CHAPTER XI
The hot August days dragged on. Merciless sunlight beat in through theslatted shutters of ward windows. At night, from the roof to which thenurses retired after prayers for a breath of air, lower surroundingroofs were seen to be covered with sleepers. Children dozed precariouslyon the edge of eternity; men and women sprawled in the grotesquepostures of sleep.
There was a sort of feverish irritability in the air. Even the nurses,stoically unmindful of bodily discomfort, spoke curtly or not at all.Miss Dana, in Sidney's ward, went down with a low fever, and for a dayor so Sidney and Miss Grange got along as best they could. Sidney workedlike two or more, performed marvels of bed-making, learned to givealcohol baths for fever with the maximum of result and the minimumof time, even made rounds with a member of the staff and came throughcreditably.
Dr. Ed Wilson had sent a woman patient into the ward, and his visitswere the breath of life to the girl.
"How're they treating you?" he asked her, one day, abruptly.
"Very well."
"Look at me squarely. You're pretty and you're young. Some of them willtry to take it out of you. That's human nature. Has anyone tried ityet?"
Sidney looked distressed.
"Positively, no. It's been hot, and of course it's troublesome to tellme everything. I--I think they're all very kind."
He reached out a square, competent hand, and put it over hers.
"We miss you in the Street," he said. "It's all sort of dead there sinceyou left. Joe Drummond doesn't moon up and down any more, for one thing.What was wrong between you and Joe, Sidney?"
"I didn't want to marry him; that's all."
"That's considerable. The boy's taking it hard."
Then, seeing her face:--
"But you're right, of course. Don't marry anyone unless you can't livewithout him. That's been my motto, and here I am, still single."
He went out and down the corridor. He had known Sidney all his life.During the lonely times when Max was at college and in Europe, he hadwatched her grow from a child to a young girl. He did not suspect fora moment that in that secret heart of hers he sat newly enthroned, ina glow of white light, as Max's brother; that the mere thought thathe lived in Max's house (it was, of course Max's house to her), sat atMax's breakfast table, could see him whenever he wished, made the touchof his hand on hers a benediction and a caress.
Sidney finished folding linen and went back to the ward. It was Fridayand a visiting day. Almost every bed had its visitor beside it; butSidney, running an eye over the ward, found the girl of whom she hadspoken to Le Moyne quite alone. She was propped up in bed, reading; butat each new step in the corridor hope would spring into her eyes and dieagain.
"Want anything, Grace?"
"Me? I'm all right. If these people would only get out and let me readin peace--Say, sit down and talk to me, won't you? It beats the mischiefthe way your friends forget you when you're laid up in a place likethis."
"People can't always come at visiting hours. Besides, it's hot."
"A girl I knew was sick here last year, and it wasn't too hot for me totrot in twice a week with a bunch of flowers for her. Do you think she'sbeen here once? She hasn't."
Then, suddenly:--
"You know that man I told you about the other day?"
Sidney nodded. The girl's anxious eyes were on her.
"It was a shock to me, that's all. I didn't want you to think I'd breakmy heart over any fellow. All I meant was, I wished he'd let me know."
Her eyes searched Sidney's. They looked unnaturally large and somber inher face. Her hair had been cut short, and her nightgown, open at theneck, showed her thin throat and prominent clavicles.
"You're from the city, aren't you, Miss Page?"
"Yes."
"You told me the street, but I've forgotten it."
Sidney repeated the name of the Street, and slipped a fresh pillow underthe girl's head.
"The evening paper says there's a girl going to be married on yourstreet."
"Really! Oh, I think I know. A friend of mine is going to be married.Was the name Lorenz?"
"The girl's name was Lorenz. I--I don't remember the man's name."
"She is going to marry a Mr. Howe," said Sidney briskly. "Now, how doyou feel? More comfy?"
"Fine! I suppose you'll be going to that wedding?"
"If I ever get time to have a dress made, I'll surely go."
Toward six o'clock the next morning, the night nurse was making out herreports. On one record, which said at the top, "Grace Irving, age 19,"and an address which, to the initiated, told all her story, the nightnurse wrote:--
"Did not sleep at all during night. Face set and eyes staring, butcomplains of no pain. Refused milk at eleven and three."
Carlotta Harrison, back from her vacation, reported for duty the nextmorning, and was assigned to E ward, which was Sidney's. She gave Sidneya curt little nod, and proceeded to change the entire routine with thethoroughness of a Central American revolutionary president. Sidney, whohad yet to learn that with some people authority can only assert itselfby change, found herself confused, at sea, half resentful.
Once she ventured a protest:--
"I've been taught to do it that way, Miss Harrison. If my method iswrong, show me what you want, and I'll do my best."
"I am not responsible for what you have been taught. And you will notspeak back when you are spoken to."
Small as the incident was, it marked a change in Sidney's positionin the ward. She got the worst off-duty of the day, or none. Smallhumiliations were hers: late meals, disagreeable duties, endless andoften unnecessary tasks. Even Miss Grange, now reduced to second place,remonstrated with her senior.
"I think a certain amount of severity is good for a probationer," shesaid, "but you are brutal, Miss Harrison."
"She's stupid."
"She's not at all stupid. She's going to be one of the best nurses inthe house."
"Report me, then. Tell the Head I'm abusing Dr. Wilson's petprobationer, that I don't always say 'please' when I ask her to change abed or take a temperature."
Miss Grange was not lacking in keenness. She died not go to the Head,which is unethical under any circumstances; but gradually there spreadthrough the training-school a story that Carlotta Harrison was jealousof the new Page girl, Dr. Wilson's protegee. Things were still highlyunpleasant in the ward, but they grew much better when Sidney was offduty. She was asked to join a small class that was studying French atnight. As ignorant of the cause of her popularity as of the reason ofher persecution, she went steadily on her way.
And she was gaining every day. Her mind was forming. She was learningto think for herself. For the first time, she was facing problems anddemanding an answer. Why must there be Grace Irvings in the world? Whymust the healthy babies of the obstetric ward go out to the slums andcome back, in months or years, crippled for the great fight by thehandicap of their environment, rickety, tuberculous, twisted? Why needthe huge mills feed the hospitals daily with injured men?
And there were other things that she thought of. Every night, on herknees in the nurses' parlor at prayers, she promised, if she wereaccepted as a nurse, to try never to become calloused, never to regardher patients as "cases," never to allow the cleanliness and routine ofher ward to delay a cup of water to the thirsty, or her arms to a sickchild.
On the whole, the world was good, she found. And, of all the good thingsin it, the best was service. True, there were hot days and restlessnights, weary feet, and now and then a heartache. There was MissHarrison, too. But to offset these there was the sound of Dr. Max's stepin the corridor, and his smiling nod from the door; there was a "Godbless you" now and then for the comfort she gave; there were wonderfulnights on the roof under the stars, until K.'s little watch warned herto bed.
While Sidney watched the stars from her hospital roof, while all aroundher the slum children, on other roofs, fought for the very breath oflife, others who knew and loved her watched the stars, to
o. K. washaving his own troubles in those days. Late at night, when Anna andHarriet had retired, he sat on the balcony and thought of many things.Anna Page was not well. He had noticed that her lips were rather blue,and had called in Dr. Ed. It was valvular heart disease. Anna was not tobe told, or Sidney. It was Harriet's ruling.
"Sidney can't help any," said Harriet, "and for Heaven's sake let herhave her chance. Anna may live for years. You know her as well as I do.If you tell her anything at all, she'll have Sidney here, waiting on herhand and foot."
And Le Moyne, fearful of urging too much because his own heart wascrying out to have the girl back, assented.
Then, K. was anxious about Joe. The boy did not seem to get over thething the way he should. Now and then Le Moyne, resuming his old habitof wearying himself into sleep, would walk out into the country. On onesuch night he had overtaken Joe, tramping along with his head down.
Joe had not wanted his company, had plainly sulked. But Le Moyne hadpersisted.
"I'll not talk," he said; "but, since we're going the same way, we mightas well walk together."
But after a time Joe had talked, after all. It was not much at first--afeverish complaint about the heat, and that if there was trouble inMexico he thought he'd go.
"Wait until fall, if you're thinking of it," K. advised. "This is tepidcompared with what you'll get down there."
"I've got to get away from here."
K. nodded understandingly. Since the scene at the White Springs Hotel,both knew that no explanation was necessary.
"It isn't so much that I mind her turning me down," Joe said, after asilence. "A girl can't marry all the men who want her. But I don'tlike this hospital idea. I don't understand it. She didn't have to go.Sometimes"--he turned bloodshot eyes on Le Moyne--"I think she wentbecause she was crazy about somebody there."
"She went because she wanted to be useful."
"She could be useful at home."
For almost twenty minutes they tramped on without speech. They had madea circle, and the lights of the city were close again. K. stopped andput a kindly hand on Joe's shoulder.
"A man's got to stand up under a thing like this, you know. I mean, itmustn't be a knockout. Keeping busy is a darned good method."
Joe shook himself free, but without resentment. "I'll tell you what'seating me up," he exploded. "It's Max Wilson. Don't talk to me about hergoing to the hospital to be useful. She's crazy about him, and he's ascrooked as a dog's hind leg."
"Perhaps. But it's always up to the girl. You know that."
He felt immeasurably old beside Joe's boyish blustering--old and ratherhelpless.
"I'm watching him. Some of these days I'll get something on him. Thenshe'll know what to think of her hero!"
"That's not quite square, is it?"
"He's not square."
Joe had left him then, wheeling abruptly off into the shadows. K. hadgone home alone, rather uneasy. There seemed to be mischief in the veryair.
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