Vigil in the Night (5 page)

 
Prescott suppressed her with a gesture, suppressed the protests of Sister Carr. “Recount the swabs,” he said shortly.

 
The swabs were recounted in the pail. And there were only twenty-three. Prescott said nothing. He turned to the table and once more placed his hand within the wound. When his long forefinger emerged, it brought forth the missing swab.

 
There was one instant of sheer stillness, the like of which had never been before in that theatre. Then, without further words, Prescott went on to complete the operation.

 
“He ought to do well now,” he remarked quietly to the anesthetist when he had finished. To the theatre sister and the nurse he offered no reprimand whatsoever. With a last look at his patient he slipped unobtrusively through the door. He did not so much as glance at Anne. She was convinced that he had dismissed the incident from his mind as something unpleasant, something best forgotten. She did not know that Robert Prescott forgot nothing which had its bearing on his work—and the burning light of his ambition.

CHAPTER 13

 
After eight weeks at Hepperton, Anne became increasingly anxious because of the scarcity of news from Lucy. Though she wrote twice a week, her sister’s replies were sketchy and infrequent. Then one morning toward the end of March a letter brought news that was little short of staggering.

 
“Dear Anne,” Lucy wrote. “No doubt it will be a bit of a shock, but I hope you will be pleased to hear that Joe and I are married. You see, not long after you left, Joe’s father died. I meant to write you at the time. Well, the old man left quite a bit of money, and Joe, being sick of Shereford, sold the business. He kept asking me to marry him, as he wanted to make a fresh start in a big way in London. So in the end I gave in, and we ran off to London to get the knot safely tied. I am very happy, and Joe is a dear. He is going into a thing called Transport, Limited, just his line and there’s a lot of money in it.

 
“We have taken a pet of a house in Muswell Hill and I am having the time of my life choosing curtains and rugs and furniture and everything. Joe gave me the most
expensive”—
the adjective was twice underlined—“silver-fox fur as a wedding present, also a fitted dressing case. It’s a gem. I know you will be sick at my giving up nursing, especially after
what you did for me
”—this phrase also was underlined—“but you will be glad to hear I took my certificate before I left the County and have got it with me, for better or worse. So I did not let you down so badly after all.

 
“Do come and see us whenever you can get away. The address is 7 Elthreda Avenue, London, N. 10.”

 
A postscript was added, “Joe sends his most affectionate regards.”

 
Anne dropped the letter in sheer bewilderment mingled with a sense of hurt that Lucy had not given her the news till this late hour. Next came a spasm of pain as she thought of the sacrifice she had made so uselessly, of all those cherished plans for Lucy and herself, the hopes that they would work together and succeed gloriously in their profession, all ended now. Then she smiled wryly, recollecting Joe’s recently professed adoration for herself. Poor Joe! He could be clay in any woman’s hands. And yet, thought Anne, this marriage might not be a bad thing for him, or for Lucy either. Suddenly she felt a great longing to see her sister and Joe. She sent off a telegram of congratulation, and then went to Matron East and asked for a weekend off.

 
“A weekend!” exclaimed the matron. “I never heard of such a thing. Where do you want to go?”

 
“London.”

 
“I guessed as much. You young women can think of nothing but gadding up to London. Stuff and nonsense, I call it. What’s going to happen to discipline with all this silly pleasure in your heads?”

 
“I want to see my sister,” Anne explained. “She’s just been married.”

 
“No, no, it can’t be done,” the matron said quickly. “I can’t spare you now. Perhaps when you’ve been here another month I can arrange it.”

CHAPTER 14

 
Anne went on duty with a rankling sense of injustice. And there, in the ward, as though to add to her discomfiture, she found Doctor Caley.

 
The interne was in a most bumptious mood of self-satisfaction, which Anne now knew always boded ill for her. He was a nobody, George Caley, who had somehow got himself through the medical schools and was now engaged to the daughter of a local doctor. Upon his marriage, he would drop into a lucrative partnership with his father-in-law. It was a lucky stroke for Caley. In consequence he lived in a perpetual state of exhilaration at his own cleverness. Anyone refusing to subscribe to such exhilaration became instinctively his enemy. That was why he detested Anne.

 
“Nurse Lee,” he began, “I have just found this book by the bedside of Number 19 in the women’s ward.”

 
“Yes, Doctor,” she said guardedly. “I gave her the book.”

 
“Yet you knew that my orders were that Number 19 was not to read. She’s very weak, and it exhausts her.”

 
“She is weak, Doctor.” Anne kept her voice reasonable with a great effort. “She’s dying, isn’t she? Reading is the only thing that helps her to forget her pain. She begged me to let her have the book.”

 
“I don’t care whether she begged or whether she didn’t. I tell you it’s bad for her. I’ve given my orders. If I find them disobeyed again, I’ll report you to Dr. Sinclair instantly.

 
Anne was too wise to give the slightest sign of indignation. “Very well, Doctor Caley.”

 
Disappointed, he eyed her, searching for a chance to establish his authority further. Then he gave out a final order: “Don’t forget to give that phlebitis case in Number 15 his mesonyl. Give him five grains at nine o’clock.”

 
Anne stared at him. He had overshot his mark at last, delivered himself, in his ignorance, into her hands.

 
“Five grains?” she asked.

 
“That’s what I said. Five grains.”

 
She was silent, merely allowing her expression to show her unmistakable derision. He had begun to turn away, but that look of open contempt held him. There was a pause.

 
Then she said, “The maximum dose of mesonyl is one-half grain.”

 
He flushed to the roots of his hair and tried stupidly to bluster. “What are you talking about? I don’t believe you’ve even heard of mesonyl.”

 
“I have heard of it.” She smiled at him sweetly, pityingly. “And five grains would kill any man.”

 
“Why—” he spluttered.

 
She went on, devastating him with facts. “Furthermore, Dr. Sinclair ordered only a quarter grain. If you don’t believe me, look at Number 15’s chart. Dr. Sinclair wrote it there himself.”

 
He was speechless now, and she took her final toll of him.

 
“You wouldn’t wish me to give Number 15 a fatal dose—even if it
was
your orders. Would you, sir?”

 
Into that final “sir” she threw a diabolic irony. The droop of his shoulders as he slunk through the door was worth all the injustice, all the malice and petty spitefulness that she had suffered, and might still suffer, at his hands.

CHAPTER 15

 
The arrival of Lucy’s letter and the incident with Caley had banished from Anne’s mind all thought of the operation on Matthew Bowley, together with the part which she had played in it. But on Friday afternoon of that same week, Sister Gilson, coming from the ward telephone, remarked to Anne in a voice of mild congratulation:

 
“You’re to go to the private room in B. Mr. Bowley wishes to see you.”

 
The ward sister, previously hampered by a long succession of inexperienced nurses, had found in Anne someone who had lightened her burden beyond words. And she cherished her accordingly.

 
“Don’t look so startled,” Sister Gilson smiled. “It can’t be anything unpleasant.”

 
It was, however, with some perplexity that Anne obeyed the summons. Matthew Bowley had been to her no more than a subject upon the operating table. What he would be like in reality she could not guess. She knocked at the door of his room with a queer trepidation.

 
A voice bade her enter.

 
The room itself was sufficiently striking—luxury and profusion grafted upon the bare drabness of the hospital, with flowers everywhere, a radio by the bed, and a great basket of luscious fruit on the table. Yet Anne found Matt Bowley himself still more arresting. He was blunt, heavy, about forty, with a rugged, astute, good-natured face—a face that somehow looked as though it had been knocked about a great deal yet survived to assume the power and polish given by great wealth. Bowley gave Anne a firm hail-fellow-well-met clasp. Studying her from beneath his bushy brows, he smiled slowly and said:

 
“Well, Nurse, I’m going out tomorrow. But I couldn’t leave without havin’ a look at your face—and a pretty one it is, too.”

 
Anne felt herself blushing. But Bowley only laughed more heartily, went on with a sly suggestion of conspiracy.

 
“I’m tellin’ no tales out of school, Nurse. But a little bird whispered something in my ear. And I don’t mind informing you that Matt Bowley’s likely to be of more use
without
a swab of cotton waste sewed up inside him. Eh, Nurse, what do you think?”

 
Anne’s eyes twinkled. “I’m inclined to agree, Mr. Bowley.”

 
He patted her hand in a friendly fashion. “Quite right, my dear. I can see you have sense as well as beauty. And that’s a mighty fine combination in a woman.”

 
It was impossible to take offense at his tone, so subtly did he imply a blunt and friendly interest. He went on:

 
“And it’s an even finer combination in a nurse! You see, my dear, if a man has got to be ill, or if he has illness in his home, it does him good to see a smart lass about the sickroom, instead of some long-faced female.”

 
Here the little clock at his elbow struck three soft strokes. He sighed regretfully and relinquished her hand with a final pat.

 
“Well, my dear, I could go on talking to you all afternoon. But I’ve got a couple of lawyers coming right away. Scoundrels, both of them.” Ruefully he indicated the enormous pile of correspondence on the counterpane.

 
“But never fear, Nurse, we’ll meet again. I’m not one that forgets a good turn. And in the meantime I want you to take this—just a souvenir of that missing swab.” Smiling, he picked up a neatly wrapped package from his bedside table and handed it to her. “Now not a word, not one single word. You can thank me some other time. Just run away now and be good!”

 
Anne left the room with a warm sensation round her heart. It was good to be appreciated. Only Dr. Prescott could have told Bowley about the swab. Conquered by curiosity, she stopped in the corridor and unwrapped the package. The present was a beautiful fitted handbag. Delighted, she unfastened the clasp and opened the inner compartment. Then her satisfaction faded. In the little coin purse was a ten-pound note. Somehow it cheapened the service she had rendered him, made her feel like a servant given a tip. She must, simply must, give it back to him.

 
She was about to reenter the room when a step in the corridor caused her to turn round. Coming toward her was Dr. Prescott. She felt painfully conscious of the bag and the banknote in her hand.

 
It may have been Prescott’s uncanny intuition, or possible foreknowledge that Bowley had meant to make her this gift. At any rate, he took in the situation in a quiet comprehensive glance. “Bowley’s generosity is always embarrassing,” he said. “I find it so when he offers me my fee.”

 
Though that simple phrase put the whole thing right, she still hesitated. She stammered, “Really, Dr. Prescott, I don’t like taking this money.”

 
“Nonsense! The laborer is worthy of his hire—especially when it comes to checking swabs. Even the best doctor in the world is quite helpless without capable nurses. So many people don’t appreciate that fact. If I can help you in any way, I shall be pleased to do so. There is a summer class in advanced nursing you might care to attend. I’ll send you some textbooks. I want to encourage keenness at Hepperton.”

 
Anne returned to Ward C greatly heartened by this encounter. There was some quality in Prescott that braced and stimulated her. But she had difficulty in making herself accept the ten-pound note.

 
After much consideration she decided to use the money to buy a silver salver as a wedding present for Lucy and Joe.