He gazed down at her quizzically.
“And—is Joe more reasonable?”
“He will be. He knows now that I—that I shall not marry him.”
“Poor chap! He’ll buck up, of course. But it’s a little hard just now.”
“I believe you think I should have married him.”
“I am only putting myself in his place and realizing—When do you leave?”
“Just after breakfast.”
“I am going very early. Perhaps—”
He hesitated. Then, hurriedly:—
“I got a little present for you—nothing much, but your mother was quite willing. In fact, we bought it together.”
He went back into his room, and returned with a small box.
“With all sorts of good luck,” he said, and placed it in her hands.
“How dear of you! And may I look now?”
“I wish you would. Because, if you would rather have something else—”
She opened the box with excited fingers. Ticking away on its satin bed was a small gold watch.
“You’ll need it, you see,” he explained nervously, “It wasn’t extravagant under the circumstances. Your mother’s watch, which you had intended to take, had no second-hand. You’ll need a second-hand to take pulses, you know.”
“A watch,” said Sidney, eyes on it. “A dear little watch, to pin on and not put in a pocket. Why, you’re the best person!”
“I was afraid you might think it presumptuous,” he said. “I haven’t any right, of course. I thought of flowers— but they fade and what have you? You said that, you know, about Joe’s roses. And then, your mother said you wouldn’t be offended—”
“Don’t apologize for making me so happy!” she cried. “It’s wonderful, really. And the little hand is for pulses! How many queer things you know!”
After that she must pin it on, and slip in to stand before his mirror and inspect the result. It gave Le Moyne a queer thrill to see her there in the room among his books and his pipes. It make him a little sick, too, in view of tomorrow and the thousand-odd tomorrows when she would not be there.
“I’ve kept you up shamefully,’” she said at last, “and you get up so early. I shall write you a note from the hospital, delivering a little lecture on extravagance—because how can I now, with this joy shining on me? And about how to keep Katie in order about your socks, and all sorts of things. And—and now, good-night.”
She had moved to the door, and he followed her, stooping a little to pass under the low chandelier.
“Good-night,” said Sidney.
“Good-bye—and God bless you.”
She went out, and he closed the door softly behind her.
CHAPTER IX
Sidney never forgot her early impressions of the hospital, although they were chaotic enough at first. There were uniformed young women coming and going, efficient, cool-eyed, low of voice. There were medicine-closets with orderly rows of labeled bottles, linen-rooms with great stacks of sheets and towels, long vistas of shining floors and lines of beds. There were brisk internes with duck clothes and brass buttons, who eyed her with friendly, patronizing glances. There were bandages and dressings, and great white screens behind which were played little or big dramas, baths or deaths, as the case might be. And over all brooded the mysterious authority of the superintendent of the training-school, dubbed the Head, for short.
Twelve hours a day, from seven to seven, with the off-duty intermission, Sidney labored at tasks which revolted her soul. She swept and dusted the wards, cleaned closets, folded sheets and towels, rolled bandages—did everything but nurse the sick, which was what she had come to do.
At night she did not go home. She sat on the edge of her narrow white bed and soaked her aching feet in hot water and witch hazel, and practiced taking pulses on her own slender wrist, with K.‘s little watch.
Out of all the long, hot days, two periods stood out clearly, to be waited for and cherished. One was when, early in the afternoon, with the ward in spotless order, the shades drawn against the August sun, the tables covered with their red covers, and the only sound the drone of the bandage-machine as Sidney steadily turned it, Dr. Max passed the door on his way to the surgical ward beyond, and gave her a cheery greeting. At these times Sidney’s heart beat almost in time with the ticking of the little watch.
The other hour was at twilight, when, work over for the day, the night nurse, with her rubber-soled shoes and tired eyes and jangling keys, having reported and received the night orders, the nurses gathered in their small parlor for prayers. It was months before Sidney got over the exaltation of that twilight hour, and never did it cease to bring her healing and peace. In a way, it crystallized for her what the day’s work meant: charity and its sister, service, the promise of rest and peace. Into the little parlor filed the nurses, and knelt, folding their tired hands.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” read the Head out of her worn Bible; “I shall not want.”
And the nurses: “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”
And so on through the psalm to the assurance at the end, “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Now and then there was a death behind one of the white screens. It caused little change in the routine of the ward. A nurse stayed behind the screen, and her work was done by the others. When everything was over, the time was recorded exactly on the record, and the body was taken away.
