“You were kind to me. Everybody was kind, especially—to begin with—when I was ill. Were you ill when you came here?”
Mrs. Part’s mouth hardened.
“I was. I’m not going to tell you just how Old Ugly picked me up. O, not in that way; don’t look shocked. I hadn’t had a bloody chance when he happened on me. He gave me a chance.”
Kitty’s eyes looked strange.
“You’ve taken it—splendidly.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I was spewing my soul out; I felt foul. But when he shoved me down here among these sick kids I had to stop feeling foul. ’Tisn’t a question of morals. He’s a great man is Old Ugly. And we’re not the fools we look, playing about with flowers for his week-end.”
She gave a flick of the head, and Nurse Carthew sat brooding.
“Yes, I agree. He does seem to love this place.”
“You bet. He’s like a big kid here. He must be making big money. Fancy a man putting three thousand a year into a game like this. It’s his golf and his bridge and his women. Besides, we couldn’t get on without him. Dr. Standish is a good lad, but a bit of a barley-headed boy.”
Nurse Carthew spoke as to herself.
“Yes, it’s better than jazz and cocktails and the sex game.”
“My dear, it’s him, life, it.”
She glanced at the clock and gave a last touch to the flowers.
“About time we cleared. He can’t stand being fussed.”
Kitty rose, and stood by one of the windows.
“He seems to have given up everything for work.”
“Maybe there was a reason. I’ve heard he had a bad knock years ago. His wife left him.”
“Did she?”
“Must have been a silly little fool.”
Mrs. Part, with a last approving glance at her floral arrangements, moved towards the door, but Nurse Carthew remained behind for a moment as though to recover from the shock of the other woman’s unconscious candour, and as she stood there at the window Dr. Morrow’s chauffeur appeared at the garden gate. She saw the man stop to speak to Mrs. Part, and something in her felt flurried. The idea of meeting Morrow frightened her, perhaps because these meetings had a new and poignant significance. Did a woman fall in love with her own husband? But how crude the phrase was! She hurried; she passed Tranter, the chauffeur, carrying Morrow’s suit-case, and being one of those amorous, round-headed men, he would have given her a gaillard glance, but she went past him in the haste of her self-consciousness as though his very solid figure was as unsubstantial as the shadow of a tree. And Tranter grimaced. To him women in uniforms looked so alike. He carried the suit-case into the cottage and removed his cap in order to wipe his forehead.
“Floral tributes, what?”
He grinned at the flowers, produced and lit a cigarette, and then, hearing footsteps, he tried to conceal the cigarette in the hollow of his hand.
“Suitcase in the bedroom, sir?”
The question was as obvious as the trail of smoke from the cigarette, and Morrow ignored it while remarking upon the other.
“Go up to the Home, Tranter, will you, and see if Dr. Standish is there. If so, ask him to come down. Never mind about that cigarette.”
“Sorry, sir. I was a bit too previous.”
“All right. But you’re not quite off duty yet, you know.”
Tranter, with elaborate solemnity, extinguished the cigarette by pressing the glowing end against the heel of a raised foot. He disposed of the suit-case and disappeared, and Morrow, amused, placed his hat and an attaché-case on the gate-legged table. He noticed the flowers. With an air of large and smiling contentment he bent down and put his face to them. He seemed to draw a deep breath.
“Clean, lovely things.”
VI
Dr. Standish arrived, fair-haired, sanguine, boyish, with curiously innocent blue eyes and a smile that seemed to go all over his face. Though belonging to a generation that does not indulge itself in heroes, his devotion to Morrow was obvious.
“Hallo, sir. You must be glad to get out of town.”
“Well, Arthur, any news?”
“Everything’s O.K., sir. Nobbs has put on three pounds.”
“Splendid. And that kid with the knee-joint?”
“I’ve had her out in the sun. I believe there’s less fluid. She’s such a jolly little kid, too.”
Morrow was taking books and papers and tobacco pouch from the attaché-case. He looked very kindly at young Standish.
“Time to stay and have tea, Arthur? I expect they will bring it across in five minutes.”
“Rather, sir.”
“They try to spoil me down here, you know, even dust the pipes on the mantelpiece.”
“They rather like doing it.”
Morrow pushed the empty attaché-case under the sofa.
“Sit down, Arthur. You know there is a sort of wicked joy in being utterly and gloriously untidy for a day or two. They humour me down here, and only clear up when
I have cleared out. By the way, you are not neglecting your private practice?”
“Not a bit, sir.”
“Private patients are apt to be touchy, and when you volunteered to visit here during the week——”
“O, but it’s the real thing. You’ve taught me such a lot.”
A maid from the Home arrived with a tea-tray, the pot covered with a cosy, and Morrow made room on the table for the tray.
“Hallo, cucumber sandwiches, Elsie. Dr. Standish is having tea with me.”
“I’ve set for two, sir.”
“Great! What a telepathic place this is. Arthur, you shall preside at the tea-table.”
“All right, sir.”
Morrow sat down on the sofa, and Elsie, having supplied him with an old oak coffin stool upon which to place his teacup, left Dr. Standish to his duties.
“Two lumps, isn’t it, sir?”
“That’s it. What a blessed thing it is to get off the ant-run. Leatherhead was chock-a-block, and the policeman on point duty had lost his temper. I don’t blame him.”
“The traffic on Sundays is like an endless tin train.”
“Yes, it doesn’t really matter whether you’re in an R.R. or a seven horse-power pram. The modern values get so mixed up. It cost me less than the price of a Rolls to buy up this old place.”
“Good value, sir.”
“O, yes. Our results aren’t so bad, Arthur. I say, these sandwiches are good. What a blessing it is that our modern crowd doesn’t ask itself too many awkward questions. If it did, our civilization might go up like Vesuvius when it wiped out Pompeii. The patience of the crowd!”
“Is it quite as patient as it was, sir?”
“Perhaps not. But the fate of all of us is patience.”
When tea was over, Morrow filled and lit a pipe, and Standish produced his cigarette-case.
“The great thing, Arthur, is always to be piqued by the puzzle. We get results, and sometimes we don’t know quite how.”
“Yes, the unexpected. Take the case of Nurse Carthew. I examined her again this week.”
Morrow blew smoke.
“Find anything?”
“No. I never could find anything, sir. Not even any alteration in the breath sounds.”
“Well, that’s all to the good, Arthur. She was one of those rather puzzling cases.”
“Anyhow she is turning into a first-class nurse, sir. She’s absolutely splendid with the kids.”
Morrow observed him for a moment, for Standish’s enthusiasm seemed a little flushed.
“I’m glad of that. I thought she was shaping well. A woman has to have the right touch.”
“She has that——”
And suddenly he became self-conscious. He looked at the clock.
“I say, sir, I shall have to push off. I have an old lady to see before surgery hours.”
“Never forget old ladies, Arthur. They don’t forgive you for being forgotten.”
Standish got up, walked to the window, stood there for a moment in obvious embarrassment, tried to say something, thought better of it, and hurried for the door.
“Your hat, Arthur.”
“Sorry, sir. Silly ass. I shall be over to-morrow.”
“Good.”
Morrow rose slowly and with the air of a man whose thoughts troubled him. The romantic impulses of youth, yes, even in an age that was so afraid of romance. Arthur was a good lad, but a little too impulsive and impressionable. He went to the table and turned over the books, and selecting one, he returned to the sofa and began to read, but an interruption was imminent. There was a tapping sound on the bricks of the garden path, and a small boy on crutches appeared in the doorway. His right leg was in splints. He stood there smiling apologetically at Morrow.
The doctor put down his book.
“Why—hallo—Nobbs! How’s life and the leg.”
Nobbs looked radiant, and a little confused.
“Bully, sir.”
“So bully’s the word. What’s on?”
“I’ve got a message, sir.”
“Come in.”
And Nobbs stumped in, looking flushed.
“I’m—I’m a deputation, sir.”
“A deputation.”
The boy suddenly became voiceless. He grinned.
“Well, you see, they fixed it on me. I’ve been here longest, and I’m the oldest in’abitant of the ’ome, though as a matter of fact——”
“If you are going to make a speech, Nobbs, you had better sit down.”
“Sitting down’s a bit of a conjuring trick, sir.”
“Yes, with those clothes props and a stiff leg.”
He got up, and supporting the boy, lowered him into a chair, and Nobbs, with an air of relief, laid his crutches on the floor.
“Less formal like that, Nobbs.”
“It was the women who let me in for this, sir.”
“O, the women, was it. They generally do, Nobbs.”
“It’s a serious occasion, sir. Awful cheek of us kids.”
“That’s all right, Nobbs. We’re men together.”
“It’s like this, sir. Elsie’s getting married.”
“I have heard that dreadful rumour.”
“It’s next Saturday, sir, and we think a lot of Elsie in the ’ome, sir. She’s not the sneaky sort.”
“I agree, Nobbs.”
“And she’s a norphan, sir.”
“A norphan. She’s marrying Peters the gardener, isn’t she?”
“Yus. And ’e’s a norphan, too, sir. We think it jolly good luck for Peters.”
“Being a norphan, Nobbs?”
“No, gettin’ Elsie. And there ain’t going to be any ’oneymoon. So, we thought as ’ow it would be nice to give ’em a show ’ere after the weddin’.”
“An excellent idea, Nobbs.”
“In the garden, weather permittin’, and if it’s wet—in the ole barn. We’d do the decca-rations, sir. And would you mind if the tea was a bit high?”
“High? Oh, I take you. We’ll make it as high as St. Paul’s, Nobbs. And was it your idea?”
“Well, ’alf and ’alf, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Part and Cissy Sanders, her with the lump in the neck, sir.”
“O, yes, Cissy. And what about Miss Frederick the matron?”
Nobbs looked sly.
“We thought we’d try you first, sir.”
“I see. And where is the rest of the deputation?”
“Out there in the lane, sir, with Nurse Carthew.”
“So—Nurse Carthew is in it too?”
“Up to the neck, sir.”
Morrow rose.
“Let’s have them all in.”
He went to the door and called.
“Nurse Carthew, please introduce the rest of the deputation.”
Five girls, their ages ranging from six to thirteen—were shepherded up the path and into the parlour, and stood grouped in front of Nurse Carthew. Cissy Sanders, the eldest, a thin, dark, intense child, had enlarged glands in her neck. Betty’s arm was in a sling, and Doris was on crutches like Nobbs. All of them seemed to hesitate between giggles and an immense seriousness. The girl Cissy stared intently at Morrow.
He stood holding his pipe.
“I’m very pleased to see you all. Nobbs has explained——”
There was a sudden interruption from Cissy.
“I bet he forgot something.”
Nobbs protested.
“Now, ain’t that like a woman!”
“Illoominations. We want to illoominate the barn.”
Morrow looked smilingly at his wife.
“What’s the idea, Nurse?”
“A dance, I think, sir.”
More protests from Nobbs—“I call it perfect rot, me with a leg like this.”
Cissy snubbed him. “You ain’t everybody. And didn’t we settle that you could play the mouth organ?”
“What sort of illuminations, Nurse?”
“O, Chinese lanterns I think, sir. They had th
em last Christmas.”
“Provided proper precautions are taken—yes.”
Cissy jumped up and down, looked at Nobbs as though about to put her tongue out, but refrained, and Nurse Carthew, having helped Nobbs on to his feet and given him his crutches, prepared to lead out the deputation.
The small things went first. The tapping of crutches could be heard on the brick path, and the voices of Nobbs and Cissy in argument.
“Nurse Carthew.”
She turned, almost with a look of fear.
“Yes, sir.”
“One moment.”
She stood before him in the part of nurse, hands clasped, eyes half lowered. His voice sounded formal.
“Anything to report, Nurse?”
“No, sir.”
“Sleeping and eating well?”
“O, yes.”
He willed her to look at him, and she did so.
“Finding the life possible?”
She hesitated.
“Am I speaking to——?”
“Yes, your doctor.”
Almost she was meek.
“I am very happy here.”
“Wish to stay?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her intently.
“I believe you do. I’m glad.”
He nodded, smiled, and she turned and walked out of the room and into the garden where the children were waiting for her.
VII
About half-past three on the afternoon of the following Saturday Nurse Carthew went to put fresh flowers in Dr. Morrow’s parlour. Elsie’s marriage festa was in full swing, with Mrs. Part in charge of the operations. The nasal bleat of a loud-speaker could be heard in the garden of the Home, and as Kitty spread her newspaper and laid out the flowers she seemed to herself to be sorting out her own secret memories. The vases needed fresh water, and she disappeared for a moment into the cottage kitchen, and filled a jug at the pump. Meanwhile, another person had arrived in the parlour, Dr. Arthur Standish, the barley-headed boy.
“You! O—you startled me.”
His shy ardour excused itself.
“Sorry. I came down to cadge a cigarette. I’ve had a rather hectic time out there.”
She appeared very calm. She filled the vases and began to arrange the flowers, and he stood by one of the windows and smoked.
“Yes, they are enjoying themselves, kids do. And, of course, Cissy and Nobbs are quarrelling——”
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